by Betty Neels
He told her at some length; she had forgotten how full of himself he always was. She listened quietly, saying nothing, for there was no chance to speak, anyway. It was only when he had at last finished and asked what she was doing at the station that she said: ‘I’m going on holiday—just for a week or two.’
‘Down to Dorset? I could do with a few days off myself. Maybe I’ll pop along and take you out, Alexandra, just for old times’ sake.’
‘I shan’t have time,’ she told him coolly, ‘my mother’s ill.’
‘All the more reason why you should have a break—you could show me some of your local scenery.’
She had her mouth open to tell him that she had no wish to show him anything when the people around her surged forward, taking her with him. She heard his: ‘So long, Alexandra,’ above the din of the station, and heaved a relieved sigh. To have chanced upon him of all people, in a crowded place like Waterloo, amongst hundreds of people who were strangers to her, had been just her rotten luck; thank heaven she had been able to shake him off. She hurried down the long platform, happily unaware that among all those same strangers there had been someone who knew her very well: Penny, who had watched her meeting with Anthony with the greatest possible interest.
Her father met her at Dorchester, and although he looked tired he gave her a great hug and said cheerfully: ‘Mother’s better—she’s had a nasty chest, but it’s clearing nicely—gave us all quite a fright. Of course she’s tired and under the weather still, but now you’re home perhaps she’ll stop this silly nonsense about getting up to cook our meals. Mrs Petts has been managing—well, you know, opening tins and things, but you know what your mother’s like, lying there fretting because she can smell something burning.’
‘Poor Father—you really should have let me know sooner, I’d have come at once, for I’ve only been filling in time with this job Doctor van Dresselhuys found.’
They were driving out of the town through the rather bleak afternoon.
‘So I imagined; your mother seemed to think otherwise—said on no account were you to be sent for.’
‘She knows I’m coming?’
‘I told her just before I came to fetch you.’ Her father chuckled. ‘She was a little put out, though I know she’s very relieved and happy.’
‘I’m glad—I can stay just as long as you want me to.’
Her father didn’t look at her as he asked: ‘Nothing lined up, my dear?’
‘Nothing,’ said Alexandra.
Her mother was sitting up in bed, thickly covered with spots and inclined to be tearful. ‘Of all the nonsense,’ she declared a little damply, ‘bringing you back from that marvellous job—I’m perfectly all right.’ She smiled through her tears. ‘But it’s lovely to see you, darling.’
Alexandra had cast off her outdoor things and was hanging over the foot of the bed, surveying her parent. ‘It’s lovely to be home,’ she said resolutely, ‘and that marvellous job was only going to last another week at the most—I was only filling in, you know, until the new staff nurse arrived.’
Her mother peered at her from under puffy lids. ‘Are you going to see Doctor van Dresselhuys again?’
‘Most unlikely,’ said Alexandra, and felt a pang of sorrow shoot through her. ‘We said good-bye this morning; he kindly drove me to Schiphol.’ It was an effort to smile, but she managed it very well. ‘I’m going to get your tea and get something for Father before surgery, then I’ll unpack and rustle up some supper. How’s the appetite, darling?’
Her mother shuddered. ‘Food!’ she exclaimed weakly. ‘I can’t face it.’
‘You wait until you see what I’ll concoct for your supper,’ declared Alexandra. She tidied the bed and did the pillows and sat her mother comfortably against them. ‘And while it’s cooking we’ll have a nice gossip.’
And so the next few days passed, with Alexandra cudgelling her brains over dainty little dishes with which to tempt her mother’s appetite, while she prepared vast, satisfying meals for her father and Jim. What with that, and keeping the house just so with Mrs Petts’ cheerful, rather muddled help, she had very little time to herself. Mrs Dobbs wasn’t allowed to read; her eyes had been affected by the measles and she was forced to rest them, which meant that Alexandra spent all of her leisure sitting with her. The spots were hardening now and the invalid’s chest was clear once more, and as there seemed no danger of further complications, she was sitting out of bed for an hour or two each day; it was just a question of time now, while she got back her strength; she was already longing to get back to her normal way of life and declared to any member of the family who would listen to her that she wouldn’t be quite well until she did so. All the same, Alexandra nursed her carefully, pointing out, quite truthfully, that she couldn’t possibly be seen by anyone until the spots had faded.
