by Betty Neels
They would miss the old house, with its large rooms and elegant shabbiness, and they would miss Tombs and Mrs Pratt and Jennie, too, but Claudia supposed that she would have a job somewhere or other and make a life for herself. Somewhere she could get home easily from time to time. Her mother would miss her friends. Especially she would miss Dr Willis, always there to cope with any small crisis.
The days went unhurriedly by. Claudia finished turning out the library and turned her attention to the rather battered greenhouse at the bottom of the large garden. The mornings were frosty, and old Stokes, who came up from the village to see to the garden, tidied the beds and dug the ground in the kitchen garden, leaving her free to look after the contents of the glasshouse.
It contained a medley of pots and containers, filled with seedlings and cuttings, and she spent happy hours grubbing around, hopefully sowing seed trays and nursing along the hyacinths and tulips she intended for Christmas.
And every day she spent an hour or so with her great-uncle, reading him dry-as-dust articles from the Times or listening to him reminiscing about his military career. He still refused to speak of his illness. It seemed to her anxious eyes that he was weaker, short of breath, easily tired and with an alarming lack of appetite.
Dr Willis came to see him frequently, and it was at the end of a week in which he could detect no improvement in his patient that he told Mrs Ramsay that he had asked Mr Tait-Bullen to come again.
He came on a dreary November morning, misty and damp and cold, and Claudia, busy with her seedlings, an old sack wrapped around her topped by a jacket colourless with age, knew nothing of his arrival. True, she had been told that he was to come again, but no day had been fixed; he was an exceedingly busy man, she’d been told, and his out of town visits had to be fitted in whenever possible.
He had spent some time with the Colonel, and even longer with Dr Willis, before talking to Mrs Ramsay, and when that lady observed that she would send Tombs to fetch Claudia to join them, volunteered to fetch her himself.
Studying the sack and the old jacket as he entered the greenhouse, he wondered if he was ever to have the pleasure of seeing Claudia looking like the other young women of his acquaintance—fashionably clad, hair immaculate, expertly made-up—and decided that she looked very nice as she was. The thought made him smile.
She had looked round as he opened the door and her smile was welcoming.
‘Hello—does Mother know you’re here?’ And then, ‘Great-Uncle isn’t worse?’
‘I’ve seen the Colonel and talked to your mother and Dr Willis. I’ve been here for some time. Your mother would like you to join us at the house.’
She put down the tray of seedlings slowly. ‘Great-Uncle William won’t let you operate—I tried to talk him into it but he wouldn’t listen...’
He said gently, ‘I’m afraid so. And the delay has made an operation questionable.’
‘You mean it’s too late? But it’s only a little more than a week since you saw him.’
‘If I could have operated immediately he would have had a fair chance of recovering and leading a normal, quiet life.’
‘And now he has no chance at all?’
He said gravely, ‘We shall continue to do all that we can.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I know that you will. I’ll come. Is Mother upset? Does she know?’
‘Yes.’ He watched while she took off the deplorable jacket and untied the sack and went to wash her hands at the stone sink.
The water was icy and her hands were grimy. She saw his look. ‘You can’t handle seedlings in gloves,’ she told him. ‘They are too small and delicate.’
‘You prefer them to dusting books?’ he asked as they started for the house.
‘Yes, though books are something I couldn’t possibly manage without. I’d rather buy a book than a hat.’
He reflected that it would be a pity to hide that glorious hair under a hat, however becoming, but he didn’t say so.
Her mother and Dr Willis were in the morning room again, and Mrs Ramsay said in a relieved voice, ‘Oh, there you are, dear. I expect Mr Tait-Bullen has explained...’
‘Yes, Mother. Do you want me to go and sit with Great-Uncle?’
‘He told us all to go away, so I expect you’d better wait a while. Mr Tait-Bullen is going to see him again presently, but he doesn’t want anyone else there.’ She turned as Tombs came in with the coffee tray. ‘But you’ll have coffee first, won’t you?’
