by Betty Neels
‘We might as well go,’ observed the Professor calmly; Jemima wondered how he could look at Gloria so coolly when she was so beautiful. Perhaps he was used to her by now. He certainly betrayed no annoyance when she declared that she would sit in the back of the car with Lady Manderly. Jemima got in beside him, feeling a tearing excitement because she was actually so close to him. It made her pale, which hardly added to her looks.
And once in church, Lady Manderly led the way down the aisle and took her place in a pew under the pulpit, and after a glance at the Professor Gloria followed her. But he made no move, only pushed Jemima gently in her back so that she sat reluctantly beside Gloria. That left the last seat for the Professor. Pig in the middle, thought Jemima, getting on to her knees.
She sang the hymns in an unselfconscious treble, very sweet but not very powerful, but it wouldn’t have mattered if her voice had been twice as strong, for Professor Cator had a rich bass which boomed out above her head, effectively drowning any voice within yards. Gloria didn’t sing at all; she stood and sat and knelt like a puppet and Jemima could feel the waves of rage emitting from her elegant person. Peeping sideways at the Professor’s placid face, she deplored his craftiness in urging her to sit next to Gloria. Thank heaven she would have to take Coco for her walk directly after they got back from church; perhaps they would settle their differences in the meantime. It seemed wicked to think such thoughts in church, but she couldn’t help wishing they would quarrel so hard that Gloria would disappear out of his life for ever. She sat, looking attentively at the vicar in his pulpit, preaching what was probably an excellent sermon, and allowed herself to dream a little. She would, in some unexplained way, become beautiful overnight, the plumpness which she deplored would have disappeared and her conversation would be amusing and witty, so that the Professor would hang on her every word and fall in love with her and before she agreed to marry him she would tell him that he would have to mend his ways…that wasn’t true, she would marry him, faults and all; after all, he had been kind and gentle with the cat. She smiled a little remembering it, unaware that he was watching her, sitting sideways in the pew. She loved him very much and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. Her gentle mouth trembled a little and the smile faded…
‘And now to God the Father…’ intoned the vicar, and she got to her feet with everyone else, feeling childishly guilty because she hadn’t heard one word of the sermon.
Back at the house at Lady Manderly’s command, she went to fetch Coco and left by the back door, only to find Professor Cator stalking along the path to meet her.
‘You’ve had no coffee,’ he pointed out.
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ she told him pleasantly. ‘Mrs Spencer will give me a cup when we get back.’
‘You’re not a servant!’
She gave him a clear look from her lovely eyes. ‘Yes, I am, Professor.’
She walked past him, but he turned and caught up with her. ‘One other thing,’ he observed. ‘Why were you smiling in church, and then you looked as though you were going to cry?’
She stared up at him, a slow blush creeping over her cheeks. ‘I’ve no idea,’ she said breathlessly. ‘And now I really must go or we shan’t be back in time for lunch.’
He stood aside without another word, and she went down the path and out of the gate.
When she entered the drawing-room an hour later it was to find Lady Manderly sitting in her chair, radiating disapproval, Gloria looking sulky and the Professor looking positively thunderous. He offered her sherry and she accepted, and made an effort to lighten the atmosphere. ‘It’s getting much colder,’ she offered. ‘I wonder if we’re going to have a hard winter?’
Gloria turned her back, walking across the room and pouring herself another gin and tonic. The Professor’s eyes followed her and he looked as though he was going to speak. But he didn’t, it was Lady Manderly who gave Jemima an unexpected look of approval and answered her poor effort at conversation.
‘I think that may be so, Jemima. Personally I rather like the winter. Stratford is pleasant out of season, I shall be sorry to leave here, but I have a strong wish to visit the Lodge.’ She added in a voice that dared her listener to agree: ‘I am, after all, an old woman with not many years more left to me.’
Jemima sought for a suitable answer to this and was relieved when the Professor, his eyes still on Gloria, said forcefully: ‘My dear Aunt, you’re good for another twenty years, and you know it.’
