A Little Moonlight

by Betty Neels

  ‘Now that,’ said the doctor smoothly, ‘sounds very promising. Do you like to dance the night away or shall we take a drive in the country? After a meal, of course.’

  ‘That isn’t what I meant and you know it. I—I think I won’t come out with you, thank you all the same.’ She made to turn round and make for the door, but his large hand on her arm stopped her.

  ‘You’re tired,’ he said in a quite different voice. ‘Come and have supper, and afterwards you shall vent your rage on me.’

  She looked up at him and saw that he was smiling gently, and without being able to help it she smiled back.

  ‘That’s better.’ He bent and kissed her cheek. ‘How fierce you looked—I felt quite intimidated!’

  She laughed then, and he tucked her hand in his arm and walked across to the car and stowed her into it, got in himself and drove away. She was too occupied thinking about the kiss to notice where they were going, but presently she saw that they were driving west through the city and presently through a number of side streets, quiet now after the day’s bustle, until they reached Wigmore Street and then Wimpole Street and finally turned into a tree-lined street bordered by narrow houses. The doctor had kept up a placid conversation about nothing much as he drove, not allowing her the chance to ask questions, but when he stopped halfway down the street she asked, ‘Why have we come here?’

  ‘I live here.’ He leaned over and undid her seatbelt and the door, then got out himself, bustled her across the narrow pavement and put a key in an elegant door. The hall was long and narrow, but unlike Primrose Bank it was carpeted and softly lighted and the staircase curved gracefully up one wall. As the doctor closed the door a short stout man with a fringe of grey hair came through a door at the back of the hall.

  ‘Good evening, Bishop,’ said the doctor. ‘This is Miss Proudfoot, come to share my supper. Serena, Bishop and his wife look after me.’

  He was taking off his car coat as he spoke and turned to help her out of hers. ‘There’s a cloakroom by the stairs if you want to tidy yourself. Bishop will show you. I’ll pour us a drink.’

  He spoke in matter-of-fact tones which made everything seem just as it should be. Serena followed Bishop and was bowed into a cloakroom which held everything required for the improvement of her appearance. As she inspected the result in the looking-glass she wondered how many other girls had prinked before it. ‘And a good deal prettier than I am,’ she told herself, ‘and I can’t think why he’s doing this, unless he wants me to do an extra load of work...’

  Whatever her host’s motives were he didn’t allow them to show. He ushered her into a charming sitting-room, furnished with a pleasing mixture of comfortable chairs and sofas and a scattering of what she guessed to be genuine Regency tables and cabinets, the whole nicely welded together by the soft lighting and plum-coloured velvet curtains which echoed the faded colours of the silky carpet under her feet.

  The doctor pulled forward a chair and she stared round her, and then sat down near the brisk fire and accepted the drink he offered her, while he settled himself opposite to her.

  It was then that she became aware of the dog sitting beside his chair. It peered at her through shaggy hair; it was of no great size and as far as she could judge of no known breed.

  ‘Harley,’ observed the doctor. ‘He’s shy of strangers. Do you like dogs?’

  ‘Oh, yes! I had one—’ she paused ‘—a long time ago.’

  ‘Say hello, Harley,’ said the doctor, and the dog came from beside his chair and walked sedately to her. She rubbed his ears and mumbled at him, and he stared at her with melting eyes.

  ‘He’s nice.’ She looked him over. ‘Where did you get him?’

  ‘In the gutter in Harley Street. He was a puppy then, of course. I’ve had him for a couple of years.’

  Harley went back to sit by his master, and a few minutes later Bishop came to tell them that dinner was served.

  The dining-room was behind the sitting-room, a smallish room but still capable of seating eight people with ease round the oval table. The marquetry on the chairs and side table was quite beautiful, and the table was set with damask, silver and shining crystal. The meal, too, was as far removed from the saucepan of baked beans as it was possible to be: lettuce soup, chicken à la king with luscious roasted potatoes and braised chicory, and an apple pie and cream by way of pudding. Serena drank the wine the doctor poured for her; it was pale and dry and delicious, and she joined in his casual talk, for the moment happy. She hadn’t known what to expect, but the evening was a delightful surprise.

