The Doctor's Daughters

by Anne Weale

  Carola giggled. “I say, don’t you remember, she forecast that a new influence would be felt in my affairs. That must be Dashing Dan. I wonder if he’s going to be a good one?”

  “You’d better get her to read your breakfast cup tomorrow for the latest bulletin,” Rachel said, yawning. “G’night.”

  Carola snapped off the light and bounced into the other twin bed. “ ’Night. Sleep tight.”

  But, long after the younger girl’s breathing had settled into the quiet rhythm of sleep, Rachel lay wide-eyed in the dimness, her fingers interlaced beneath her head, her mind lingering restlessly on the day’s events and questing into the uncertain future.

  In her white-painted, rose-papered attic on the floor above, Suzy was also awake. She was kneeling on the little cushioned window seat, enjoying the soft spring night and dreaming of the day she would be free of childhood and school and all the pettifogging restraints of life at home. To be seventeen—that was her goal. Then, at last, she would begin to Live!

  Presently, becoming slightly chilled, she crept carefully across the creaky floorboards and scrambled into bed. Then, after some rather perfunctory prayers, she kissed the eyeless old bear who had shared her bed since she was one year old, propped him on the top of her locker, and buried herself beneath the clothes.

  Ever since she had outgrown her parents’ bedtime tales, Suzy had put herself to sleep by making up another instalment of an endless adventure story in which she was the central character. Two years ago, this secret and highly-colored saga had been of a mainly heroic nature. Suzy swimming the Channel ... Suzy diving for Britain in the Olympics ... Suzy saving a child from drowning in the currents below the weir.

  Recently, however, these feats of courage and endurance had given place to more sophisticated situations. Suzy (not plump and clumsy, but slender and graceful) being spotted by a famous film director who happened to be passing through Branford. “Who is that enchanting young girl with the extraordinary violet eyes? I must have her for my next film.”

  Or Suzy (no longer the rescuer, but the rescued) lying pale and ice-cold by the river while a distraught young man—bearing a strong resemblance to her current screen hero—anxiously chafed her exquisite little hands.

  But tonight her inventive imagination had found a new theme to embroider. The scene was her home, some hours earlier.

  Uninterested in Rachel and immune to Carola’s charms (kittenish prettiness did not appeal to him) Daniel Elliot was staring sombrely across the Burneys’ dining table at the shyly lovely youngest daughter, who nobody had bothered to introduce to him. Lord’ She was the most ravishing little creature he had ever seen.

  But, before she could pursue this promising Cinderella fantasy much further, Suzy was fast asleep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IN the month that followed, the problem of Edward and his proposal remained unresolved. He continued to come to the Burneys’ house as frequently as before, but he did not attempt to reopen the subject of marriage, and Rachel wondered if their spat had given him second thoughts, or if he expected her to indicate that she was now in a more receptive frame of mind.

  The arrival of Daniel Elliot continued to be the principal topic in the village. Everywhere she went— whether to the post office, or the general store, or the wool shop—Rachel found eager discussions of the ‘goings on’ up at the Hall.

  “He’s not short of money, by the looks of things,” Miss Crockett, the postmistress, said to her one morning. “Mr. Pickett says there are lorries from Branford coming and going half the day. I wonder what he’s up to? Having the place modernized, I suppose. I’ve heard Canadians are great ones for washing machines and the like. Seems funny to have a foreigner at the Hall—though I will say he’s a very nice-spoken gentleman. He came in here yesterday morning. He’s still staying at the Saracen, you know. ‘Good morning, Miss Crockett,’ he said to me. ‘Not quite so hot this morning.’ ‘No, sir, that it isn’t,’ I said. ‘I think there’s some rain coming up.’ ‘Yes, the forecast said showers,’ he said ...”

  She rambled on, recounting every word of the conversation, until Rachel was finally able to make her escape, wondering if Daniel realized that the whole village knew that he had bought two books of stamps, a ball of string and forty cigarettes.

