by Betty Neels
Nanny straightened the hat which George had inadvertently nudged to one side as he poked his head between them. ‘That sounds nice,’ she said placidly, and wondered what Master James was up to. He had mentioned, very briefly, the girl who had collected eggs from the hen house he had freed from the snow.
Nanny, who couldn’t abide Sybil, allowed herself a few hopeful thoughts.
Nether Ditchling was en fête and since it was a fine day there was a good deal of activity in the street as well as the village hall. Mrs Salter had put a table outside her shop, laden with bottles of fizzy lemonade and pastries, hoping to catch any passing trade, and there were balloons hanging from all the windows. The street was filled with children being coaxed into order for the fancy dress parade, and coaxing them was Philly.
The Professor, edging the Bentley into the Vicarage gateway, saw her at once, already a bit untidy, patiently and cheerfully creating order out of chaos. He watched her, smiling, and Nanny watched him. So this was the girl. Nothing to look at, but a happy laughing face and pretty hair, and a nicely rounded shape under that cotton dress.
‘Now this is what I call a nice day out,’ said Nanny, and James, his eyes on Philly, continued to smile. ‘Shall we have a look?’
Philly came to meet them. ‘How lovely to see you.’ She beamed up at the Professor. ‘Have you a day off? Mother and Father will be so pleased…’
‘This is Mrs Willett, a family friend and my housekeeper.’
Philly shook hands, still beaming, and said, ‘How do you do? It’s a bit of a muddle at the moment—the children are getting ready for their parade. Then everyone goes to the village hall. Would you prefer to sit down somewhere quiet? Mrs Salter at the shop won’t mind a bit if you have a chair in her window.’
‘I’ll stay here and have a good view.’ Nanny, not given to easy smiling, smiled now.
Philly had bent to stroke George’s head, suddenly shy because she had greeted the Professor too warmly. ‘Is he your dog?’ she asked, not looking higher than the Professor’s chin.
‘Yes. He lives at the cottage with Mrs Willett.’
‘Oh, I thought you lived in London.’
‘I escape to the cottage whenever I get the chance.’
He stood looking down at her, half smiling, and after a moment she said, ‘I must go and sort out the children. If I see Father I’ll tell him you are here.’
She slipped away and was lost in the melee of excited children.
The Professor ushered Nanny and George across the street, and Mrs Selby, coming from the village hall, saw them.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘this is a lovely surprise.’ She looked round. ‘Is Miss West with you?’
‘I’m afraid not. This is Mrs Willett, family friend and housekeeper, and this—’ indicating placid George ‘—is my dog. We had a fancy to come and see you.’
‘How delightful. I’ll find Philly…’
‘We have already met. We have been told to watch the fancy dress parade.’
‘Some of us older ones are having coffee outside the shop. May I take Mrs Willett with me? We can have a cup of coffee together and watch the children at the same time. If you go to the village hall—’ Mrs Selby nodded over her shoulder ‘—you’ll find the Vicar there, arranging cakes on plates.’ She added, ‘The rest of the girls are here somewhere, and they will all be in the hall presently, to help with the amusements and the food.’
She took Nanny with her, and the Professor strolled along the crowded narrow pavement and into the village hall. The Vicar, with a handful of ladies to help him, was piling cakes and sandwiches on plates and stacking cups and saucers. He looked up as the Professor went in.
‘This is a delightful surprise! Yes, yes, do bring your dog in. Is Miss West with you? You’re on your way to Netherby, perhaps?’
‘No, no. Sybil isn’t with me. I’ve brought my housekeeper and George. We all fancied some fresh country air.’
‘There’s plenty of that. But isn’t it coals to Newcastle? I understand that you’re a paediatrician.’
The Professor laughed. ‘I like children, especially when they’re happy and bursting with good health. Can I do anything to help you?’
‘No, no. Indeed, you give me a good reason to leave these good ladies to finish getting everything ready.’