This led, naturally enough, to a monologue on Lady Manderly’s part, describing her various illnesses, which lasted well into lunch and was kept going by astute remarks from her nephew. Jemima was silent for most of the meal, but only because there was no need to talk, and Gloria was silent because she was still hopping mad. When she did speak it was in an ugly voice which quite belied her lovely face; complaining that the food she was offered was quite unsuitable. ‘It’s so important to keep slim,’ she said, and looked pointedly at Jemima. ‘I’m a size ten and intend to remain so.’ She smiled across the table. ‘I’m sure you’re a fourteen, Jemima?’
‘Twelve.’ Jemima helped herself to another portion of trifle and ate it with pleasure.
‘It must be a bit of a squeeze…’
‘Be quiet, Gloria!’ said the Professor suddenly.
Jemima finished her trifle calmly, agreed with equally calm tones to write a letter on Lady Manderly’s behalf and post it when she went out with Coco, drank her coffee in a rather strained atmosphere, and escaped. The Professor was an annoying, arrogant man; she loved him so much that all she wanted was to see him happy, even if it meant him marrying Gloria, but she would have given five years of her life to have saved him from what she fully expected would be a most unpleasant drive back to London.
They had gone by the time she got back with Coco. Lady Manderly was sitting in the drawing-room making an absolute hash of her embroidery. Jemima took it from her without a word, did some unpicking, threaded some silks and handed it back, then asked a few pertinent questions about Scotland.
‘I’ve told Pooley to start packing,’ observed her companion. ‘I shall of course need the thicker dresses and coats which Belling is sending. If you wish, you may pack whatever you don’t need to take with you, and a case can be sent back to London from here. We need very little.’
Lady Manderly’s idea of very little meant three large suitcases, a jewel box and an overnight bag. Jemima ruthlessly discarded most of her clothes, added the slacks and skirt and woollies Shirley had sent via Belling, and declared herself ready. At the last minute she had packed the new dress; Lady Manderly had told her that she didn’t stand on ceremony when she was staying at the lodge, but Jemima thought it a good idea to play safe. And it was a pity not to wear the dress even if there was no one to see it. No one being Alexander Cator, of course.
The journey went smoothly. Lady Manderly was conveyed, giving orders and countermanding them with the next breath, from her house to the airport and from the plane to the waiting hired car—a quite arduous task for Jemima and Pooley, who were only too glad to get into the car with her, and allow themselves to be driven the last hundred and fifty odd miles. They stopped for refreshment at the hotel in Ardlui, and Jemima took Coco for a brisk walk along the shore of Loch Lomand. She would have liked to have lingered there, but Lady Manderly was impatient to get to the lodge and they drove on, taking the road to Fort William and then turning west on to the A830 to Mallaig. Arisaig was some miles short of that town, and lay at the head of Loch nan Ceall, and Jemima was enchanted with the magnificent scenery. It was a small place with a bustling harbour, full, her companion told her, in the summer months with pleasure yachts and cruisers. Now it was comparatively quiet, with only the fishing boats to be seen and very few people about in the dull grey of late afternoon.
They went through the village and turned off the road into a lane winding uphill, and presently turned into an open gateway, still going uphill through closely packed trees.
The lodge stood in a small circle of rough grass with trees all round it; a fair sized stone house with a slate roof, small square windows and a great many gables. If it hadn’t been for the lights streaming from the downstairs windows, it might have appeared unwelcoming.
The front door was opened as the car came to a halt and a short sandy-haired woman came out to greet them, addressing them in a cheerful cockney voice.
‘Everything’s ready for you, my lady,’ she offered. ‘My old man’s down in the village, but ’e’ll be back in no time. ’E’s fixed for the driver to stay the night there. You’ll be wanting yer dinner, no doubt.’
‘In half an hour, Martha. I’ll go to my room, then take Miss Mason to hers—Pooley will have her usual room, I suppose?’
’S’ right, my lady.’ Martha’s shrewd eyes rested for a moment on Jemima, who smiled as she turned away to pay the driver and ask him to bring in the luggage. Lady Manderly was already in the hall when she called back:
‘Before you come in, Jemima, you’d better take Coco for a little run.’
