Judith. Betty Neels

looking in all the rooms as she went. The house was bigger than one would have supposed from the outside: too big just for her parents, she supposed, but they had bought it when they had married years ago and her father had been a partner in a firm of solicitors in Calne, and when he retired two years previously there had been no talk of moving to something smaller and more modern. Her mother had said that it would be nice to have enough room for Judith’s children when she married, and meanwhile the extra bedrooms could be kept closed; if she was disappointed that they were still closed, she never mentioned it.

      The weather was fine and warm. Judith shopped with her mother, helped her father in the garden and renewed her acquaintance with the large number of friends her parents had. The gentle, undemanding life did her good. Her pallor took on a faint tan and the slight hollows in her cheeks began to fill out. Before the first week was up she assured her mother that she felt fit for work again and played several vigorous games of tennis to prove it.

      ‘You’re not bored?’ her mother asked anxiously. ‘There’s nothing to do except take Curtis for his walks and do the shopping and the garden, and you ought to be having fun at your age. We love having you, but what you need is a complete change of scene, darling.’

      It was the next morning when the letter came from her father’s brother, Uncle Tom. He had known about Judith’s measles, naturally he had been told, since he was a doctor as well as her godfather. Now he wrote to ask if she could see her way to going to Hawkshead for a couple of weeks; his housekeeper had had to go home to look after her daughter’s children while she was in hospital and he needed someone—perhaps Judith would be glad of an easy little job? keeping her hand in, so to speak. Two weeks would be enough, went on the letter persuasively, she could have the last week at home. There was a girl from the village to do the housework; all he wanted was someone to run the house, answer the telephone and do the shopping. Besides, he would like to see her again.

      They read it in turns, and Judith had just got to the end of it when the telephone rang and Uncle Tom added his voice to the written word. Judith found herself agreeing to drive up that very day and stay for two weeks. ‘Even if I leave in an hour,’ she warned him, ‘I shan’t be with you much before supper time— I’ve only got the Fiat 600, you know.’ She added: ‘It will be more than an hour—I’ve got to pack and fill up…’

      Uncle Tom dismissed this easily enough. ‘Two hundred and fifty miles, more or less, even in that ridiculous little car of yours you should be here for high tea.’ He chuckled richly. ‘Do your best, girl, because I’m counting on you to get here.’ He hung up on her.

      ‘Well,’ said Mrs Golightly triumphantly, ‘isn’t that exactly what I said?—that you needed a complete change? We’re going to miss you, darling, but you’ll be back for your last week, won’t you? And Uncle Tom is such a good kind man, and a doctor too.’ She added delicately: ‘Is there anyone who might telephone or write to you? I mean, someone you’d want to know about?’

      ‘No, Mother. Well, you might send on the letters, but if anyone rings just say I’m on holiday, will you?’ She gave her parent a rather absentminded kiss and went upstairs to pack her bag.

      Her father had fetched the Fiat from the garage tucked away behind the houses, her mother had cut sandwiches and filled a flask with coffee and they had both asked her if she had sufficient money. She hugged the pair of them; she would really much rather have stayed at home for the whole of the month, but perhaps she would enjoy the last week with them even more for having been away. She started off down the street as the church clock chimed eleven; Uncle Tom would have to wait for his high tea.

      She went north from Lacock through Chippenham and then on to the M4 until it reached the M5, when she took the latter to begin the long drive to the Lakes. The motorway was monotonous; if she hadn’t been anxious to reach Hawkshead by early evening, she might have chosen a different, more interesting route. At the Birmingham roundabout she switched to the M6 and presently pulled in for petrol and sat in the car, eating her sandwiches and drinking the coffee, glad of a respite, watching with envy the powerful cars tearing along the fast lane. Once more on her way, pushing the little car to its utmost, she thanked her stars that she liked driving even at the sedate pace that was the Fiat’s best, otherwise the journey would be an endless one. All the same she heaved a sigh of relief as she left Preston behind her and knew that her long day was almost over. Once past Lancaster and Carnford and she could look forward to turning off the motorway at last.

      The turn came finally and at the sight of a small hotel standing by the quiet road, she stopped the car and had tea, a delicious tea with scones and sandwiches and little cakes, all extra good after her long drive. She was reluctant to leave, but the afternoon was almost over and she still had something under an hour’s driving to do. But now the country was wide, almost empty of traffic, the mountains ahead looming over the fields and copses, golden in the sunshine. Judith went slowly through Kendal and out on to the Ambleside road. There was a ferry at Bowness, crossing Lake Windermere and shortening the road to Hawkshead, but she wasn’t sure when it ran, so it was safer, if longer, to go round the head of the lake and take the road to Hawkshead. The village lay between Windermere and Coniston Water and had at its southernmost tip yet another lake, but a very small one, Esthwaite Water, and Judith slowed the car, for the country here was beautiful. Grizedale Forest lay ahead, beyond the village, and on either side of the green wooded valley were the mountains. The village lay snugly, a delightful maze of narrow streets and stone cottages. She remembered it with pleasure as she turned into one of its small squares and stopped before a house, larger than its neighbours with a flight of outdoor steps and small latticed windows. As she got out of the car one of these windows was flung open and her uncle’s cheerful voice bade her go inside at once.

      She had been before, of course; his voice came from the surgery, which meant that he would be unable to welcome her. She went through the half open door and along the stone-flagged passage to the door at the end and opened it. The kitchen, a good-sized low-ceilinged room, was not modern by glossy magazine standards, but fitted with an old-fashioned dresser, a well scrubbed table and Windsor chairs on either side of the Aga. Judith dumped her case on the floor, opened up the stove and put the already singing kettle to boil, for she wanted a cup of tea above everything else, and then went back down the passage and into the sitting room. Large, untidy and comfortable—no colour scheme, just a collection of easy chairs, tables, a fine old cupboard against one wall and rows of books filling the shelves against another wall. Judith opened the cupboard doors, collected china and a teapot, found a tray and took the lot back to the kitchen. She had her head in the pantry looking for something to eat when her uncle joined her.

      He greeted her heartily and then studied her at leisure. ‘Too thin,’ he observed at length, ‘too pale, too hollow-cheeked. A couple of weeks of good Cumbrian air and plenty of wholesome food will make all the difference.’

      ‘That reminds me—I’ve put the kettle on. Have you had tea, Uncle Tom?’

      ‘I was waiting for you, my dear.’ His voice was guileless, his nice elderly craggy face beamed at her. ‘And a nice meal after surgery, perhaps?’

      ‘Seven o’clock do?’ asked Judith, buttering bread, spreading jam and piling sandwiches on a plate. ‘High tea, I suppose?’

      Her uncle rubbed his hands together. ‘Boiled eggs, and there’s a nice ham Mrs Lockyer left in the larder…’ He took the tea she offered him and began on the sandwiches.

      ‘Did you have any lunch?’ asked Judith.

      ‘Coffee—or was it tea?—at the Gossards’ farm—the old man has got a septic finger.’

      Judith glanced at the clock. ‘Surgery in ten minutes. Have another cup of tea while I change—the same room, is it? Then I’ll give you a hand if you need one.’

      She went upstairs to the room over the surgery, low-ceilinged and very clean with its old-fashioned brass bedstead, solid chest of drawers and dressing table. She opened the window wide and breathed the cool air with delight before opening her case and getting out a denim skirt and a cotton tee-shirt. She had travelled up in a linen suit and silk blouse, both of them quite unsuitable for the life she would