  They had their coffee in the sitting-room, and it wasn’t until she had poured it that he said quietly, ‘Now you shall tell me everything, Serena.’

  However, when she just sat there, saying nothing, he went on, ‘Your mother has married again, has she not?’ and when she nodded, ‘Suppose you start at the beginning and leave nothing out?’

  She found herself telling him, slowly at first and doing her best to leave out the worst bits, but when she did that he took her back over it again until she had told him the whole. When she had finished he said nothing.

  The silence lasted too long. Serena said quietly, ‘I think I’d better go back, if you don’t mind.’

  He took no notice of this. ‘Is there anything I can do to make things easier for you?’ When she shook her head he asked, ‘What about Christmas? Are you to go to Ludlow?’

  She had been very honest with him—too honest, she reflected ruefully. Now she said in her quiet way, ‘Oh, yes, that’s all arranged. I have a few days’ leave owing to me, so I shall be able to stay there for a while over the holidays.’

  ‘How will you travel there? It is quite a long way.’

  It was quite true; telling one lie only made it necessary to tell another and then another. ‘Mr Harding will fetch me.’

  He nodded. ‘Good, and the leave will be convenient, for I shall be in Friesland.’ He frowned. ‘You are comfortable where you are? You can afford the rent?’

  ‘Oh, yes, thank you. It’s kind of you to ask.’

  He became all at once remote. ‘You must not forget that you are my secretary, Serena, and I am to a certain extent responsible for you.’

  She took a gusty breath. ‘That’s nonsense!’ She spoke heatedly. ‘I must remind you once more that I am twenty-five and quite capable of looking after myself.’ She let the breath out. ‘I’m not one of your—your household.’

  He said blandly, ‘No, you have no need to remind me of that, Serena. I must apologise for interfering in your life. Have no fear—I’ll not do so again. Now how about some fresh coffee?’

  She got to her feet and he with her. ‘I think I’d better go back. It’s been very kind of you to give me supper—I enjoyed it.’

  ‘A pleasure, Serena.’ He had touched the bell by the fireplace and Bishop came in, and presently they were in the hall ready to leave. Serena bade Bishop goodbye, got into the car and was driven back to Park Street. The doctor talked about this and that as they went and she took care to answer him, and at the door of Primrose Bank she held out her hand.

  ‘Thank you again—it was lovely. I’m sorry if I was rude.’

  She couldn’t see his face clearly for the street lighting was poor. He said, aloof once more, ‘I didn’t notice anything, and it is I who should thank you for a pleasant evening.’ He took the key from her and opened the door and walked with her down the hall, waiting while she got her key, which he took from her and opened her own door. He switched on the light too, and when she had stepped past him, bade her a quiet goodnight.

  Serena sat for a long time, heedless of the chill, thinking about the evening and Marc. She wasn’t sure if she would be able to go on working for him, seeing him day after day, aware that over and above his concern for her he had no interest in her at all. He had been careful to p
oint out to her only an hour or so ago that because she worked for him, he was responsible for her. On the other hand, never to see him again was something she couldn’t even contemplate. ‘And I told him all those fibs about Christmas,’ she muttered, getting into bed at last. ‘Not that he’s likely to find that out—he’ll be in Holland.’ She had an unsettled night, waking every now and then to worry about Christmas.

  Unnecessarily, as it turned out. There was a letter the next morning from Aunt Edith, sent on from East Sheen. The writer had met an old friend when she had been shopping in Devizes two days previously. The old friend lived in Ludlow and had mentioned in passing that an acquaintance of her husband’s, a Mr Arthur Harding, was marrying again—a Mrs Proudfoot. Aunt Edith had failed to gain any further information about this and would like to know exactly the circumstances. ‘It is unlikely,’ she wrote in her large clear hand, ‘that there are many Proudfoots around, and I was told that she was a widow. Be good enough, Serena, to write to me without delay. Your uncle and I are concerned as to your circumstances in the light of these recent events.’ She was hers affectionately.