He led the way out of the hall and the two of them leaned against the churchyard wall and watched the children marching through the village while the grown-ups on the pavements clapped and cheered. Prizes were given at the end, of course, with the Lord of the Manor handing out picture books, paintboxes and boxes of sweets. Everyone had a consolation prize too, so that it all took some time, and the Professor, listening to the Vicar’s gentle conversation, didn’t take his eyes off Philly. She was oblivious of his gaze, darting here and there, blowing noses, adjusting wobbly headgear, dealing firmly with belligerent little boys who were finding the whole thing was taking too long.
Finally everyone began to make their way to the village hall, and Mrs Selby reminded the Vicar that he had promised to man the tea urn.
The Professor unfolded his great length. ‘Perhaps there is something I can do? I see that Mrs Willett is happily engaged with some ladies.’
‘Someone she knew years ago; they’re so pleased to meet again. If you really would like to help would you mind the bran-tub? Mrs Salter’s son had promised to do it, but he’s just phoned to say that he’s missed the train…’
So the Professor folded himself up again, onto a wooden stool, and helped small eager hands poke the sawdust in the tub in the hope of finding something they really wanted. This entailed a good deal of surreptitious feeling of the parcels in the tub, and their return when not wanted.
‘You’re cheating,’ said Philly, and put a hand on his shoulder when he would have stood up.
‘But in such a good cause. I had no idea I was so good at it!’
‘Ben, our milkman, will be coming to relieve you so you can have a drink and something to eat. Rose and Katie are making more sandwiches, but there’s cheese and pickles and rolls and beer.’
‘Perfect. Are you going to keep me company?’
‘Well, on and off I can. Almost everyone is busy eating and drinking for a little while, before the games start.’ She looked up at him. ‘There’s a tug-o’-war; they could use you against the farmers.’
The Professor, who would willingly have walked on hot coals to please her, assured her that there was nothing he’d like better. ‘But first that beer. There’s nothing like a bran-tub to give one a thirst.’
Nanny, sitting with a group of older ladies, took an active part in their conversation while at the same time managing to keep her eyes on the Professor and Philly. Very happy together, she could see that, but in a strictly friendly way. Yet when their eyes met they smiled together for all the world as though they were the only two people there…
I always knew that Sybil wasn’t for him, reflected Nanny, deeply satisfied.
By late afternoon people were beginning to go home, to get supper and put tired children to bed. The day had been a great success, observed the Vicar, bidding people from the Manor goodbye and then walking with the Professor to his car.
‘I’m sorry you are not able to stay for supper; it would have been a pleasant ending to the day.’ He shook hands and bade Nanny goodbye, then stood patiently while his wife and all five daughters made a more prolonged leave-taking. The Professor’s goodbye to Philly was brief, but only she saw the look in his eyes as he glanced down at her.
It was as Mrs Selby dished out second helpings of macaroni cheese later that Katie looked across the table at Philly. ‘Professor Forsyth is sweet on you, Philly. Even if he’s going to marry that awful Sybil. Aren’t you a lucky girl? I wouldn’t mind being in your shoes…’
Philly got up from the table. ‘I’ll see to the hens,’ she said. She left her half-empty plate and had gone before anyone could speak.
CHAPTER FOUR
THERE was a
moment’s silence, then everyone spoke at once. Mrs Selby hushed them. ‘Katie, we all know that you didn’t mean to upset Philly. She regards the Professor as a friend. Remember that he is to marry Sybil—she hasn’t had much opportunity to meet people—men—as you and your sisters have had, and I’m quite sure that she thinks of him as a friend and nothing more. She’s a sensible girl, long past teenage daydreams.’ Of course Mrs Selby was wrong there. ‘But you did embarrass her, making a joke of a casual acquaintance whom she will probably never see again.’
‘I’m sorry,’ burst out Katie. ‘I was only teasing her a bit. And he did stare at her a lot, and when she’s with him she sort of lights up…’
The Vicar said thoughtfully, ‘I’m afraid that we’ve taken Philly for granted. Perhaps we can arrange for her to meet more people—young people. I am ashamed to own that I have always thought that Philly was content to stay here in the village, but of course she needs young society—which she would have if she had a job and met other people.’
He looked round the table. ‘You all agree with me, I’m sure.’