She was getting a little tired herself now; her days were long and busy, and there was little time for walking or riding, and the weather had changed too; there was snow on the ground and taking out the car had become a necessity rather than a pleasure. The village was largely cut off from the surrounding countryside, too, so that even their friends found it difficult to call. She cooked and baked and washed and ironed and read the papers more thoroughly than she had ever done before in her life, and when her father remembered to bring her a nursing journal from the village, she began to look for a job. She applied for several, although none of them really appealed to her, but she would have to do something; her mother was getting better now and she couldn’t stay home for ever. She wrote her letters of application, gave them to the postman and then forgot them, not really caring if she had replies or not. The idea of working in London didn’t appeal to her any more, but she knew that she wouldn’t be able to settle in a small provincial hospital. Perhaps to go abroad would be the answer; she found the journal again and searched its advertisements once more. There were several: Australia, Central Africa, New Zealand…she wrote to them all.
She had been home for more than a week when Anthony turned up. She had gone to the door thinking it was a tradesman or someone wanting the doctor urgently, and stood, her mouth slightly open, looking at him in amazement.
‘Surprised you?’ he wanted to know with a smile which she decided privately was nothing short of self-satisfied. ‘Told you I’d come and cheer you up—you look as though you could do with it, too.’ His gaze travelled over her thick sweater and slacks and her hair, tied back from a face lacking make-up. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’
She stood aside and he passed her to stand in the flagstoned passage, looking about him with an air of faint derision which annoyed her very much. She had left the back door open and the wind eddied about them so that he said impatiently: ‘Good lord, is it always as cold as this? You must be frozen.’
She went to shut the door before asking in as civil a voice as possible: ‘Why have you come, Anthony?’
‘I told you—to cheer you up.’
‘How kind, but I don’t need it, thank you. My mother has been ill, I told you that, and she still isn’t well; I’m busy all day and quite happy and very content.’ She ushered him into the sitting-room and he stood and looked at its rather shabby pleasantness with that same air of derision before going over to the fire to warm his hands.
‘I expect you’d like a cup of coffee?’ she asked, still very civil.
‘Rather—I’m hoping you’ll ask me to lunch at the very least.’
She hesitated; her father and Jim would both be in for a meal before the afternoon surgery, although Jim was often late back from the farm. She had a wholesome stew on the stove, enough and to spare for any stray visitor; it would be unpardonable to turn him away, however unwelcome he was, without offering him a meal. ‘We shall be glad to have you to lunch,’ she told him quietly, and went to get the coffee.
When she returned with the tray, he had taken off his coat and made himself quite at home in her father’s chair, moreover, he was at pains to make himself pleas
ant. They drank their coffee with a little spate of conversation before Alexandra excused herself. ‘I must take my mother’s morning drink up to her,’ she explained, ‘she sits out for a little while before lunch. Please help yourself to more coffee if you want it.’
Her mother was hanging over the banisters at the top of the stairs, her face, still spotty, but now more cheerful, alight with curiosity.
‘Who’s downstairs?’ she wanted to know as Alexandra drew her back into her bedroom. ‘Is it that nice doctor?’
Alexandra surveyed her romantic, hopeful mother with an almost motherly smile. ‘No, dear, far worse than that—it’s Anthony Ferris.’
Her mother accepted her Horlicks, made a face at it and said: ‘But I thought you’d quarrelled.’
‘We did. I can’t think what’s come over him; I met him, quite by chance at Waterloo when I was coming home, and he said something about coming down to see me, but I never imagined that he meant it.’ She sighed. ‘Mother, he’s asked himself to lunch and he’s downstairs, being pompous—how can I get rid of him?’
Her parent thought for a moment. ‘If he doesn’t go soon after lunch, I’ll feel poorly and demand that you come up here—how’s that for an idea?’