  There was a PS too. They would be delighted to welcome her for Christmas if by any chance she happened to be free.

  That evening, Serena sat down and answered the letter. It was a difficult letter to write, for Aunt Edith had never liked her mother. Serena, faithfully setting down the happenings of the last month or so, skimmed over the parts of which her aunt wouldn’t approve, ending with an acceptance of her Christmas invitation.

  * * *

  A GOOD START to the week, thought Serena, walking briskly to work the following Monday. There was a pile of work waiting on her desk and Mrs Dunn, her face as long as a fiddle, warned her that she might have to work late. ‘I know Dr ter Feulen is in theatre, but there’s some special case been added at the last minute—you won’t get the notes before the late afternoon.’

  She looked at Serena’s rather pale face. ‘You look under the weather. Not much chance to gallivant around if you’re working for him, you know!’

  It didn’t matter for whom she worked, reflected Serena. She had, so far, had little chance to gallivant.

  ‘I dare say he’ll slow down once he’s married,’ went on Mrs Dunn, a remark which left Serena without breath.

  Presently she managed, ‘Oh, is he getting married?’

  ‘He told his registrar so; said he might want to cut down on his work-load. I wonder who she is?’ Mrs Dunn didn’t expect an answer, for she went on, ‘There’s that pretty fair girl I saw him with once. Well, whoever she is, she’ll do very well for herself; she’ll be a baroness or whatever they call it in Holland, and she’ll have everything she could possibly want. He’s got a house too, somewhere near Wigmore Street—he’s got consulting-rooms there, of course. I dare say he’s got a home in Holland too.’ Mrs Dunn paused. ‘Oh, well, I don’t suppose you’re in the least interested. Why should you be? Settled in, have you?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Dunn. I’m very comfortable.’

  Mrs Dunn went away, and Serena inserted the first of the sheets of paper into her typewriter. She made no attempt to start work, though. She sat quite still, her hands quiet in her lap, getting used to the idea that Marc was going to marry.

  It was several days before she saw him again. He phoned several times with instructions and additions to his notes, but other than that he had nothing to say. Which, she told herself, was a very good thing.

  On Tuesday she had a letter from her mother, full of the delights of her new home, the satisfaction of having someone to do the housework and cook, the delightful shops in Ludlow, and since the weather was so cold and wet they were leaving for Madeira several weeks earlier than they had first planned, which meant that Serena wouldn’t be able to visit them until the New Year. Beyond a cursory remark about the splendid time Serena must be having, she had little else to say.

  The letter from Aunt Edith was much more satisfactory. They were looking forward to seeing her at Christmas and she was to stay as long as she could. She didn’t mention her mother at all, but reiterated that she would be as welcome as their own daughter, ‘For,’ wrote Aunt Edith, abandoning her stiffly correct writing, ‘I loved your father very dearly.’

  It was nice to be wanted. Serena slept soundly for the first time in weeks.

  It was the following day that she acquired a cat. She had got home cold and wet, walking through a sleet which penetrated everything and stung her face. It had been a beastly day too; she had had to refer back to the doctor about several of his notes, and at the end of the afternoon, just as she was finishing for the day, he had sent up half a dozen letters he wanted typed at once.

  Her room, despite the cheerful lampshades she had bought, looked miserably bare. She lighted the gas fire, took off her wet things and switched on the TV, then went to put on the kettle. The TV was making a strange thumping noise and she went to see what was wrong. However, it wasn’t the TV—the thumps were coming from the garden—something was trying to get in. She turned the sound down and listened, her heart thumping too. Perhaps someone had left the garden gate unlocked... The noise came again and in the silence which followed a faint miaow.

  Serena opened the door and then a small, very wet cat crawled in. It was so wet that it could be any colour, its fur plastered to a bony little body. She fetched a towel and picked up the small creature and dried it gently, warmed some milk and watched it lapping feebly.