There was a chorus of assent. ‘If she could just go away and stay with someone?’ suggested Rose. ‘It doesn’t have to be a job; she would hate that after village life. Don’t we know anyone she could visit?’
After several minutes’ cogitating they had to admit that there wasn’t anyone. True, there was Aunt Dora, who lived in Balham, but she was in her seventies, deaf, and unlikely to know anyone younger than sixty. Then there was Cousin Maud, recently widowed and unsociable by nature—even more so now. That left Cousin Elizabeth, quite young still, never in a job for more than a few months and boasting a host of unsuitable friends. Besides, she had only last week written to the Vicar and asked him to lend her five hundred pounds. This was an impossibility, for the heavy snow in March had damaged the roof and Noakes, the builder, had shaken his head over it and sent an estimate which precluded lending a farthing to anyone…
So it was the general regretful opinion that, for the time being at least, Philly would have to stay at home.
And then, the very next day, the unexpected happened.
Mrs Selby had a letter from a friend with whom she had kept in touch since they had been at school together. After they married—she to the Vicar, Mary to a wealthy businessman—they had remained firm friends, exchanging news several times a year.
Mrs Selby opened the letter at the breakfast table and read it slowly. When she had finished she said, ‘Listen to this—a letter from Mary Lovell.’ She waited until they were all looking at her. ‘Her daughter Susan—remember her—a bit younger than Philly?—well, Mary’s husband has to go to America on business and Mary is going with him. Susan was to have gone, too, but she has been very ill with shingles and the doctor won’t allow her to go. Mary’s mother is going to stay with Susan while they are away but she asks if we could spare one of you to go and stay with her for company until they return—in a few weeks, she says.’ She paused to re-read the page. ‘Susan isn’t ill—indeed the doctor says that it will do her good to get out and about a bit. Her grandmother’s too elderly…’
Mrs Selby looked round the table and exchanged speaking glances with the Vicar and four of her daughters. Philly had bent to give Casper, the family Labrador, a crust of toast and missed it, but as she sat up she found everyone looking at her. She said, ‘Let Lucy go. It’s half term next weekend.’
‘Not long enough—and she mustn’t miss school with all those exams in another month. Philly, dear…? Just for a few weeks…you like Susan.’
‘What about the hens and the garden?’
‘I’ll do the hens,’ said Katie quickly.
‘And I’ll keep the garden going,’ said Lucy.
‘I haven’t the right clothes…’
‘You can have my blue dress. We can make it shorter and take it in. I dare say Susan goes to the theatre and so on.’
‘I’m sure your father will give you some money, dear,’ said Mrs Selby comfortably. ‘A nice jersey two-piece—they always look right at any time of day—and a light raincoat, perhaps.’
Katie, anxious to atone for her ill-timed joke, offered the dressing gown she had had for her birthday, a vivid silky garment which dazzled the eyes. But she was almost the same size as Philly, and Philly, understanding why it was being offered, accepted it with gratitude.
She didn’t particularly want to go. She had visited Susan and her mother once or twice over the years, but although they had been kindness itself she had missed village life and the more or less peaceful day-to-day routine. Obviously there was no one else available. And she would be back before spring slipped into summer.
‘All right, I’ll go,’ said Philly. ‘You’re sure it’s only for a week or two?’
‘I’ll ring and make sure about that.’ Mrs Selby re-read the letter. ‘Mary says that they will fetch you in the car next Tuesday. Goodness, I had better phone her, and then we must go shopping.’ She looked at the Vicar. ‘If we might have the car for an hour or two Philly can drive us—Shepton Mallett or Yeovil or Sherborne…’
So Philly found herself on the following Tuesday, sitting beside Mr Lovell in his Jaguar car, listening to his rather loud voice explaining that he wasn’t sure how long he would be in the USA—‘But certainly not more than three weeks,’ he told her, laughing heartily. ‘We can’t leave Susan for longer than that time. Her grandmother won’t be much company for her.’ He added hastily, ‘Of course she will have you…’
Philly wasn’t sure whether that was meant as a compliment or not.