‘Not bad. Supposing he doesn’t take the hint?’
‘Get your father on to him,’ suggested her mother darkly, and they both giggled. Her father had a way with people he didn’t like…
She went downstairs again presently, spent ten minutes in more polite conversation and then excused herself once more on the plea of getting the lunch. There was actually nothing to do; everything was cooking just as it should be and the upside-down pudding she had made earlier was steaming nicely in its saucepan. She sat on the kitchen table eating an apple, and wondered how long she could stay there without appearing rude.
In the end she had to go; the table had to be laid, and since they had a guest, it would have to be in the dining-room instead of the warm, cosy kitchen. She collected plates and put them to warm and went along to lay the cloth. But that small task couldn’t be made to last for ever, she fetched her father’s sherry and some glasses and went back into the sitting-room. Anthony was still sitting by the fire, reading The Times. He looked up as she went in, cast the paper down in the untidiest fashion and said: ‘Oh, there you are. I must say, you’re not being very friendly.’ He sounded aggrieved.
‘Well, we aren’t very friendly in the first place,’ Alexandra pointed out, ‘and in the second I did warn you that I was busy—you are, after all, unexpected.’ She dumped the drinks down on the table. ‘I must just go and try the potatoes,’ she said, ‘do pour yourself a drink.’
She was in the kitchen when she heard the front door bell again. It was rung with some vigour and at length, and she wondered whom it might be—not another visitor, she thought gloomily and went to open the door. But Anthony had bestirred himself; the door was opened already and he was holding it wide so that Taro might enter.
CHAPTER NINE
THE doctor stood in the hall, towering over Anthony and ignoring him completely, staring at her. He was dressed, Alexandra noticed with the sharp eye of love, in impeccable good taste; his car coat open over a dark suit; he looked exactly what he was, a successful, wealthy man, who had never worn elderly tweeds in his life and would rather have died than driven a Morris 1000. She smiled gloriously at him and said in a voice quavering with delight, ‘Hullo,’ and only then realized that he was furiously angry. His crushing: ‘Good morning, Miss Dobbs,’ acted like a bucket of cold water over her and sent her soaring spirits down to zero, but she went on gamely: ‘What a surprise!’
‘So I can see for myself.’ The subdued thunder of his voice made her jump. ‘Penny was right.’
‘Penny? Right?’ she echoed feebly.
‘You’re not usually at a loss for words,’ he informed her blandly.
She recovered sufficiently to say: ‘Well, I’m not usually taken by surprise like this.’
‘Evidently.’ The conversation was hardly making progress. He grunted and his irate eyes fastened upon Anthony. ‘Are you staying here—er Ferris, isn’t it?’
Anthony gave him a cautious look and said guardedly: ‘Well, as a matter of fact, that was the idea.’
It was all that was needed for Alexandra to give way to bad temper.
‘Was it indeed?’ she wanted to know indignantly. ‘Of all the…’ she flashed a fiery glance at Taro. ‘And what’s all this about Penny?’
Before he could answer, her mother’s voice, nicely modulated and quivering with curiosity, floated down from the upstairs landing. ‘Alexandra dear, if we have visitors, would it not be a good idea to take them into the sitting-room? It might be warmer.’
Her daughter went pink. She called: ‘Yes, Mother,’ obediently and said to the two gentlemen looking at her: ‘Well, since you’re here, we might as well go inside,’ and pushed open the door. ‘And do take off your coat,’ she begged the doctor with a kind of outraged hospitality which caused a reluctant gleam to appear in his eyes.
Anthony took a nervous drink of his sherry and sat down. He jumped up again at once because Alexandra was standing by the table and the doctor, despite his ill-humour, had the good manners to stand with her.
She poured out two glasses of sherry with a trembling hand and offering him one, said: ‘Oh, sit down, do,’ in a voice a little sharp by reason of her agitation and sat down herself. ‘Now perhaps you’ll explain,’ she invited. ‘I should like…’
She was given no chance of finishing, though. The doctor, sitting in her father’s armchair, and reminding her forcibly of one of the more majestic Olympians, cut her short with a suave: ‘You two met at Waterloo Station.’
