by Betty Neels
Katrina, making out the shopping list for the next day, wondered if she dared leave her aunt alone. But they needed groceries, and to get her aunt's pension from the bank. There was her state pension to collect from Mrs Dyer's village store and post office too.
Katrina, doing sums, tried to work out ways of being more economical. There was the journey to St Aldrick's too, in a few weeks' time-a quite costly undertaking. Surely the professor could arrange for her aunt to be seen by someone at Warminster Hospital? Probably he hadn't realised that they hadn't much money. Aunt Thirza had always been one to keep up appearances, even though it meant the small economies no one knew about.
She need not have worried about the shopping; the vicar, an elderly man and a great friend of the doctor, called in the morning, accepted coffee, and suggested that if Katrina wanted to go shopping, or whatever, he would be glad to have a chat with her aunt.
`There are still so many things to settle for the bazaar,' he pointed out.
`I do need to go to Warminster,' said Katrina.
`Then go, my dear. I dare say we shall still be deep in plans by the time you get back.'
She accepted with gratitude, cycled into Warminster and came back laden with groceries; there was time to go to Mrs Dyer's too, and get the pension money. Mrs Dyer was a chatty soul, purveyor and receiver of any news and rumours of a local nature.
`How's Miss Gibbs?' she wanted to know. `Hasn't been looking too spry these last few weeks. I was over at the butcher's and Mr Tapp, he said the same. Seen the doctor, has she?'
Katrina asked for stamps and counted her change. `Oh, yes. Dr Peters takes good care of her, you know. She finds this warmer weather trying, but she enjoys her committees.'
`Glad of that. She's been our main prop and stay for the village social life for dear knows how long. Wait a sec...' The good soul disappeared into the room behind the shop and came back with a brown paper bag. `My hens are laying a treat, and I dare say your aunt might like an egg with her tea. There's nothing like a nice new-laid egg.'
`Mrs Dyer, how kind of you. I'm sure she'll enjoy one.'
Mrs Dyer nodded cheerfully, and wondered why Miss Katrina should look so sad.
Her aunt was full of plans for the bazaar; the vicar had suggested dates, and asked her to contact the ladies who usually helped each year and get things organised. Katrina's spirits lifted at the sight of her aunt's enthusiasm. Aunt Thirza appeared to be almost her old self again.
Even clever consultants can make mistakes, reflected Katrina, cutting wafer-thin bread and butter to go with the egg.
Two days later, Aunt Thirza died. They had been in the garden, she and Katrina, sitting on the bench, admiring the moss rose. It was a pleasantly warm afternoon and they hadn't talked much, just sat there, content with each other's company.
Katrina had looked up when her aunt had spoken. `You've been a good girl, Katrina, I couldn't have wished for a more loving daughter of my own.' She had smiled a little, sighed gently, and died.
Katrina hadn't believed it for a few moments. The professor had warned her, but in her heart of hearts she had believed him to be over-cautious; her aunt had seemed so much better during the last few days. Hard on that thought came a deep thankfulness that Aunt Thirza had died as she would have wished: without fuss and at peace, sitting in her loved garden.
Katrina pulled herself together then, kissed her aunt, murmured a prayer and said, in a voice which didn't sound quite like her own, `I must leave you, Aunt, while I go and phone. But you're not alone here; the moss rose will keep you company.'
She fetched her bike then, and went to the farm and rang Dr Peters and the vicar, and then went back to her aunt. Aunt Thirza looked as though she was asleep, and it was only then that Katrina began to cry.
She wiped her tears away when Dr Peters came, followed by the vicar. They carried Aunt Thirza up to her room, and shortly afterwards Mrs Tripp, the local nurse, arrived. The rest of that day didn't seem real, though everyone was so kind. Mrs Peters came and sat quietly while Katrina talked away her first shock and sorrow.
`You must come back and spend the night with us,' she told Katrina kindly.
But Katrina wouldn't do that. `I shall be quite all right,' she declared. `I'd rather stay...'
Mrs Peters understood, sat over her while she ate some supper and then went home. Strangely enough, Katrina slept soundly, but her last waking thought was regret that the professor hadn't been there. So silly, she told herself, half-asleep, for what could he have done? Nothing-and everything-for he would have told her to be thankful that Aunt Thirza had had a perfect end to her life. And he would have let her howl her eyes out, told her to pull herself together and offered his handkerchief. She smiled a bit, and snivelled a bit, and slept.
The village, shocked and sympathetic, rallied round. All the same Katrina found that she had so much to do that she had to bury her grief for the time being. Aunt Thirza had brothers and sisters still living-those same brothers and sisters who had found an excuse for not giving Katrina a home and helping with her education, who, in fact, had ignored her. It was years since she had seen them, for they had never come to see Aunt Thirza, although they were punctilious about sending cards at Christmas and on her birthday. All the same, they had to be told of Aunt Thirza's death and be invited to her funeral.