  Each day some fresh information about his activities was relayed from cottage to cottage, and events of national importance took second place to the news that Tom Barnes had seen two bathroom suites (one black, one pale yellow) being delivered by lorry, or that little Alfie Borrett had passed the Hall gates just as a van from the Branford Refrigeration Company was turning up the drive. Hardly had a painter started to burn the rust off the big wrought iron gates than this fresh snippet was being bandied across allotments and over washing lines. And the Women’s Institute spent the whole of one meeting discussing an advertisement which one of the members had spotted in the Daily Telegraph and cut out with all speed to show her fellows.

  “Now let me see if I can remember the exact words,” Aunt Flo said, arriving home in a flurry of excitement after this latest revelation. “Wanted: middle-aged couple, accustomed private service, to run bachelor’s country house. Wife to cook and supervise cleaning by outside help. Husband to tend garden. All modern conveniences and good bus service to nearby town. Apply, with references, to D. J. Elliot etc. etc.”

  “He’ll be lucky to find them,” Rachel said, mending a rip in one of Suzy’s gym blouses. “Couples like that are practically extinct.”

  “I expect he’s offering very good wages, dear, Miss Burney said. “I wonder what the initial ‘J’ stands for? Oh, isn’t it exciting? I do wish we could see what he’s doing to the house. What a pity it’s screened from the road.”

  “Why not ask Alfie Borrett? He used to go birds’-nesting there and I expect he still does,” Rachel suggested, keeping a straight face.

  “I couldn’t do that, dear. It would look so inquisitive,” her aunt said regretfully, surprised when her niece burst out laughing and refused to share the joke.

  If she was honest with herself, Rachel had to admit that she was as curious as everyone else. But her interest was tinged with regret as she knew that, if she ever did see the Hall in its new state, it would only spoil her memories of the place as it had been—the tall grass stirring in the breeze, the terrace thick with moss and golden lichen, the shuttered house guarding the secrets of its past, its old grey walls cloaked in wisteria and rustling ivy.

  In so small a community, it was impossible to avoid anyone for more than a few days, and as the weeks passed, she often saw Daniel from a distance and was sometimes obliged to stop and speak to him. On the first day of June, she came out of the general store just as he was pulling up in his sleek cream coupe.

  “I understand you generally go into Branford on Wednesdays,” he said, after they had said good morning and agreed that the threat of cooler weather seemed to have passed. “I have to go in myself this afternoon. May I give you a lift?”

  “Thank you, but I’m going on Friday this week,” Rachel said pleasantly, astonished at the ease with which the lie had slipped off her tongue.

  “I see. Perhaps another time,” he said casually. Then, looking down at her left hand which was holding a large wicker basket filled with groceries: “I’ve been keeping a keen eye on the Engagement column in the News, but I gather poor Harvey is still in suspense. Or have I missed the announcement?”

  Conscious that interested eyes were watching their encounter through the store windows, Rachel managed a smile.

  “I’m sure you never miss anything, Mr. Elliot,” she said sweetly. “Goodbye.”

  Crossing the green, she wondered why she had lied about going into town on Friday. There would have been no harm in accepting his offer, although it would probably have meant putting up with some of his disconcertingly frank questions. Now she would have to wait for two days to make some necessary purchases, and her aunt, deprived of the sewing silks she wanted, would not b
e able to finish the chairback on which she was working.

  Stepping on to the plank bridge which spanned the goose beck, Rachel wondered if Daniel had recognized the lie in, spite of its patness, and had taunted her about Edward by way of revenge. Then, reaching the house, she dismissed him from her thoughts and set about baking some pies.

  It was the custom of the Branford Evening News reporters to come over to Whiteways’ restaurant for their morning coffee break. Any time between halfpast ten and noon; there would be at least a couple of them sitting at the last table by the windows, either talking ‘shop’ or chaffing with Nellie, their waitress. Some of them lunched in the restaurant, and they also came over for tea.“

  In fact you seem to spend most of your time here,” Carola had said to Peter Brooke, after she had started her new job as house mannequin.

