by Betty Neels
‘Good heavens, no.’
Mary spoke so sharply that Polly said, ‘Well, you don’t have to snap my head off. P’haps you are tired. Great Aunt Thirza’s pretty grim, isn’t she?’
‘She’s old. Will you be a darling and fetch Mother from the hut? And I’ll get Father.’
Tea was a pleasant, leisurely meal. Mrs Pagett wondered in her dreamy way when Mary would be home again, and her father remarked in a vexed voice that when she was away he could never find anything that he wanted.
‘I’ll be home soon,’ soothed Mary. ‘Aunt Thirza is much better and she’s to start doing more tomorrow.’
‘That’s nice, dear. Don’t let her tire you too much,’ observed her mother. ‘I suppose you have to go back after tea?’
‘Yes. Five o’clock. Professor van Rakesma gave me a lift here and is calling for me then.’
‘He could have come to tea...’
‘He was going to have tea with his godson, somewhere in Hampstead.’
‘Will he be coming in? I still have one or two cards—’
’He won’t come in, Mother. I’ll wait for him at the gate—he’ll want to get back:
Mrs Pagett got up. ‘Then you won’t mind if I go back to the but and get on with my painting, darling. I’ll see you tomorrow, I expect.’
She wandered away down the garden and presently Mr Pagett got up too. ‘I’ll leave you two to tidy up; I’ll only be in the way.’
Polly ate the last sandwich. ‘I’ll wash up,’ she volunteered, ‘after you’ve gone.’
‘We’ll do it together—there’s fifteen minutes before he’ll be here.’
They cleared the table together and went into the kitchen. Mary turned on the sink taps and waited patiently for the water to get warm—the boiler was beginning to get temperamental—and Polly went off to feed Bingo. She went out of the back door to call him in and found him lying comfortably in a rose bed by the gate. Professor van Rakesma was leaning over the gate, doing nothing.
‘Hello,’ Polly danced up to him. ‘Have you come for Mary? She’s in the kitchen, washing up.’ She scooped up Bingo and added, ‘Open the gate and follow me.’
The professor smiled down at her. ‘Shall I be welcome?’
‘Why ever not? If you’re a professor shouldn’t you be old or at least elderly?’
‘Er—you know, I’d never thought about it. I shall, of course, in due time be elderly and hopefully old.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty-five.’ He sounded amused.
‘I’m thirteen. Mary’s twenty-four, getting on a bit; if she doesn’t marry Arthur she’ll be an old maid.’
‘Then let us hope that there is an alternative.’
They had arrived without haste at the kitchen door and he stood for a moment watching Mary, who was attacking a saucepan with a great deal of energy so that her hair was coming loose as she rubbed and scoured. She didn’t see him at once but when Bingo let out an impatient miauw said, ‘You found him. Good. I can’t think why this saucepan is burnt—what...?’
Something made her turn her head then. Feeling very much at a disadvantage, and aware that she hardly looked her best, she said peevishly, ‘You should have come to the front door.’
He said meekly, his heavy lids hiding the gleam of amusement in his eyes, ‘I do apologise. I’ll go back and ring the bell while you tuck your hair up and assume your usual calm manner!’
She smiled then, and Polly laughed. ‘I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to be rude.’
‘Think nothing of it; I am convinced that a burnt saucepan is enough to upset any housewife worth her salt.’
Polly said suddenly, ‘I like you. You’re not a bit like a professor. Are you married? Because if you aren’t you might—’
Mary, with a heightened colour, interrupted her briskly. ‘Polly, be an angel and tell Father I’m just going, will you?’ She was washing her hands and wishing that she could get to a comb and a looking-glass. Heaven alone knew what she looked like. ‘I’ll get my handbag...’
Polly went with them to the car and the professor waited patiently while she admired it. ‘I’ve never ridden in a Rolls Royce,’ she observed wistfully.
‘Then I will come and take you for a ride one day.’
‘You will? You promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘You’re great—I do wish that Mary—’ She caught her sister’s look of outrage and went on airily, ‘Well, perhaps I’d better not say that.’ When they were in the car she poked her head through the open window. ‘If you take a good look at Mary she’s quite pretty!’
