by Betty Neels
‘Home, Jemima—I have a guest for lunch.’
Something on a tray, reflected Jemima. Perhaps I could slip down to the kitchen, though…
‘You will lunch with us.’
‘Very well, Lady Manderly.’ It would be another of her old friends, supposed Jemima. They would talk about their childhood and their families and now and again, when they remembered, they would say something to her. It was only a little less lonely than having lunch off a tray with a book propped up in front of her.
She was to be in the sitting-room at a quarter to one; she did her face and her hair, took a quick look at her appearance, adequate enough in a good tweed skirt and a silk shirt blouse, and took herself downstairs. There was a busy afternoon ahead of her—letters to answer, several phone calls to make, cheques to make out for Lady Manderly to sign, Coco to take out for a walk, and as there were no guests for dinner that evening, she would be playing cribbage or bezique after dinner. Perhaps she would have time to write some letters while Lady Manderly rested before dinner. Dick of course, and the Gibbons, with some excuse as to why she wouldn’t be going to Oxford again, and Shirley… Shirley wrote each week, full of questions all of which had to be answered. At least this week there was the theatre to write about.
Jemima went into the sitting-room exactly on time and found Professor Cator standing in front of the fire. His long thoughtful look wasn’t particularly friendly, nor was his, ‘Good afternoon, Jemima,’ and she stood looking back at him wordlessly so that after a moment or two he asked coldly: ‘Why do you stare so?’
She couldn’t answer that. Perhaps Gloria or one of her type would have known what to say, but she didn’t. She wondered how he would react if she told him that she had just discovered that she had fallen in love with him; that she didn’t dislike him in the least; that his arrogance, his mocking manner, his cold civility—even harder to bear—were quite swallowed up by her love. She imagined his reply to that and went bright pink, which made matters much worse, for he lifted his eyebrows in a hateful manner and smiled faintly.
She hoped the thudding of her heart couldn’t be heard in the quiet room. ‘You surprised me.’
The eyebrows went up again. ‘Indeed? And yet I’m no stranger to my aunt’s house.’ He added silkily: ‘And shouldn’t the perfect companion be beyond surprise?’
A splendid rage fought with her love. ‘You’re being rude again,’ she told him severely.
‘Naturally—you expect it of me.’ He turned to greet his aunt as she came into the room and Lady Manderly offered a cheek for his kiss.
‘I’m glad you could come, Alexander. I need your advice about some shares.’ She accepted a sherry and when he had handed a glass to Jemima he said:
‘Well, I can’t stay long, Aunt. I’ve a lot of work on hand for the next few days. I must leave in a couple of hours.’
‘Then we’ll have a little chat directly after lunch. Jemima, go and fetch the papers on my desk in my bedroom and put them here on a table.’
Jemima put down her drink and went away. She was quite glad to go, for it gave her a minute or two to pull herself together. She felt bemused and quite bewildered and, contrary to what she had expected, not in the least happy. To get away from the Professor as soon as possible was the obvious answer, and when she got back to the sitting-room she suggested in her calm way that since Lady Manderly wanted to discuss private matters with her nephew, would it not be a good idea if they were to lunch alone?
Aunt and nephew both looked at her. ‘Certainly not! I never discuss money matters at table—besides, I’m sure Alexander would like to hear your opinion of the play you went to.’
A look at his face convinced her that it was the last thing he wanted to talk about. Wild horses, let alone Lady Manderly, wouldn’t make her tell him anything. She sat sedately at the small table in the dining-room and beyond answering when spoken to, had nothing to say for herself.
Directly the meal was over, she excused herself on the plea of phone calls to make on behalf of her employer, who reminded her that when that had been done, she should take Coco for her walk. ‘And be back by half past three, Jemima,’ ordered Lady Manderly. ‘There are several household bills for you to deal with.’
Jemima didn’t look at the Professor when he got up and opened the door for her; she said, ‘Thank you,’ in his general direction and jumped smartly across the hall to the sitting-room, where she closed the door, dealt with the phone calls in a businesslike manner, and then opened the door again and peered round it, not wishing to meet Professor Cator again. There was no one about, so she went to her room, put on her coat and went in search of Coco. The little dog was in the kitchen, lying by the Aga, but she came prancing across to Jemima and allowed her lead to be fastened and since the household staff were all in their sitting-room, having a short rest before tackling the post-lunch chores, Jemima slipped out of the kitchen door, round the side of the house, and down the path into the lane—watched, if she did but know it, by the Professor, standing at the drawing-room window, listening with half an ear to his aunt’s diatribe against stockbrokers.
It was a blustery autumn day and Jemima walked quickly along the well known path. The river looked cold and sluggish and there weren’t many people about, although on the other side of the water she could see people going in and out of the shops in High Street and Sheep Street. She didn’t look after a while; it made her feel lonely, and she was quite glad when it was time to return to the house.
She got to the door with a few minutes in hand. Lady Manderly might have said be back by half past three, but Jemima knew from previous occasions that what she really meant was be back in the sitting-room, Coco disposed of, and ready to work, at that hour. She put a hand on the door handle, but someone from the other side opened the door first—the Professor, ready to leave. She had expected that he would be gone. There was no sign of his car, but perhaps he had left it at the end of the drive and she hadn’t thought of looking there.