So it was ten minutes or more before Jemima followed Martha up the stairs to the landing above and into a pleasant room down a short passage.
‘The bathroom’s next door, miss. Me and Angus ’ave a room at the back of the ’ouse—we sleep in, but we spend Saturday night and all day Sunday with our daughter—she’s married to a chap in Mallaig.’ She paused in the doorway. ‘Lady Manderly, she ’asn’t never brought her companions ’ere before.’
Jemima was looking out of the window at the encircling trees. ‘No? Perhaps she preferred to be alone. Do I call you Martha, or would you rather I used your married name?’
‘Martha’ll do, miss. I must say it’s a rum time of year to come up ’ere. Lovely autumn we’ve ’ad, but the weather’s going to worsen, so Angus says, and ’e’s mostly right.’
Jemima undid her case and began to take out her clothes. ‘I do hope not. It looks lovely, and the views are breathtaking.’
Martha grinned. ‘Not ’alf they aren’t when it’s been snowing for a day or two!’ She turned away. ‘I’ll leave you to unpack, miss. My lady’s at the front of the ’ouse—the double doors on the landing. Pooley’s near us at the back. There’s a girl comes up to ’elp mornings, but most of the bedrooms are kept closed, so there’s not that much to do.’
Left to herself, Jemima hung her things in the vast old-fashioned wardrobe, did her hair and her face, and went along to Lady Manderly’s room.
There was little for her to do there. Pooley was unpacking and Lady Manderly was sitting in a comfortable chair by the open fire. As soon as she saw Jemima she said without preamble: ‘Go and telephone Alexander and tell him we’ve arrived safely, and then wait for me in the sitting-room.’
It wasn’t until Jemima was lifting the receiver that she remembered she had no idea of the Professor’s number. She was by no means the perfect companion, she thought, then caught sight of the address book on the table.
A man answered—an elderly voice, very polite. No, the Professor was out, but a message would be delivered when he returned. She rang off, her head full of colourful pictures of Alexander Cator and Gloria having a splendid evening together in one of the more fashionable night clubs in London. If she had stopped to think she would have realised that the Professor was hardly the sort to frequent night spots, but love was causing her to have some peculiar ideas.
While she waited for Lady Manderly, she looked around her. The sitting-room was pleasant enough, although it wore the air of not having been used lately, and when she peeped into the dining-room that looked much the same, although the table, laid with a fine linen cloth and set with silver and glass, looked inviting. There was a third door; a smaller room, a mixture of library and study, leading to a closed verandah. The kitchen, she supposed, was through the baize door beside the stairs, and the door behind the sitting-room opened into a quite large room with a piano at one end and a billiard table at its centre. The whole place was comfortably furnished and lacked none of the comforts; it might be miles from anywhere, but it was well maintained. It struck her that it was a little extravagant to maintain a house of this size when it was occupied for only a couple of weeks each year, but perhaps other members of Lady Manderly’s family spent their holidays there too. Jemima went back to the sitting-room and stood looking out of the window into the dark evening until Lady Manderly joined her.
Over dinner Jemima learned that even in the remote Highlands, her duties would be as manifold as before. For one thing, few of Lady Manderly’s friends lived within calling distance and almost all of those had gone back to London, which meant that there would be little to distract her. Jemima, she was informed, was to arrange a hire car in the morning, and drive her employer around the surrounding countryside. She was also warned that at least a hundred Christmas cards would need to have their envelopes addressed and last, but not least, a list of necessary Christmas presents must be made. ‘And you can, of course, play to me in the evenings,’ added Lady Manderly. ‘I am rarely in the mood for television. When you have arranged for the car, we will drive to Mallaig, there is a good library there, and I will select some books.’
To all of which Jemima agreed in her pleasant voice; it was, after all, only a short stay and she was glad of the money. She had spent very little since they had left London; only the new dress and dull things like stamps and toothpaste. She reminded herself that every penny would count once she got back which made her remember her advertisement; perhaps there would be some letters to answer before they left Arisaig—that was if Professor Cator had remembered to send her advertisement to the papers.