They drank their coffee while the two men sustained the kind of small talk which needed very little reply, and presently Mr Tait-Bullen went back upstairs.
He was gone for some time and Claudia, getting impatient, got up and prowled round the room. ‘I don’t suppose he’ll come again,’ she said at length.
‘There is no need for him to do so, but the Colonel has taken quite a fancy to him. Mr Tait-Bullen calls a spade a spade when necessary, but in the nicest possible way. What is more, his patients aren’t just patients. They are men and women with feelings and wishes which he respects. Your great-uncle knows that.’
* * *
MR TAIT-BULLEN, DRIVING along the narrow roads which would take him from the village of Little Planting to the M3 and thence to London, allowed his thoughts to wander. He and the Colonel had talked about many things, none of which had anything to do with his condition. The Colonel had made it clear that he intended to die in his own bed, and, while conceding that Mr Tait-Bullen was undoubtedly a splendid surgeon and cardiologist, he wished to have no truck with surgery, which he considered, at his time of life, to be quite worthless.
Mr Tait-Bullen had made no effort to change his mind for him. True, he could have prolonged his patient’s life and allowed him to live for a period at least in moderate health, but he considered that if he had overridden the Colonel’s wishes, the old man would have died of frustration at having his wishes ignored. They had parted good friends, and on the mutual understanding that if and when Mr Tait-Bullen had a few hours of leisure he would pay another visit as a friend.
Something he intended to do, for he wanted to see Claudia again.
He went straight to the hospital when he reached London; he had an afternoon clinic which lasted longer than usual. He had no lunch, merely swallowed a cup of tea between patients. It was with a sigh of relief that he stopped the car outside his front door in a small tree-lined street tucked away behind Harley Street, where he had his consulting rooms.
It was a narrow Regency house in a row of similar houses, three storeys high with bow windows and a beautiful front door with a handsome pediment, reached by three steps bordered by delicate iron railings. He let himself in quietly and was met in the hall by a middle-aged man with a craggy face and a fringe of hair. He looked like a dignified church warden, and ran Mr Tait-Bullen’s house to perfection. He greeted him now with a touch of severity.
‘There’s that Miss Thompson on the phone, reminding you that she expects to see you this evening. I told her that you were still at the hospital and there was no knowing when you’d be home.’ Cork lowered his eyes deferentially. ‘I trust I did right, sir.’
Mr Tait-Bullen was looking through the post on the hall table. ‘You did exactly right, Cork. I don’t know what I would do without you.’ He glanced up. ‘Did I say I would take her somewhere this evening? It has quite slipped my mind.’
Cork drew a deep breath through pinched nostrils. In anyone less dignified it would have been a sniff. ‘You were invited to attend the new play. The opening night, I believe.’
‘Did I say I’d go? I can’t remember writing it down in my diary.’
‘You prevaricated, sir. Said if you were free you’d be glad to accept.’
Mr Tait-Bullen picked up his case and opened his study door. ‘I’m not free, Cork, and I’m famished!’
‘Dinner
will be served in fifteen minutes, sir. The young lady’s phone number is on your desk.’
Mr Tait-Bullen sat down at his desk and picked up the receiver. Honor Thompson’s rather shrill voice, sounding peevish, answered.
‘And about time, too. Why are you never at home? It’s so late. I’ll go on to the theatre and meet you there. The Pickerings are picking me up in ten minutes.’
Mr Tait-Bullen said smoothly, ‘Honor, I’m so sorry, but there is absolutely no chance of me getting away until late this evening. I did tell you that I might not be free. Will you make my excuses to the Pickerings?’
They talked for a few minutes, until she said, ‘Oh, well, you’re not much use as an escort, are you, Thomas?’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I might as well give you up.’
‘There must be any number of men queueing up to take you out. I’m not reliable, Honor.’
‘You’ll end up a crusty old bachelor, Thomas, unless you take time off to fall in love.’
‘I’ll have to think about that.’
‘Well, let me know when you’ve made up your mind.’ She rang off, and he put the phone down and forgot all about her. He had a teaching round the next morning and he needed to prepare a few notes for that.
