Hilltop Tryst

by Betty Neels

  Her aunt’s majestic bosom swelled alarmingly. ‘The salary I offer is ample. What does my companion need other than a comfortable home and good food?’

  ‘Clothes,’ suggested Beatrice, ‘make-up and so on, money for presents, probably they have a mother or father they have to help out, holidays…’

  ‘Rubbish. Be good enough to take these letters to the post.’

  A respite, even though brief; Beatrice lingered in the little town for as long as she dared, and when she got back she was rebuked for loitering. ‘And I have made an appointment with this heart specialist. I shall see him on Wednesday next and you will accompany me. He has rooms in Harley Street.’ She added in her loud, commanding voice, ‘Jenkins will drive us, and I intend to visit several of these agencies in the hope that I may find someone suitable to be my companion.’

  ‘What a good idea. There’s bound to be someone on their books. Will you interview them here or there, Aunt?’

  ‘You may safely leave such decisions to me.’ Great-Aunt Sybil turned a quelling eye upon her, only Beatrice took no notice of it; she was a sensible girl as well as a pretty one and had quickly learnt to ignore her aunt’s worse moments. There were plenty of Great-Aunt Sybils in the world and, tiresome though they were, they had families who felt it their duty to keep an eye on them. Only she hoped it wouldn’t be too long before she could go back home again, which thought led to her wondering how Miss Mead’s Nobby was doing and that led naturally to Mr Latimer. An interesting man, she reflected, if only because of his great size and good looks; she speculated as to his age and quickly married him off to a willowy blonde, small and dainty with everybody doing everything they could for her because of her clinging nature. There would be children too, a little girl and an older boy—two perhaps… She was forced to return to her prosaic world then, because her aunt wished for a glass of sherry. ‘And surely you can do that for me,’ she grumbled in her overpowering voice, ‘although you don’t look capable of anything, sitting there daydreaming.’

  Beatrice poured the sherry, handed it to her aunt, then gave herself one, tossed it off and, feeling reckless, poured a second one. Great-Aunt Sybil vibrated with indignation. ‘Well, really, upon my word, Beatrice, what would your father say if he could see you now? Worse, what would that young man of yours think or say?’

  ‘James? He’s not my young man, Aunt Sybil, and I have no intention of marrying him, and I expect that Father would offer me a third glass,’ she answered politely and in a reasonable voice, which gave her aunt no opportunity to accuse her of impertinence…

  That lady gave her a fulminating look; a paid companion would have been dismissed on the spot, but Beatrice was family and had every right to return home. She said in a conciliatory voice, ‘I dare say that you have had several opportunities to marry. You were a very pretty young girl and are still a pretty woman.’

  ‘Twenty-six on my last birthday, Aunt.’

  Beatrice spoke lightly, but just lately faint doubts about her future were getting harder to ignore. Somehow the years were slipping by; until her sudden certainty that she couldn’t possibly marry James, she supposed that she had rather taken it for granted that she and James would marry, but now she knew that that wouldn’t do at all. She didn’t love him and she didn’t think he loved her. Perhaps she was never to meet a man who would love her and whom she could love. It was getting a bit late in the day, she thought wryly.

  ‘Time you were married and bringing up a family,’ declared Aunt Sybil tartly. ‘A woman’s work…’

  And one which her aunt had never had to do, reflected Beatrice. Perhaps if she had had a husband and a handful of children, she might not have become such a trying old lady: always right, always advising people how to do things she knew nothing about, always criticising and correcting, expecting everyone to do what she wanted at a moment’s notice…

  ‘Well,’ said Beatrice naughtily, ‘when you find another companion and I can go home again, perhaps I’ll start looking for a husband.’

  ‘Do not be impertinent, Beatrice,’ was all her aunt said quellingly…

  Wednesday came to break the monotony of the days, and since it was a lovely summer morning Beatrice got into a rather nice silky two-piece in a pale pearly pink, brushed her hair into a shining chignon, thrust her feet into high-heeled sandals and got into the elderly Daimler beside her aunt.

  Her aunt eyed her with disapproval. ‘Really, my dear, you are dressed more in the manner of someone going to a garden party than a companion.’