He stood back to let her pass and then put out a hand to catch her by the arm so that she was forced to stand still. He said without preamble: ‘Gloria and I will be coming for the weekend,’ and then: ‘How very alive you look, Jemima.’ He bent and kissed her on her astonished mouth and went past her without a backward glance. She stood watching his vast back disappearing down the drive, and only when he was out of sight did she shut the door. ‘What an extraordinary man,’ she confided to Coco, and then as the grandfather clock in the hall struck the half hour, ran down to the kitchen with Coco under one arm.
‘I’m late,’ said Jemima to Mrs Spencer. ‘Be a darling and wipe her paws.’ And she fled back up the stairs to her room, flung off her coat, ran a comb through her hair and presented herself, a little out of breath still and not altogether because she was hurried, at the sitting-room door.
‘Late,’ declared Lady Manderly, and sounded pleased that she could find fault. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t really know, Lady Manderly, and I can’t think of an excuse.’
Lady Manderly blinked. ‘Are you being impertinent?’
‘Certainly not, Lady Manderly. What would you like me to do first?’
Her employer snorted. ‘These accounts. Get them added up, will you, and fill in the cheques. I have two friends coming to tea, so you may have yours here, Jemima.’
A state of affairs which suited Jemima very well. She wanted time to think about the Professor, and just why he had kissed her. All in the same breath, as it were, as the mention of Gloria. Left to get on with her reckoning, Jemima started to plot as to the chances of getting a half day on Saturday—she would be free on Sunday anyway and then she wouldn’t need to see either Gloria or Professor Cator. It would mean having her meals out, but that couldn’t be helped.
The new daily help came in with her tea presently, Coco at her heels, and Jemima took the tray to the fire and shared Mrs Spencer’s delicious scones with the little dog, and because Lady Manderly liked to talk politics, care
fully conned Today in Parliament. It was as well that she did, for dinner was entirely taken up with her employer’s forceful opinion about politicians. She didn’t need much in the way of replies, but it helped if one could keep track of what she was talking about. Jemima was rewarded by a: ‘You are an intelligent girl, Jemima, and you seem to have a grasp of present-day politics.’ Lady Manderly rose from the table. ‘Do you play the piano? I have neglected to ask you this, but so few modern young women do.’
‘Well, I do—not very well, though.’
‘I should enjoy a little music. When we have had our coffee you shall play to me.’
The piano, an excellent instrument, stood at one end of the drawing-room; Jemima, in her dull brown dress, sat down and ran her hands lightly over its keys. She hadn’t had a chance to play for months and it would be a heavenly change from cribbage. ‘What would you like, Lady Manderly?’ she asked.
‘Delius, Debussy, Schubert… Can you manage any of those?’ The old lady’s tone implied that she very much doubted it.
Jemima didn’t answer; she was by no means a brilliant pianist, but she played with a good deal of feeling. ‘The Walk to the Paradise Garden’, while by no means technically perfect, was a delight to listen to. She scarcely heard Lady Manderly’s ‘Very nice,’ uttered in rather surprised tones, before going on to ‘A Song of Summer’, and then ‘Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.’ Here she did pause, sitting with her hands quietly in her lap waiting to hear what Lady Manderly wanted next.
‘Upon my soul,’ declared that lady, ‘you play very well, Jemima, let me see—do you know the Cornish Rhapsody?’
Jemima played that too and then at her listener’s request, the Vienna Dances, and, that finished: ‘Quite delightful,’ observed Lady Manderly. ‘Who taught you to play so well?’
‘My mother.’ Jemima got up and closed the piano. ‘I’m out of practice.’
‘In that case, I have no objection to you playing each day for an hour or so. Before dinner, while I’m dressing, would be a good time.’
‘Thank you, Lady Manderly. Would you like to play bezique?’
‘No, perhaps you would unpick my embroidery? I believe I’ve got the pattern wrong.’
Which was indeed true; Jemima had never seen such a muddle in all her life. It took her the rest of the evening while Lady Manderly, having a captive audience, reminisced about her youth. She required very little reply, which gave Jemima the leisure to think about Professor Cator—which she did, to the exclusion of everything else.
The next morning she asked if she might have her half day on Saturday, and since Lady Manderly was in a good frame of mind, she had little doubt that she would get it. To her surprise she was refused.
‘Certainly not!’ declared Lady Manderly. ‘I will not play gooseberry to Alexander and Gloria, and I wish you to take your day off on some other day than Sunday. You may, of course, go to church if you like, but I want you to be available for the rest of the day.’ She eyed Jemima’s impassive face. ‘I suggest you have a free day tomorrow instead, your half day can be fitted in at some other time.’
She really was an old tyrant, but there was nothing much she could do about it, decided Jemima. Probably Professor Cator and his Gloria would be so taken up with each other, they wouldn’t bother if she were there or not.