He ate the dinner Cork set before him and went back to his study to work. He was going to his bed when he had a sudden memory of Claudia, her fiery hair in a mess, enveloped in that old jacket and a sack. He found himself smiling, thinking of her.
* * *
THE FIRST FEW days of November, with their frosty mornings and chilly pale skies, had turned dull and damp, and as they faded towards winter Great-Uncle William faded with them. But although he was physically weaker there was nothing weak about his mental state. He was as peppery as he always had been, defying anyone to show sympathy towards him, demanding that Claudia should read the Times to him each morning, never mind that he dozed off every now and then.
His faithful housekeeper’s endless efforts to prepare tasty morsels for his meals met with no success at all. And no amount of coaxing would persuade him to allow a nurse to attend to his wants. Between them, Claudia, her mother and Tombs did as much as he would allow them to. Dr Willis, inured to his patient’s caustic tongue, came daily, but it was less than a week after Mr Tait-Bullen’s visit when Great-Uncle William, glaring at him from his bed, observed in an echo of his former commanding tones, ‘I shall die within the next day or so. Tell Tait-Bullen to come and see me.’
‘He’s a busy man...’
‘I know that. I’m not a fool.’ The Colonel looked suddenly exhausted. ‘He said that he would come.’ He turned his head to look at Claudia, standing at the window, lingering after she had brought Dr Willis upstairs.
‘You—Claudia, go and telephone him. Now, girl!’
She glanced at Dr Willis, and at his nod went down to the hall and dialled Mr Tait-Bullen’s number. Cork’s dignified voice regretted that Mr Tait-Bullen was not at home.
‘It’s urgent. Do you know where I can get him?’ She added, so as to make things clear, ‘I’m not a friend or anything. My great-uncle is a patient of Mr Tait-Bullen’s and he wants to see him. He’s very ill.’
‘In that case, miss, I will give you the number of his consulting rooms.’
She thanked him and dialled again, and this time Mrs Truelove, Mr Tait-Bullen’s receptionist, answered.
‘Colonel Ramsay? You are his niece? Mr Tait-Bullen has mentioned him. He’s with a patient at the moment. Ring off, my dear. I’ll call you the moment he’s free.’
Claudia waited, wondering if Mr Tait-Bullen would have time to visit Great-Uncle William or even to phone him. She supposed that he was a very busy man; he could hardly be blamed if he hadn’t the time to leave London and his patients to obey the whim of an old man who had refused his services. Then the phone rang, and she picked it up.
‘Yes,’ said a voice in her ear. ‘Tait-Bullen speaking.’
This was no time for polite chit-chat. ‘Great-Uncle William wants to see you. He says he’s going to die in a day or two. He told me to phone you, so I am, because he asked me to, but you don’t have to.’
She wasn’t sure if she had made herself clear, but apparently she had. Mr Tait-Bullen disentangled the muddle with a twitching lip and answered her with exactly the right amount of impersonal friendliness.
‘It is very possible that your great-uncle is quite right. I’m free this evening. I will be with you at about seven o’clock.’
He heard her relieved sigh.
‘Thank you very much. I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed your work.’
‘I’m glad you phoned me.’
She could hear the faint impatience in his voice. ‘Goodbye, then.’ She rang off smartly, and then wondered if she’d been rather too abrupt.
He arrived punctually, unfussed and unhurried. No one looking at his immaculate person would have guessed that he had been up since six o’clock, had missed his lunch and stopped only for the tea and bun his faithful Mrs Truelove had pressed upon him. Dr Willis was waiting for him, and they spent a few minutes talking together before they went up to the Colonel’s room. Dr Willis came down presently. ‘They’re discussing the merits of pyrenaicum aureum as opposed to tenuifolium pumilum...’
Mrs Ramsay looked puzzled. ‘Is that some new symptom? It sounds alarming. Poor Uncle William.’
‘Lilies,’ said Claudia. ‘Two varieties of lily, Mother.’