The professor spoke gravely. ‘I agree with you absolutely, Polly.’ He waved goodbye and drove off and Mary, very red in the face, was relieved when he didn’t even glance at her.
She said presently, ‘You mustn’t take any notice of Polly—she’s a bit outspoken.’
‘One forgets how delightful it was when one could speak honestly—something quickly smothered by the conventions. Have you ever considered how much happier we would be if we uttered our real feelings instead of the well-mannered platitudes expected of us?’
‘Well, it would be nice sometimes to say just what one wished to say...’ She stared ahead of her. ‘I expect you have to—to—wrap up your words to your patients.’
‘Indeed I do, but if I’m asked a straight question then I give an honest answer.’
‘You like being a doctor?’
He smiled faintly. ‘Yes, it has been, until very recently, the one great interest in my life.’
She thought about this. ‘Are you going to get married?’
‘Shall we say, rather, that I have from time to time considered it?’ He glanced at her. ‘And you?’
‘Me? No...’ She cast around to find some light-hearted remark about that, and was relieved when Richard, perched between them, decided that her lap would be more comfortable. After that they said very little until he stopped at Great Aunt Thirza’s front door.
After he and Maisie had gone Mary, preparing her aunt’s supper since Mrs Cox had gone to church, allowed her thoughts to dwell on the professor. His goodbye had been polite but uninterested, just as though, she thought bitterly, he had discharged a task and was thankful that it was done. Well, she would take care to keep out of his way in future; she would badger Dr Symes to allow her to go home within the next day or two.
She carried out her plan on the following morning when Dr Symes arrived. There was really no reason for her to stay any longer; Great Aunt Thirza was quite recovered, she told him. Dr Symes agreed.
‘I can arrange for a practice nurse to come in each morning, just to keep an eye on things, and both Professor van Rakesma and I are agreed that the sooner your aunt returns to her normal, quiet way of living the better. You do understand that there may be further heart attacks, but living an invalid’s life is no guarantee against that?’
‘So it would be quite all right for me to go home in a day or two? Of course I’ll come over and see my aunt—I could come each day if you thought that I should—but I really need to be at home...’
‘Yes, of course; shall we say the day after tomorrow?’
Mary told Maisie that afternoon. ‘I expect Dr Symes will tell Professor van Rakesma, won’t he?’
Maisie nodded. ‘Suie to—after all, the professor was consulted in the first place, although of course your aunt is Dr Symes’s patient. Don’t worry, my dear. You could stay here for months and your aunt would be as fit as a fiddle, on the other hand she could die tomorrow; you never know with heart cases, and she is an old lady.’
As if in complete agreement with Maisie’s words, Great Aunt Thirza died peacefully in her sleep that night.
It was Mary, taking her an early morning cup of tea, who found her. She put the small tray she was carrying slowly down on to the bedside table. The cup rattled in the saucer because her hands were shaking but she stayed calm, aware of regret that the old lady had died and at the same time glad that
her end had been so peaceful.
She wasn’t going to pretend to a sorrow she didn’t feel; Great Aunt Thirza had been a difficult and despotic member of the family, but all the same she had been family. Mary murmured a childish prayer and went to phone Dr Symes.
Mary had plenty to occupy her for the next few days. Her father reluctantly undertook to make all the necessary arrangements, but she and Mrs Cox were left to deal with all the details. Maisie had come, alerted by Dr Symes Mary supposed, and proved invaluable, but although Mary’s father had dealt with the undertakers he had left a great deal for her to do.
‘I’ve let Aunt Thirza’s solicitor know,’ he told her. ‘He’ll see to everything, my dear. The funeral is on Friday; did I tell you?’
‘No, Father. Do you want everyone to come back here afterwards? It’s usual. Mrs Cox will see to that side of things.’
‘Do what you like, Mary. I told the solicitor to let any friends know.’ He smiled briefly. ‘I don’t think your Great Aunt Thirza had many.’ He added vaguely, ‘She was twelve years older than my mother and the last of her generation.’