Katrina hadn't expected them to come. What would be the point? They had ignored the old lady while she was alive. But they came, driving up in their BMWs and Mercedeses, the two aunts pecking Katrina's cheek, the uncles shaking hands and muttering condolences and the cousins, five of them, looking her up and down and barely speaking.
Katrina was polite to them, because that would have pleased Aunt Thirza, who deplored bad manners, but since everyone who possibly could had come from the village the church was full, and she needed only to spend a short time with them. Afterwards they came back to Rose Cottage with her.
`After all, Thirza was our sister,' said the elder of the aunts.
`I dare say she has left us some small memento and your solicitor will be reading the will, I suppose?'
Mr Thrush was old, and had known Aunt Thirza for years. He liked Katrina, but frowned at the sudden appearance of her family. He had known all about their rejection of Katrina, and could see no reason for their presence now. Nor could Katrina, but she handed round tea and cucumber sandwiches and hoped that there would be enough.
The Peterses and the vicar and his wife had come back to the house too, but they had been invited... They went after half an hour, since it was apparent that the aunts and uncles intended to stay until the will had been read. On the way to the door Mrs Peters contrived to whisper that they would be back that evening, and Katrina nodded and smiled and wished with all her heart that her tiresome relations would leave.
The will was simple. Everything had been left to Katrinathe house, and any money in Aunt Thirza's bank account. The aunts were annoyed.
`One would have thought that Thirza could have left something to her other nephews and nieces.' They pinned Mr Thrush in his chair with icy stares. `How much did our sister leave?"
'I am not able to tell you at the moment,' he answered testily. `And in any case, since you are not the beneficiaries, I do not see that it can be of interest to you.'
When he had gone away in his elderly motorcar they turned on Katrina. `Lucky girl. I suppose you are going to enjoy life now, with only yourself to please. I dare say Thirza had quite a nice little sum tucked away. She always was mean...'
Katrina's flimsy hold on her good manners flew through the window. `Don't dare to say a word about Aunt Thirza. She was as dear to me as a mother, and I loved her. She never did a mean thing or said a mean thing in her life. And what have you ever done to help her? Oh, go home, all of you! And I hope I never have to set eyes on any of you again.'
Katrina was a lovely girl; when she was in a rage she was beautiful. Now she confronted her unwanted guests, a splendid Amazon.
There was silen
ce for a moment, and then the elder aunt said, `Well, I'm sure we know when we are not welcome, Katrina.' She got to her feet and, followed by the rest of them, left the cottage.
Katrina shut the door on them and burst into tears. She had managed so far to keep them at bay, but now she longed for Aunt Thirza, telling her in her brisk voice to stop being such a silly girl.
She cried for a long time, until there were no tears left, then she collected up cups, saucers and plates, washed them and tidied them away, fed Betsy, washed her own face and tidied her hair and went and sat by the moss rose. And that was where Dr Peters found her presently.
`You're coming back to us for supper,' he told her. `Yes, yes, I know you won't stay the night, and I'll bring you back when you want, but it would be nice to talk about the funeral. Such a splendid turn-out from the village; your aunt would have appreciated that.'
So she ate her supper in the kindly company of the doctor and his wife, and afterwards the vicar and his wife came to join them and sat talking. And Katrina found to her surprise that it was quite easy to talk about the service, and the mountains of flowers and all Aunt Thirza's friends and acquaintances.
Presently the doctor drove Katrina back and saw her into the cottage. Betsy was waiting for her, and the little place was welcoming, just as though her aunt was still there. Katrina, worn out with sorrow and loneliness, went to bed and Betsy, an understanding cat, went with her.
Over the next few days the sharp end of grief was blunted by the need to get her life into some kind of order. The cottage was hers; she had a roof over her head, a roof she loved, and there would be no need for her to leave the village she loved too. She read the letter Mr Thrush sent, telling her to call at her aunt's bank and assuring her of his willingness to be of service if she needed him.
She cycled into Warminster and saw the manager, and camr home again rather soberly. Aunt Thirza had a few hundred pounds in her account--enough, as the manager had pointed out, to keep her going for a couple of months. `Although I dare say you intend to find a job. You could, of course, sell the cottage...'
`Never.' She had sounded quite fierce. `I'll think of something...'
She told no one about it, and to Mrs Peters' tentative question as to whether she was financially secure she said brightly that, yes, everything was fine. When the same question was put, not out of curiosity but out of kindness by the various friends and acquaintances living in the village, she gave the same cheerful reassurance.
They were all so kind, asking her to lunch, to tea, and offering lifts in their cars, calling to see her on some pretext or other. She was grateful to them, but it was in the evenings, when she had had her supper and sat down with pen and paper doing sums, making plans, that her brave heart faltered. And it was then that she wondered for the hundredth time why the professor hadn't sent a card.
She had even dared to hope at first that he would come and see her, but there had been no word from him, no sign. Aunt Thirza had been one of his patients and she had died, something which he must have experienced many times in his profession. Only she had thought that he had liked the old lady, and had even begun to like herself a little.
`I'm a fool, of course,' she told Betsy, and picked up her pen once more and had another go at cutting down expenses.