  “Well, we do a lot of night jobs, so we’re allowed a certain amount of leeway during the day,” he had reminded her. “And we often work on Sundays and Bank Holidays, you know. How would you like to stagger out of bed in the middle of the night because a factory is on fire, or spend Whit Monday checking traffic conditions and accidents?”

  Carola grimaced. “I pity your wives. It must be almost as bad as being married to a family doctor.”

  “Then you’d better steer clear of us, hadn’t you?” he had retorted teasingly.

  Carola had flushed and gone quickly on her way among the tables. What a nerve! Did he think she was in danger of falling for him? Honestly ... some men!

  Yet, in spite of her declared intention to discourage him, she had had two more dates with him—if they could be called dates. The first of these outings had been when he had asked her to go the local repertory theatre with him. It wasn’t until after the play that he had explained that he was standing in for the reporter who usually did the paper’s dramatic criticisms. (So that’s why we sat in the best seats, Carola had thought acidly at the time.) Then, because the editor had a bee in his bonnet about night copy being ready for ‘subbing’ first thing in the morning, they had had to traipse back to the office, where Carola had nothing to do but look through the dog-eared files while Peter typed. By the time he had finished, all the nearby coffee bars had closed down and there was barely time for a quick drink in some dreary little pub round the corner.

  The second fiasco had been on an early closing day when she had ill-advisedly agreed to go to the Hospital fete with him. Once again, it had been a working outing, and Peter had spent most of the time chatting to the organizers and checking the vital statistics of prize-winning babies and cats. True, he had made up for the afternoon’s boredom by taking her on to a very gay party given by one of his colleagues. But even at the party he had not devoted all his attention to her. There had been one stage when she had danced several times with one of the other men and, instead of cutting in or looking cross, he had settled in a corner and had a long absorbed chat with somebody’s pregnant wife. It was not at all the treatment to which Carola was accustomed.

  On Monday morning, when the restaurant was more or less deserted except for the Press table, Carola made her entrance in a brown broderie anglaise beach suit. She wore an enormous straw sombrero and carried a matching bathing-bag in one hand, and a printed price card on the other. Later on, she was going to model a breath-taking chiffon ball gown, and she was looking forward to its effect on Peter Brooke.

  She was not consciously aware of it, but there was something in Peter’s attitude that piqued and challenged her. It wasn’t enough for him to ask her to go out with him, to treat her as if she were any ordinary attractive girl whose company he enjoyed—but could as easily do without. She wanted to make a stronger impression on him.

  Three of the other reporters were already at their table when she sauntered past. They pursed their lips in soundless whistles at the brief frilled rompers below the beach jacket, then gave her friendly grins.

  “Hello, Carola. Been to St. Tropez for the weekend?”

  “Hi, Carola. We thought it was Brigitte Bardot coming in.”

  “Good lord! Eight guineas for that bit of nonsense. I hope Betty doesn’t see it.” This from one of the married senior men.

  Carola laughed, pivoted on one bare sandalled foot, and strolled off to display the suit to some housewives. They, too, clicked their tongues at the price tag and thought that brown was a very odd color for the beach.

  She had three more outfits to show before the glamorous chiffon, and when she made her round in the last of these, there was still no sign of Peter.. Perhaps he had to go to the Magistrates’ Court, she thought vexedly, as she went downstairs to her changing room.

  The chiffon dress was exactly what she would have chosen for herself—if she could have afforded twenty-three guineas. The backless bodice—and very nearly frontless, too, her father would say—was held by a beaded halter, and the billowing skirt was made up of softly-shading panels in tones from pale honey to amber. The dress was the perfect complement to her own red-gold coloring, and when she had smoothed on her long pale kid gloves and added a topaz-and-gold bracelet from the jewellery counter, Carola knew that she looked her very best.

  Sweeping up the stairs to the restaurant again—the hem of the dress protected by a band of cellophane, and this time she did not carry a price card but only a small gold lame purse—Carola willed Peter to be there now. And, as she paused a moment in the restaurant doorway, she saw that he was.