He patted her arm, ‘Well, my dear, I think I’ve seen to everything. Arrange things with your mother, won’t you? I have an appointment later on today...’
There weren’t many people at the funeral other than the family. There was Mrs Cox, of course, tight-slipped and dour in black; she had said little to Mary but Mary guessed that she was worried about her future—she had been with Great Aunt Thirza for many years and another job might be hard to find now that she was past middle age. There were several old ladies there too—Great Aunt Thirza’s bridge companions. They said little, but ate Mrs Cox’s splendid tea with relish.
It was when they had all gone that Mr Shuttleworth, “Great Aunt Thirza’s solicitor, observed that he would now read the will. He was an old man, and Mary, who had a vivid imagination, thought that he looked as if someone had taken him out of a cupboard and dusted him down for the occasion.
Great Aunt Thirza having been Great Aunt Thirza, her will held no pleasant surprises. Mrs Cox was to have the contents of the wardrobe and two thousand pounds, Mr Pagett three thousand pounds, Polly the full set of Encyclopaedia Brittanica and Mary an early edition of Mrs Beeton’s cookery book, with the hope that by its perusal she might improve her cooking.
The house, its contents and the remainder of her not inconsiderable fortune were to be given to various charities.
Mrs Pagett received nothing, which caused her no distress at all. Great Aunt Thirza had never approved of her designing Christmas and greetings cards; she had once observed that it was no suitable occupation for a lady. Mrs Pagett, even if she was whimsical, didn’t lack spirit; she had laughed and muttered, ‘Pooh,’ before going away to her shed.
Mary watched Mr Shuttleworth tidy away his papers. It was a pity that Great Aunt Thirza hadn’t left her father a larger portion of her fortune. All the same, perhaps now the roof might get a few necessary tiles and the old boiler could be replaced with something modern. She saw Mr Shuttleworth to the door, her mind busy with domestic problems.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS days later, when Mary took the household bills to her father, that he told her that he didn’t intend to pay them. ‘That is to say, of course, they will be paid, but they can easily be left for a few weeks. My credit is good...’
‘I do need some petty cash, Father—Polly’s bus fares and Mrs Blackett—and the window cleaner is due this week.’
He frowned. ‘Yes, yes, of course, Mary. Your mother had a cheque this morning; ask her to let you have whatever you need—I’ll repay her.’
Her mother, absorbed in the painting of Christmas elves in a snow scene, told her to find her handbag. ‘It’s somewhere in the bedroom, Mary—there’s some money there. Take what you need, dear, and let me know how much so that I can get it back from your father.’ She paused for a moment and looked up. ‘Are we short of money?’
‘No, Mother. I need some petty cash and Father hasn’t enough.’
She didn’t like running up bills at the local shops but, as her father had pointed out, they were known to the local tradespeople and his credit was good. All the same, at the end of another week, when the butcher asked for something on account Mary waylaid her father as he prepared to leave the house.
‘I’m already late,’ he told her testily. ‘I have an important appointment—very important.’ His testiness was suddenly replaced by a broad smile. ‘Be sure that I’ll give you the money you require this evening, Mary.’
With that she had to be content. There was no need to worry, she told herself. It would be some weeks before her father received Great Aunt Thirza’s bequest, but when he did she could settle up the bills.
She frowned, for even without that money there had always been enough—just enough—for her to run the household. It hadn’t been easy, but with careful management she had contrived, but now, mysteriously, her father’s private income seemed to have dwindled; she had been told to borrow from her mother’s purse once more, and she knew for a fact that until the next batch of cards was sent away there would be very little money left in it.
She went along to the kitchen and found Mrs Blackett scowling.
‘Met yer pa in the hall,’ she said angrily. ‘Told me I don’t need to come no more—give me the sack, ’e ’as.’
‘The sack? Mrs Blackett you must be mistaken .. ’
‘Course I’m not; I got ears, ain’t I? What I wants ter know is, why?’