  ‘Well, I wanted a cat,’ she told it, ‘and now I’ve got it. Only I have to get you well fed and content again, don’t I?’

  She made a nest of a woolly scarf and laid the little beast before the fire, where presently it went to sleep, and when she had had her own supper she fed it again before it dropped off once more. When she went to bed she picked it up, scarf and all, and laid it carefully on the divan. It purred a little then and she stroked it very gently. ‘You’ll have to be alone all day,’ she told it. ‘But I’ll leave food for you and we’ll get organised tomorrow, and soon it will be Saturday, so I’ll be here all day.’

  She got up earlier than usual to see to the little cat, who, though still looking bedraggled, showed signs of taking an interest in its surroundings. It had a large breakfast, then got back on to the divan and curled up once more. Serena hoped it would stay like that until she got home.

  The weather had worsened and by the afternoon it was snowing; a wet snow which turned to slush as soon as it had fallen. By the time she was ready to leave it was dark as well, and she debated whether to queue for a bus or walk. She would walk, she decided, poking her nose out of the entrance and getting it covered in snowflakes.

  She pushed the door open wider and then had it taken from her grasp. ‘I’m going your way, I’ll give you a lift,’ said the doctor, and swept her along with him across the forecourt and into his car.

  When he stopped outside Primrose Bank she thanked him politely and made to get out, but his ‘Stay where you are’ stopped her. He got out and walked round the car to open her door and then go with her to the front door.

  ‘There’s really no need,’ said Serena, and had the key taken from her hand.

  Short of making a fuss and commotion in the hall there was no way of stopping him from going with her down the hall and through the door, to take the second key from her and open her room door. He stood aside for her to go in, and then followed her.

  The cat was curled up in a rather dirty furry ball on the divan. It opened one eye as they went in, then closed it again.

  The doctor shut the door behind him. ‘You have a companion.’ He went to look at the little beast and touched it with a gentle hand. ‘Starved,’ he commented. ‘How did you come by it?’

  ‘It tapped on the door yesterday evening. I hope it will be all right, it was very wet. I’m glad to have it.’ She frowned. ‘I can’t go on calling it “it”...’
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  The doctor picked it up gently. ‘A little lady cat,’ he told her, ‘and I think a very pretty one once she’s fit again. While you find her some food, I’ll put the kettle on. We can decide on a name while we have our tea.’

  With the kitten tucked under one arm he saw to the kettle, put cups and saucers on a tray, found the milk and sugar and took biscuits from the cupboard. Serena, preparing bread and milk, thought of any number of things of a withering nature to say concerning people who invited themselves to tea, but somehow she didn’t say them. The doctor had contrived to look like a man who needed his tea after a hard day’s work, and she hadn’t the heart to refuse him. Besides, having him there, making tea as though he did it every day of his life, which she very much doubted, made a bright patch of happiness in her sober life.

  They drank their tea, decided to call the kitten Beauty and watched it climb laboriously on to the divan and fall instantly asleep. The doctor looked at his watch. ‘I’ve an evening engagement.’ He got to his feet and asked carelessly, ‘All arranged for Christmas?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She saw him to the door and stood by it watching him until he had disappeared through the door to the hall. He would be spending the evening with the girl he intended to marry. She washed up, tidied her kitchenette and sat down by the fire. There was a lot of evening left, and she had got clever at filling it after the first few evenings, when she had had her supper as soon as she came in and then had to fill in hours before bed. Presently she began a letter to Mevrouw Blom, who hadn’t as yet been told about her mother’s marriage.

  * * *

  IT WAS STILL snowing in the morning. She attended to Beauty’s needs, had her breakfast and, wrapped in her elderly coat and wearing her wellingtons, she left earlier than usual, intent on walking, as the buses would be packed. Her way took her through back streets and for part of the way alongside a small disused canal. The snow was blinding and she had her head tucked down to shield her face so that she saw very little, but as she reached the canal she heard a shout and stopped to look around her. There was no one in sight. It must have been someone in the houses on the other side of the street. Without delay she walked on, but at the second shout she stopped again, peering through the curtain of snow.