Dr Willis patted her mother’s arm. ‘Don’t alarm yourself, my dear. Your uncle is enjoying his little chat. It was good of Mr Tait-Bullen to come.’
‘But he’s not doing anything to help Uncle...’
But that was exactly what he was doing, reflected Claudia, although she didn’t say so. Instead she asked, ‘Do you suppose he will stay for supper? Mrs Pratt can grill a couple more chops.’
But when he joined them presently, he declined Mrs Ramsay’s offer of supper, saying that he must return to London.
‘I hope we haven’t spoilt your evening for you—caused you to cancel a date?’
Claudia noticed that he didn’t answer that, merely thanked her mother for her invitation. ‘If I might have a word with Dr Willis?’
They left the two men, returning when they heard them in the hall.
Mrs Ramsay shook hands. ‘We’re so grateful to you. Uncle did so wish to see you again—although I’m sure you are a very busy man.’
He said gravely, ‘The Colonel is going to die very soon now, Mrs Ramsay. He is content, and in no pain, and in Dr Willis’s good hands.’
He turned to Claudia. ‘I was bidden to tell you to read the editorial in the Times before he has his supper.’ His hand was firm and cool and comforting. ‘He’s fond of you, you know.’
He left then, getting into his car and driving back to his house to eat the meal Cork had ready for him and then go to his study and concentrate on the notes of the patients upon whom he would be operating in the morning. Before that, he paused to think about the Colonel. A courageous old man hidden behind that crusty manner. He hoped that he would die quietly in his sleep.
Great-Uncle William died while Claudia was still reading the editorial. So quietly and peacefully that it wasn’t until she had finished it that she realised.
She said softly, ‘You had a happy talk about lilies, didn’t you, Great-Uncle William? I’m glad he came.’
She bent to kiss the craggy old face and went downstairs to tell her mother.
Chapter TWO
THE COLONEL HAD BEEN respected in the village; he had had no use for a social life or mere acquaintances, although he had lifelong friends.
Claudia had very little time to grieve. Her mother saw the callers when they came, arranged things with the undertaker and planned the flowers and the gathering of friends and family after the funeral, but
it was left to Claudia to carry out her wishes, answer the telephone and make a tidy pile of the letters which would have to be answered later.
Dr Willis was a tower of strength, of course, but he was more concerned with her mother than anything else, and Mrs Ramsay leaned on him heavily for comfort and support. She needed both when, on the day before the funeral, the cousin who was to inherit the house arrived.
He was a middle-aged man, with austere good looks and cold eyes. He treated them with cool courtesy, expressed a token regret at the death of the Colonel and went away to see the Colonel’s solicitor. When he returned he requested that Mrs Ramsay and Claudia should join him in the morning room.
He stood with his back to the fire and begged them to sit down. Already master of the house, thought Claudia, and wondered what was coming.
He spoke loudly, as though he thought that they were deaf. ‘Everything seems to be in order. The will is not yet read, of course, but I gather that there are no surprises in it. I must return to York after the funeral, but I intend to return within two or three days. Monica—my wife—will accompany me and we will take up residence then. My house there is already on the market. You will, of course, wish to leave here as soon as possible.’
Claudia heard her mother’s quick breath. ‘Are you interested as to where we are going?’
‘It is hardly my concern.’ He eyed Claudia coldly. ‘You must have been aware for some time that the house would become my property and have some plans of your own.’
‘Well,’ said Claudia slowly, ‘whatever plans we may have had didn’t include being thrown out lock, stock and barrel at a moment’s notice.’ When he started to speak, she added, ‘No, let me finish. Let us know when you and your wife will arrive and we will be gone in good time. What about Tombs and Mrs Pratt and Jennie? I understand that they have been remembered in Great-Uncle William’s will.’
‘I shall, of course, give them a month’s wages.’ He considered the matter for a moment. ‘It might be convenient if Mrs Pratt remained, and the girl. It will save Monica a good deal of trouble if the servants remain.’