She spent her free day in the town. She had several weeks’ pay in her purse and the desire to buy a new dress was very great, but if she did, it would look very much as though she had done that because of the Professor and Gloria coming for the weekend and wanting to cut a dash. Which, of course, was quite true. Besides, she reminded herself, she was saving as much money as she could—an argument quickly dispelled when she saw exactly what she wanted in a tiny boutique off High Street: a chestnut brown jersey, very simple, with short sleeves and a little jacket. The skirt was pleated and calf-length; exactly suitable for her evenings with Lady Manderly. And the price was right too. After all, she hadn’t had to pay for her room for three weeks now. She went inside, tried it on and bought it.
But she couldn’t roam the town all day. She went to the films after a sketchy lunch and then had tea, making it last as long as possible. By the time she was outside again it was growing dark and she was tired. She retraced her steps to Church Lane and made her way round to the kitchen door. Only Mrs Spencer was in the kitchen and looked at her in surprise.
‘Thought you had the day off, miss?’ she exclaimed.
‘Well, I have, but I’ve done my shopping and been to the cinema, now I want to write letters. Please don’t tell Lady Manderly I’m back just yet—are there guests for dinner?’
Mrs Spencer nodded. ‘Two ladies. I’ll see that you get something to eat, miss.’
‘You’re a dear, Mrs Spencer. But don’t bother to send anyone up. I’ll come down and fetch a tray if you tell me what time.’
‘Half past eight—it’s sole bonne femme and caramel oranges.’
‘Lovely, I’m going up the back stairs. You don’t mind?’
In her own room she tried on the dress once more. It was every bit as nice as it had looked in the shop; she hung it away in the closet and settled down to her letter writing—an exaggerated letter to Dick, a long one to Shirley, describing her new dress, and then a clutch of brief letters full of nothings, to friends in Oxford. She was aware that they didn’t much mind if they saw her again or not, but just for a little while longer they would keep up the polite fiction of writing to her, not really wanting to know what she was doing but feeling guiltily that they should do something about her.
She made it easy for them by writing that life was so busy and so varied in its happenings that letter-writing was becoming a luxury to be fitted in during her rare quiet moments. ‘That’ll let them off the hook,’ she muttered, and went downstairs for her tray.
There wasn’t much to do after that. Jemima washed her hair, had a long and far too hot bath and got into bed with the paperback she had bought that day, but presently she laid it down. Tomorrow Professor Cator would arrive; she couldn’t wait to see him again, but at the same time she dreaded it. He would be cold and offhand and look at her with hard eyes, and she would be terrified of betraying her feelings. And there was Gloria, who would most likely make snide remarks about companions and wearing all the wrong clothes. Jemima registered a resolve to scrape her hair well back and wear the plainest of her skirts and jumpers, and since the brown dress was by far the dullest of her evening attire she would wear that. Thus heartened by this entirely feminine point of view, she turned out the light, had a good cry, and went to sleep.
She was out with Coco when they arrived just before lunch the next day. The Rolls was standing before the door when she arrived back. Mrs Spencer answered her ring, looking put out.
‘Sorry to have brought you all this way,’ said Jemima hastily.
‘Oh, it ain’t you, miss—it’s that Miss Egerton, says her room’s too cold and not enough lighting and wants a bathroom to herself. Which can’t be done, as you well know; my lady has her own, an’ we’ve got one to ourselves, but the other two ’as to do for guests in the ’ouse.’
‘It’s only for a weekend, Mrs Spencer,’ said Jemima placatingly. ‘And I’ll take care not to get in Miss Egerton’s way! Where’s Lady Manderly?’
‘In the drawing-room with Professor Cator and Miss Egerton. She said you were to go down to lunch when you came in.’
Jemima nodded resignedly, handed over Coco and went upstairs, where she brushed her hair into a severe style, wasted no time upon her face at all, and went downstairs again.
They were sitting round the fire, drinks in their hands and looking, she thought with surprise, uncommonly bored with each other. The Professor saw her first and got to his feet with a polite: ‘Hullo, Jemima.’ Lady Manderly turned her head regally. ‘There you are, Jemima—too late for a drink.’ While Gloria didn’t look round.
Professor Cator appeared not to have heard his aunt; he poured sherry and brought it over to wher
e Jemima had seated herself, a little way from the fire.
‘Plenty of time,’ he observed easily. ‘There’s no hurry, is there? Nothing on this afternoon.’
‘No, Alexander, I daresay you and Gloria have plans of your own.’
‘Nothing special—the theatre this evening, of course. Are you quite sure you won’t come with us?’
‘Positive, Alexander. We will dine early, though.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Gloria, ‘that means I have to start dressing at some unearthly hour, I suppose.’ She sat up and looked at Jemima. ‘Sometimes I wish I were a paid companion with a plain face and no clothes.’
‘If that’s meant to be a joke, I don’t find it funny,’ said the Professor icily. ‘I’ve often thought that a good day’s work would be of great benefit to you.’
Gloria tossed off the rest of her drink. ‘I wouldn’t know how,’ she stated simply, and smiled angelically at him. ‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ she explained to Jemima. ‘I have this awful habit of saying exactly what I think.’ She laughed gently. ‘No one seems to mind.’