She looked at him in bewilderment and said the wrong thing. ‘However did you find that out?’ she asked.
He took a sip of sherry and crossed one long leg over the other. If she hadn’t known him better she might have thought, mistakenly, that he was enjoying himself. He said very evenly: ‘Do you remember the last time we talked, Alexandra?’
Of course she remembered. She looked at Anthony with a heightened colour before she said yes.
Taro studied her pink cheeks. ‘Then you will understand that I am a little…’ he paused, ‘surprised.’ He was staring at her very hard. ‘That you should rush back to England to rendezvous with…’ he paused again and turned to look at Anthony rather in the manner of one who was surprised to find him still there. ‘What was the name again?’ he asked politely, and when Anthony mumbled ‘Ferris,’ said: ‘Ah, yes, my regrettable memory.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with your memory,’ said Alexandra tartly.
‘Absolutely nothing,’ he agreed smoothly, ‘though I can hardly say the same for you, Miss Dobbs, but perhaps our last meeting meant so little to you that you had no cause to remember it.’ He gave her a nasty smile and turned his attention to Anthony. ‘And are you on holiday?’ he wanted to know, and his manner was very much that of a consultant putting a student at his ease.
‘Yes—no, that is, I had this idea…coming to see Alexandra—thought she might need cheering up and so on. We’re old friends, you know?’
Taro’s eyebrows rose gently. ‘Indeed?’
Alexandra had finished her sherry and its gentle glow on her empty stomach was giving her a quite reckless courage. ‘Look,’ she said quite crossly, ‘I’m tired of this—walking in here, asking questions—and I still want to know what Penny has to do with it—and why are you here?’ She was looking at Taro, having quite forgotten Anthony.
The doctor stood up, putting her at a great disadvantage because she was forced to crane her neck to see his face. He said mildly: ‘You know, I had thought that I had been given the right to ask questions of you, Alexandra.’ He was leaning against the table, his hands in his pockets. ‘I came because I had a letter from Penny, telling me that she had seen you and a young man, apparently on the best of good terms, surrounded by luggage, waiting to board a train tog
ether. I didn’t believe her, but I had to come and see for myself; if it had been possible I would have come to England there and then.’ His eyes searched her face. ‘Perhaps you find that difficult to understand.’ He sighed. ‘It seems that just for once, she was writing the truth.’
‘You could have written,’ she began.
‘Oh, I did,’ he gave a short laugh, ‘a dozen letters, and tore each of them up, for how does one write the things I wished to say, and to telephone is even worse. I decided to wait until I could come and see you—you must have known that I would do that.’ He gave her a small mocking smile which sent a nasty shiver down her spine. ‘Or was I utterly and completely mistaken?’
She cast a look at Anthony, who should have had the good sense to leave them to themselves but was sitting there, gaping. ‘Oh, heavens above,’ she cried, quite exasperated, ‘Taro…’ She got no further as the front door slammed and a moment later her father came in. There was nothing to do but introduce the two men to her astonished parent, murmur incoherently, pour him some sherry and invite Taro to lunch. She took a quick look at him as she did so and was shattered by the look on his face; it was cold and horribly polite and was smiling a nasty little smile which shrivelled her inside. He refused with good manners as cold as his expression, chatted to her father for a minute or two and then declared that he must be going, begging her on no account to leave the warmth of the fire in order to see him out. She didn’t even say good-bye, merely stood there, a look of such frozen misery on her face that Anthony asked: ‘I say, old girl, are you all right? A bit pasty-faced, aren’t you?’
She rounded on him. ‘I am not your old girl! The nerve of it…and I never felt better in my life. Sit down and be quiet; I’m going to see about lunch, and when you’ve eaten it, I hope you’ll go away, for I never want to see you again!’
She flounced out of the room and banged the kitchen door shut, to emerge five minutes later with the stew, which she sat before her father as soon as he and his guest had seated themselves at table.