  ‘But I’m not a companion,’ observed Beatrice sweetly. ‘I’m staying with you because you asked me to. And it’s a lovely day,’ she added, to clinch the matter.

  ‘We will lunch,’ stated Great-Aunt Sybil in a cross voice, ‘and visit some of these agencies. The sooner I can approve of a companion the better. You are becoming frivolous, Beatrice.’

  Beatrice said meekly, ‘Yes, Aunt Sybil, perhaps I’m having a last fling before I dwindle into being an old maid.’

  Jenkins drove them sedately Londonwards, and at exactly the right time deposited them outside a narrow Regency house in a row of similar narrow houses. Beatrice rang the bell and then followed her aunt’s majestic progress into a pleasant waiting-room, where they were greeted by an elderly receptionist and asked to sit down.

  ‘My appointment is for half-past eleven,’ pointed out Aunt Sybil, ‘and it is exactly that hour.’ She drew an indignant breath so that her corsets creaked.

  ‘That’s right, Miss Browning.’ The receptionist spoke smoothly. ‘But the doctor is engaged for the moment.’

  ‘I do not expect to be kept waiting.’

  The receptionist smiled politely, picked up the telephone and became immersed in conversation. She was putting it down again when a door at the end of the room opened and a woman came out. Beatrice could hear her saying goodbye to someone on the other side of the door and sighed thankfully; any minute now and her aunt would be whisked away by the nurse who had come into the room.

  ‘You will accompany me,’ decreed her aunt. ‘I may need your support.’ She sailed in the wake of the nurse and was ushered through the door, and Beatrice, walking reluctantly behind her, came to a sudden halt. The eminent doctor, a cardiologist of the first rank, according to her aunt, coming forward to shake her aunt’s hand, was Mr Latimer.

  A rather different Mr Latimer, though; this elegant man in his sober grey suit and spotless linen was a far cry from the casual walker in his old trousers and shirt. He showed no surprise at the sight of her, but greeted her aunt quietly and then waited with a slightly lifted eyebrow until Great-Aunt Sybil said testily, ‘Oh, this is a great-niece of mine. I have a delicate constitution and may require her support.’

  Mr Latimer said ‘How do you do?’ to Beatrice with a blandness which led her to suppose that he had forgotten her completely, observed that he had an excellent nurse in attendance and asked in what way could he advise his patient?

  ‘You are a very young man,’ observed Miss Browning in a suspicious voice. ‘I trust that you are adequately trained to diagnose illness?’

  Beatrice blushed and looked at her feet; her aunt was going to be awful.

  ‘If I might know the nature of your illness?’ asked Mr Latimer with just the right amount of professional dignity. He glanced at the folder on his desk, containing letters from various colleagues on the subject of Miss Browning.

  Miss Browning fixed him with a cold stare. ‘I suffer great pain in my chest. It is at times unendurable, but I do not wish to bother those around me with complaints: I have learnt to conceal my suffering. I think I may say that I have more than my share of courage and patience. The pain is here,’ she patted her massive bosom gently, ‘and I will explain exactly…’

  Which she did at great length, while Dr Latimer sat quietly watching her, though now and again he took a quick look at Beatrice, still examining her feet and wishing the ground would open beneath her.

  Presently he interrupted her au
nt’s flow of talk. ‘Yes. Well, Miss Browning, I think the best thing is for me to examine you. If you will go with Nurse, she will prepare you.’

  Miss Browning swept out, pausing by Beatrice to beg her in ringing tones to come to her aid of she were to fall faint. ‘For this will be an ordeal.’

  Beatrice mumbled and peeped across the room to where Dr Latimer sat behind his desk. He was looking at her and smiling, and after a moment she smiled back.

  ‘Don’t you miss your green fields and hills?’ he asked.

  She nodded. After a moment she said, ‘I didn’t expect to see you again.’

  ‘No? I rather feel it was inevitable that somehow we should meet.’

  He got up in response to the buzzer on his desk and went to the examination-room, leaving her to wonder what on earth he meant.