  But when, after making a deliberately slow circuit of the entrance area of the restaurant, she finally drifted towards the windows, she had an unwelcome surprise. Peter was not the only late-comer to the end table. Sitting next him, and laughing at something he had said, was an unknown girl.

  Carola supposed that she must belong to one of the others. A girl-friend or fiancée, perhaps. She was too young to be a wife. It was she who first saw Carola coming, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the beautiful ball gown.

  “Gosh, what a super dress!” Carola heard her say excitedly, as she approached the table.

  At first, Carola didn’t look at Peter. Guarding her full skirts from brushing against the tablecloths, she made a graceful half-turn to show off the back view, paused a moment, then swirled right round to smile at the table as a whole. When she did let her glance fall on Peter, he had one eyebrow quirked, as if he were more amused than impressed.

  “Hello, Carola,” he said casually. “Nice dress. Oh, this is Polly Avon, who’s just started working with us. She’s something of a pioneer—the Evening News’s first girl reporter. Polly, this is Carola Burney—our Branford version of a professional fashion-plate.”

  Carola could have killed him. He made her sound as if she were a complete amateur, a kind of joke.

  Polly Avon smiled at her. “How do you do, Miss Burney.”

  She looked about eighteen years old, fresh out of school and not particularly pretty. But she had two compensating assets. Her hair, brushed back into a bobbing teenage pony-tail, was like ash-blonde candy floss. And she had a spectacular nut-brown tan.

  Carola, who, like most redheads, could never sunbathe without burning and bringing on freckles suddenly felt unhealthily pallid and too theatrically made up. For the first time in her life, she experienced an unpleasant sense of being at a disadvantage against another girl.

  “I adore that dress. Is it frightfully expensive?” Polly asked covetously.

  “It’s from our Model Room,” Carola managed to keep a smile on her lips, but she knew that her voice sounded curt and rather haughty.

  “I was afraid it would be,” the other girl said, with a sigh. “Still, I’m not the chiffon type, unfortunately, so it wouldn't suit me if I could buy it. Maybe we can get together some time, Miss Burney. I’m hoping to start a women’s page, and perhaps you could give me some fashion tips.”

  Carola felt her smile ebbing by the second. “I’d be delighted,” she answered briskly, and sailed off to make her exit.

  Just let Peter try to persuade her to go out with
him again!

  Later in the day, the dress buyer called her into her office.

  “I was upstairs when you were modelling this morning, Miss Burney,” she said coldly. “There is no objection to your stopping to speak to customers who are genuinely interested in the garments on show. But I noticed you talking to those young men from the Press office, and I doubt if they are likely to buy anything from our Model Room. I hope you won’t think that your new position allows you the freedom to chat to your personal acquaintances in the restaurant. It certainly does not. Please remember that in future.”

  Carola flushed. “Yes, Miss Crawford.”

  The buyer pursed her lips. “That sort of behavior creates a very bad impression. I don’t want to have to recall you to the department,” she said severely.

  Actually, she would have been delighted to do so. She had never liked Carola, and would seize on any excuse to take her down a peg.

  Friday proved to be the hottest day of the year, and by the time she had finished her shopping, Rachel was tired and footsore and weighed down by parcels. She had to go to the public library before she could catch the bus home and it was six o’clock when she reached the bus station. Carola’s motor scooter had developed a fault the previous day and was now in the hands of the village mechanic, so Rachel expected to find her sister in the queue, and was puzzled when the bus left without her.

  On the main road out of the town, the bus stopped at some traffic lights and, glancing out of the window, Rachel was presented with the reason for her sister’s absence. Drawn up alongside, the occupants slightly ahead of her seat, was Daniel’s car. Beside him, her chestnut head flaming in the sunlight, was Carola.

  Rachel was on the point of tapping on the glass and waving to them, when it occurred to her that they might signal for her to hurry off the bus and join them. The prospect of struggling along the crowded aisle with her load of parcels and being told off by the conductor—the lights were sure to change before she reached the platform—was not encouraging, so she sat still and hoped neither of them would notice her.