There was frost on the ground when she got up the next morning. She put on slacks and a thick sweater and went down to the kitchen, where she found Martha sitting at the table drinking tea. She poured another cup for Jemima. ‘You’re an early bird, miss, couldn’t you sleep?’
‘Very well, thank you. I came down to see you, Martha. Lady Manderly has her breakfast in bed and I don’t know about me…’
‘You can ’ave it on a tray in the dining-room, miss.’
‘Well, if you don’t mind, I’d much rather have it here with you—would you and your husband and Pooley object?’
Martha gave her an approving look. ‘Lor’ luv you, no, miss. Glad ter ’ave yer company. We eat at half past eight.’
‘That’s fine. Lady Manderly likes me to go to her about nine o’clock, so I’ll have time to take Coco for a quick run round the garden before breakfast.’
The day unfolded itself slowly. A car was hired, delivered before lunch and tried out by Jemima. The first batch of cards was written and although no list was made, Lady Manderly spent a good part of the morning discussing what she should buy for the various members of her family, and how cheaply it could be done. For someone who denied herself nothing, she was remarkably mean when it came to giving anything away. But she seemed to be enjoying herself, telephoning her friends, arranging menus, browbeating poor Pooley; Jemima, at the end of the day, went thankfully enough to her bed. What with writing envelopes until she had cramp, walking Coco morning and afternoon in a cold mist which had obscured everything around her, and then playing cribbage for hours after dinner, she was worn out. But tomorrow, she promised herself, it would be better. For one thing they were to drive to Mallaig and for another, Lady Manderly had told her that provided nothing happened to make her change her mind, Jemima might have a free afternoon.
Mallaig was large compared with Arisaig. It had two hotels for a start, although one of them was closed for the winter, and several good shops. Jemima drove the seven miles there, along the narrow road with its passing places and the railway running close by, and since the mist had gone there was plenty to see while Lady Manderly graciously held forth about the three islands at the entrance to the Loch, Rum, Eigg and Muck. Lovely names, thought Jemima. Shirley would never believe her when she wrote and told her.
She parked the car and escorted Lady M
anderly from one shop to the next, posted the cards which were written and then accompanied her to a bookshop where she took the opportunity of buying herself a couple of paper backs while her employer, sitting grandly in a chair, chose an armful of books and magazines. Far too many to carry; Jemima had to go and fetch the car and leave it outside the shop while the proprietor loaded everything into the boot.
They got back in time for lunch and they were just finishing that meal when Alexander Cator telephoned. Jemima answered it, and struck dumb by the sound of his voice, had nothing to say for herself, so that he repeated his request to speak to his aunt with a testiness which brought her out of her daydream. She still didn’t say anything, but put the receiver down and fetched Lady Manderly, then went away to find Coco for her walk. She should have been prepared for his telephoning; he must find her a stupid girl. Next time she would be coolly brisk.
She wore the new dress that evening. It seemed a pity to leave it hanging in the cupboard, and just putting it on made her feel a lot better. Of course it was still brown like the other one, but it was a pretty brown this time and it suited her. Lady Manderly, in black crêpe-de-chine and pearls, approved of it. ‘You have good taste,’ she allowed. ‘Your clothes are rather dull, but then of course you have to buy things which will wear well, but I must admit that you make the most of them.’ She got up from the dinner table. ‘I shall read this evening and you shall play to me.’
Well, it was a whole lot better than playing cribbage! Jemima went from Ravel, to Bach, My Fair Lady to Bitter Sweet and then back to Ravel and finally to Delius.
‘That’s very sad,’ observed her listener as she finished and sat quietly with her hands folded in her lap. ‘Do you feel sad, Jemima?’
It was so unexpected a question coming from Lady Manderly, who had never expressed any interest in her before, that Jemima couldn’t think of a ready answer. Presently she said: ‘Well, not exactly, sad, Lady Manderly, I’m very happy and contented and I’m looking forward to learning something useful when we get back to London. Just sometimes I remember my home…’