The Lovells had a large Victorian house in Fulham in a prosperous-looking street obviously lived in by people of substance. As Philly got out of the car she felt sure that a maid would answer the door, not a modern version in a pinny, but one wearing a uniform and a white apron.
She was right. An elderly silent woman, in a black dress and a small white apron, opened the door to them, acknowledged Mr Lovell’s greeting with a slight movement of the lips and gave Philly a quick appraising look. Philly smiled at her, which was a waste of time. London, thought Philly. Everyone’s a stranger.
Mrs Lovell welcomed her warmly, though, and Susan was glad to see her. Grandmother Lovell, sitting in a high-backed chair with her feet on a stool, offered a hand and observed in a dry old voice that she hoped that Philly would enjoy her stay. ‘I must depend upon you to keep Susan amused.’
Which remark made Philly wish that she was back at home.
It took her only a few days to discover that Susan’s grandmother wanted nothing to do with Susan’s activities—indeed they saw very little of her, since she breakfasted in bed and they were almost always out for lunch. Only in the evenings did they dine together, and then the old lady talked a great deal about herself and her youth and evinced no desire to know what they had been doing all day.
Philly might miss village life, but there was a lot to be said for London’s attractions. There were the shops; Susan, with plenty of money to spend, would spend the morning at Harrods, poring over the cosmetics counter or trying on clothes. ‘Mother and Father like me to look smart,’ she explained complacently to Philly. She cast a not unkind look at Philly’s knitted two-piece. ‘Of course you don’t need to have a lot of clothes, do you? Don’t you ever want to live here in London?’
Philly said that no, she didn’t, but added politely that she was enjoying her visit. ‘There’s so much to see—the shops and the parks and seeing the Horse Guards riding…’ She hesitated. ‘Do you ever visit any of the museums?’
‘Well, only if Mother and Father have been invited to something special at one of them. Did you want to go to one? I tell you what, there’s an exhibition of Chinese porcelain—I can’t remember where, but we can easily find out…I don’t mind going—it’s the fashionable thing to do. We might even get our photos in one of the society magazines.’
‘I’d like that,’ said Philly. She didn’t know anything about Chinese porcelain but she was willing t
o learn, although she didn’t like the idea of having her photo in the papers. It was not very likely, she told herself. Hers was the kind of face that people passed over without even seeing it.
Susan was as good as her word. She was not a clever girl, and was too lazy to do anything about it, but she was kind and she liked Philly and felt vaguely sorry for her since she lived buried in the country and had no fun. It puzzled Susan that she seemed content to dwindle into middle age without even the prospect of marrying. Susan, at twenty-three, thought of thirty as being the end of youth and beauty, and Philly was twenty-seven, although she didn’t seem to mind in the least.
It was a fine morning; it would have to be the knitted two-piece again. The saleswoman who had sold it to her had commented that it was a well-bred outfit, suitable for any occasion. Philly, looking around her once they were in the museum, hoped that she was right. At least it was so unassuming that it passed unnoticed amongst the elegant outfits surrounding her.
The porcelain was magnificent. Philly forgot about everything else and went slowly from one showcase to the next, reading all the little tickets and trying to appreciate what she read. They had been there about half an hour when Susan nudged her. ‘I’ve seen some friends of mine over there. Do you mind if I go and talk to them?’
Philly, bent double over a fragile dish in its own glass case, nodded absently, to be brought upright by a voice behind her.
‘The last person I would have expected to see here.’
Sybil West, the picture of elegance, was smiling at her as she stood up.
‘Surely this isn’t quite your scene?’ went on Sybil, and turned to smile at the woman with her. ‘My dear, imagine! This is the Vicar’s daughter—the one with the sausages.’
They both laughed, but Philly, red in the face, nonetheless said politely, ‘Hello, Miss West. I’m surprised at meeting you here, too. But life’s full of surprises, isn’t it?’
‘Pleasant ones, too.’
Philly turned round smartly. The Professor was standing there. There was nothing in his face to tell her whether he had heard their brief exchange. He smiled down at her and then he nodded at Sybil. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t get here earlier—and I can’t stay. I’m afraid I’ll have to break our date for this evening.’