Professor Glenville, driving himself home after a two-week tour lecturing on the continent, decided to call in at St Aldrick's before he went home. He had come back on an early-morning hovercraft, and although he had no need to take
up his duties until the following day he thought he might as well see what was lined up for him. He went to Theatre first, and had a talk with his registrar, then went to the outpatients department to let Sister know that he would be taking his clinic on the following afternoon. And, since she wasn't busy for the moment, he stopped for a cup of coffee with her.
Everything was much as usual, she told him, and then added, `A pity about that nice old lady-Miss Gibbs-you remember her, sir? Died suddenly a week ago. Dr Peters phoned, but of course you weren't here. He asked me to let you know when you got back.'
The professor said slowly; `I'm sorry to hear that. It was bound to happen, of course, but I had hoped that we had managed to slow her downward progress.'
He left shortly afterwards and drove to his consulting rooms, and his secretary, reed-thin, bespectacled and his devoted slave, beamed a welcome.
`There, I was only saying to Geoff'-Geoff was her husband-`that you would be back some time today. I do hope you had a successful tour, Professor.'
`Yes, thank you, Mrs Best.' He smiled down at her middleaged face. `Tell me, am I going to be busy next week?'
`You're booked solid, but I've kept Saturday and Sunday free.'
`Good. How am I placed for tomorrow? I'm not due at St Aldrick's until the afternoon clinic, but have I any patients here in the morning?'
`Yes, starting at half past nine until noon. Then in the evening there are two new patients. Six-thirty and half past seven.'
Mrs Best took a look in the appointments book. `If you wish, you could see two patients late this afternoon...'
`No, no. I'll be in tomorrow morning.' He smiled. `I see you've been holding the fort with your usual skill.' He opened
his bag and handed her a flat box. `With my thanks!'
He was gone before she had time to give more than a hasty thanks.
It was barely eleven o'clock, and the roads were fairly quiet. He drove himself down to Wherwell, to be greeted by Peach and Mrs Peach.
`You'll be wanting a good lunch, sir,' said Peach.
The professor was halfway up the staircase. `Peach, I have to go and see someone urgently. Would Mrs Peach cook me a splendid dinner instead, and could she make up some kind of picnic meal for me to take with me? For two.'
Peach remained impassive. `Of course, sir. In a hurry, are you?"
'Yes. I'm going to take a shower and change-twenty minutes? And I'll take Barker and Jones with me. They're in the garden?'
In rather less than half an hour he was downstairs again, greeting the dogs before going to the kitchen to see Mrs Peach. `I may be bringing Miss Gibbs back with me,' he told her. `Her aunt died suddenly and I must go and see her; she might like to dine here.'
`The poor girl. Peach took quite a fancy to her-very pretty, he said.' She put a mug of coffee down on the kitchen table. `You'll drink that coffee, sir, before you go, it'll only take you a minute, and I doubt you had a proper breakfast.'
He drank his coffee, remembering that he hadn't actually had any breakfast, and, just as though he had said so, Mrs Peach went on, `There's soup, and a cooked chicken and salad, some rolls and butter, and Peach fetched up a bottle of that white wine you always fancy.'
He bent and kissed her plump cheek. `Thank you, Mrs Peach.' When Peach saw him to the door he said, `I'm not sure when I shall be back. I'll phone you if there is a change in my plans.'
He drove away, with Jones sitting beside him and Barker on the back seat, and Peach went back to the kitchen.
Katrina had got up early, for she had found that if she went to bed quite late, then got up with the sun and filled her days with gardening and cleaning the cottage, turning out the cupboards and polishing the brass and silver, even though it didn't need it, she got through her days well enough for she was too tired to think about anything much. She knew that in time she would feel herself again, but just for a while she needed to blot out the last two weeks.
Friends still called, of course, and when she was invited out to a meal with them she went willingly enough, apparently her normal rather quiet self and quite cheerful too. They told each other that she was a sensible girl and was getting over her aunt's death very well. `Seems quite content to be there on her own,' they told each other. `I dare say Thirza left a tidy bit in the bank, though I don't suppose Katrina will want to stay there for the rest of her life. Still, a month or two won't do her any harm. Dare say she'll find a job...'
She was in the kitchen now,
sitting at the table, doing more sums. She had cycled into Warminster yesterday, intent on finding a job. She hadn't much idea how to set about it, but she had found an agency and put her name on their books, although the severe woman behind the desk had told her cuttingly that since she had no qualifications and no skills it wasn't very likely that she would find anything.
`Home help?' she had said. `But of course you want to live out. The supermarket is wanting shelf-fillers; you could go along and ask there...'
Katrina had gone, and the manager had said flatly that she would have to work from seven in the morning until ten o'clock, and again at nine o'clock in the evening until half past ten. `And if you don't live here in the town we wouldn't want to take you on.'
`I don'tt mind the hours,' Katrina had said.
He'd given her a stony look. `Bad weather, punctured bike, overslept-too risky.' He'd turned away. `Sorry.'