  She had plenty of time to ponder his words, for it was quite fifteen minutes before he came back, and there was nothing in his face to tell her what his examination had revealed. He sat down and began to write until after another five minutes his patient came back.

  Miss Browning swept in on a tide of ill temper, sat herself down and addressed herself in quelling tones to the impassive man sitting behind his desk.

  ‘I very much doubt,’ began Great-Aunt Sybil, ‘if you are qualified to diagnose my particular illness. It seems to me that you have failed to appreciate my suffering.’

  Dr Latimer appeared unworried. He said smoothly, ‘Miss Browning, you have a sound heart; your pain is caused by indigestion. I will give you a diet which, if you choose to follow it, will dispel the pain. From what you have told me, your diet is too rich. I will write to your doctor and inform him of my diagnosis.’

  He stood up and went to her chair. ‘What a relief it must be to you that you are so splendidly healthy.’ He offered a hand, and she had perforce to take it. ‘Nurse will give you the diet sheet.’

  He accompanied her to the door, and Beatrice was relieved to see that for once her aunt had met her match: Dr Latimer’s silky manners screened a steely intention to be in command of the situation. They were ushered out without Miss Browning having the time to utter any of the telling replies she might have had in mind.

  The nurse had gone ahead to open the waiting-room door, and for a moment Beatrice and Dr Latimer were alone.

  He held out a large, firm hand. ‘Goodbye for the present,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, do you intend to see my aunt again?’

  ‘Er—no—but we shall meet again.’ He gave her a charming smile. ‘You don’t live with your aunt?’

  ‘Heavens, no! Her companion left and I’m staying with her until we can find another one.’ She paused. ‘I did tell you.’

  Aunt Sybil had turned at the doorway and was looking back at them. ‘Come at once, Beatrice. I am exhausted.’

  ‘Dear, oh, dear,’ murmured Dr Latimer at his most soothing, ‘we must see about that companion, mustn’t we?’

  She thought that he was merely being comforting, but then, she didn’t know him well.

  Lunch was a stormy meal, taken at her aunt’s favourite restaurant. Naturally it consisted of all the things Miss Browning had been advised not to eat, and while they ate she gave her opinion of doctors in general and Dr Latimer in particular. ‘He should be struck off,’ she declared.

  ‘Whatever for?’ asked Beatrice. ‘I thought he had beautiful manners.’

  ‘Pooh—any silly woman could have her head turned by the professional civility these men employ—I am able to see through such tricks.’

  Beatrice poured the coffee. ‘Aunt Sybil, I think you might at least give his advice an airing…’

  ‘I shall do just as I see fit. We will go now to that agency I have written to; there must be any number of women needing work. Just look at the unemployment…’

  But there was no one suitable, nor was there at the other two agencies they visited. Beatrice, a cheerful girl by nature, allowed herself to get despondent at the prospect of weeks of Great-Aunt Sybil’s irascible company.

  Only it wasn’t to be weeks, after all. Three days after her aunt’s visit to Dr Latimer, a letter came. The writer, having seen Miss Browning’s advertisement, begged to apply for the post of companion, and was willing to present herself at an interview whenever it was convenient.

  ‘Let her come this afternoon,’ said Great-Aunt Sybil grandly. ‘She sounds a sensible woman.’

  ‘Well, she could hardly get here and back again today,’ Beatrice pointed out. ‘It’s a London address—besides, there’s the fare, she might not have it.’

  ‘I cannot think what these people do with their money.’

  ‘They don’t have any—or not much to do anything with.’

  Her aunt frowned. ‘You have this habit of answering back, Beatrice—most unbecoming. Write a letter and tell her to come the day after tomorrow in the early afternoon. You had better take some money from my desk and enclose it.’

  Beatrice, addressing the envelope to Miss Jane Moore, hoped fervently that she would be suitable.

  It was obvious from the moment that she faced Great-Aunt Sybil in the drawing-room that she was not only suitable but quite capable of holding her own with the old lady. Polite but firm, she allowed Miss Browning to see that she had no intention of being a doormat—indeed, she stipulated that she should have regular hours of freedom and a day off each week—but she sweetened this by pointing out that she was able to undertake all secretarial duties, keep accounts, drive the car, and read aloud. ‘I also have some nursing skills,’ she added composedly.