‘I’ve got no idea. Could you forget about it? For I’m sure he didn’t mean a word of it. I’ll see him when he gets home this evening and I’m sure everything’s all right’
She glanced at Mrs Blackett’s cross face. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea before you start on the kitchen. I’ll get the washing machine going and make the beds.’
Mrs Blackett, mollified, drank her tea—strong with a great deal of sugar—and began on the kitchen, and Mary loaded the washing machine and went upstairs. There was something wrong, something amiss somewhere, and she wished she had someone in whom she could confide.
There wasn’t anyone—Polly was too young, Arthur would be bored and impatient, her mother wasn’t to be worried, she decided lovingly, and the only person she really wanted to pour out her doubts and troubles to was miles away, gone for good.
Indeed, Professor van Rakesma was miles away, in Holland. He hadn’t, however, gone for good.
Her father usually came home around five o’clock when he’d spent the day at the British Museum, had a cup of tea and went straight to his study to work on his notes until supper. So Mary was surprised when he arrived home in the middle of the afternoon. She went into the hall to meet him with the offer of coffee or a late lunch, but the words died on her lips. Mr Pagett, never a robust man, had shrunk inside his clothes; a man in his fifties, he had aged twenty years.
‘Father—you’re ill.’ She took his coat and hat. ‘Go and sit down in the study; I’ll bring you a cup of tea—better still, if there’s any whisky left you’d better have that first. I’ll ring Dr Hooper.’
‘No, I’m not ill, Mary, but I’ll have that whisky. I have had some bad news.’
She went with him to the study, fetched the whisky and sat down near his chair. ‘Do you want to tell me, Father? Or shall I fetch Mother?’
‘No, not your mother, not until I can think of what is to be done. She mustn’t be upset...’
He told her then, about a man he had met at the British Museum, researching for a book he was writing about ceramics. ‘He seemed a very pleasant fellow, who knew several of the people I had known at Cambridge—or so he said, and I didn’t think to doubt him. Mentioned my book on the Dead Languages, asked about the book I’m writing now; in fact we became friendly.
‘Some weeks ago he told me that he had a brother in the Stock Exchange who occasionally gave him tips. There were some shares coming on the market, he said, at a rock-bottom price; if I had some capital lyin
g idle it would be a very sound investment. It seemed a splendid way in which to use Aunt Thirza’s little windfall. I said that I had three thousand pounds to invest and gave him a cheque—yes, I know I haven’t received my bequest yet but I withdrew some of my capital; this investment he was to make for me was going to earn twice as much interest.
‘He showed me the listed shares in the Financial Times and indeed the price was going steadily up. He suggested that I might like to put another thousand or two to the first investment and I withdrew another six thousand.’
Mary said slowly, ‘So that’s nine thousand pounds...’
Her father said heavily, ‘He has gone—this man—together with the money. The shares he showed me had nothing to do with it; he probably guessed that my knowledge of them is negligible.’
‘So you have to repay the bank with Aunt Thirza’s money?’
‘Indeed, yes, and over and above that I shall have to employ a solicitor to take the matter to court.’
‘What is the use of that if the man has gone, Father? Probably he’s in Australia or South America by now. Did you report it to the police?’
‘Yes, yes, of course, and they tell me that there is almost no chance of reclaiming the money.’
‘We’ll manage,’ said Mary in a voice she strove to make cheerful. ‘After all we always have, and you’ve still got the income from your investments.’ She gave him a reassuring hug. ‘Besides, your book will be finished in another six months or so, won’t it?’
‘My dear, you do not know the whole. Some of my shares have fallen; we have been living from capital for some months now. I have not yet had the time to go into the matter thoroughly, but my income is sadly depleted. We must cut down on expenses. I’m sure that you can do that; you manage so well.’
Mr Pagett was looking better; whisky and the comfortable knowledge that Mary would cope as she had been doing for years had somewhat restored his peace of mind. He would leave everything to her. He patted her hand and said vaguely, ‘We’ll say nothing—eh, my dear? And now I have some notes to write up, and I’m sure you have the supper to cook.’