  Beatrice thought she looked exactly the right person to live with her aunt. Middle-aged, small and wiry, with her pepper and salt hair and a severe bun, Miss Moore exuded competence, good nature and firmness.

  Whether she would be able to stand up to her great-aunt’s peevish ill humours was another matter. At the moment, at any rate, her aunt seemed more than satisfied. Miss Moore was engaged with the option of a month’s notice on either side, and agreed to come in two days’ time, Miss Browning’s good humour lasting long enough for her to arrange for Miss Moore to be collected with her luggage at the station.

  ‘So now you can go home,’ said Miss Browning ungratefully as she and Beatrice sat at dinner that evening. If Beatrice expected thanks, she got none, but that didn’t worry her; she telephoned her mother, packed her bag, and at the end of the next day returned home.

  It was lovely to be back in her own room again, to unpack and then go down to the kitchen and help her mother get the supper.

  ‘Do you think she’ll last, this Miss Moore?’ asked her mother.

  ‘I think she might. I mean, Great-Aunt Sybil’s other companions have always been so timid, but not Miss Moore—one could think of her as a ward sister used to geriatrics—you know—quite unflustered, but very firm and kind.’

  She paused in the enjoyable task of hulling strawberries. ‘I shall get up early tomorrow and take Knotty for a long walk before breakfast.’

  ‘Yes, dear. Your father will be glad to have you back to give a hand. Carol’s back in Salisbury and Kathy’s staying with the in-laws. Ella will be glad, too. You always help her so nicely with her Latin.’

  Beatrice woke as the sun, not yet visible, began to lighten the cloudless sky. She was out of bed, had washed her face, got into an old cotton dress she kept for cleaning out the chicken house, tied back her hair and was in the kitchen within minutes. Knotty was waiting, and together they left the house and started to climb the hill. Knotty had bounded on ahead, and Beatrice, almost at the top, looked up to see why he was barking.

  She wasn’t alone on the hill; Dr Latimer was there too, waiting for her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BEATRICE gaped, half a dozen questions rushing to her tongue.

  ‘Later,’ said Dr Latimer. ‘Let us watch the sunrise first.’

  They sat side by side with Knotty panting between them, while the sky in the east turned pink and gold, and the sun rose slowly between the distant hills. Onl
y when the whole of its shining splendour was visible did Beatrice speak. ‘You don’t live here…?’ And then, ‘But it’s only just gone five o’clock.’

  ‘Miss Moore told me that you had returned home, and I knew that you would be here.’

  How did he know? She let that pass for the moment. ‘Miss Moore—do you know her? She’s gone as companion to Great-Aunt Sybil.’

  She turned her head to look at him, sweeping her hair over her shoulders out of the way. ‘Did you tell her about the job?’

  He said placidly, ‘Yes. She is a retired ward sister who worked for me for several years. Not quite ready to sit back and do nothing much—it suits her to live with your aunt for the time being. She will be able to save every penny of the salary she gets—and I must admit that I found it remarkably poor. She intends to share a small house with a widowed sister, but it won’t be vacant for some months.’

  ‘She seemed awfully capable.’

  ‘Oh, indeed she is.’

  He sat back with nothing more to say, and presently she asked, ‘Have you a day off?’

  ‘No, but no patients until noon. Do you suppose your mother would give me breakfast?’

  ‘I’m sure she will. There’s only Ella home, and unless Father’s been called out he hasn’t a surgery until half-past eight.’

  ‘You’re glad to be home?’

  She nodded. ‘Oh, yes. I don’t think I’m cut out to be a companion…’

  ‘You have no ambition to take up a career?’

  She shook her head. ‘I suppose that years ago, when I was eighteen and full of ideas, I would have liked to train as a vet, but Father taught me a great deal and I like helping him. Ella’s too young, and anyway she’s not made up her mind what she wants to do, and Carol—she’s the brainy one and works in an office, and Kathy will be getting married in a month.’ She was silent for a moment, then, ‘I’m almost twenty-seven, a bit old to start on a career.’