Year's Happy Ending. Бетти Нилс

very quiet after they had gone, the three of them. Deborah bathed and dressed Dee and put her out in the garden in the pram before racing round making beds and tidying up.

      ‘It’ll be a nice roast chicken for lunch,’ said Mary. ‘Mister Gideon says he must go this afternoon—he’s partial to my trifle too.’

      Deborah tried to think of something suitable to say to this; it was evident that Mary doted on the man and there was no point in offending the dear soul by saying what she thought about the professor; after all, she was unlikely to meet him again. She would forget him, just as she had forgotten a number of people she had met and disliked during the last few years.

      Mary was looking at her, waiting for her to make some comment. She said brightly: ‘I’m sure he’ll love that—men like sweet things, don’t they?’

      The housekeeper gave a rich chuckle. ‘That they do—never grow up, they don’t, not in some ways. Now Mr Burns, he likes a nice chocolate pudding.’

      She watched Deborah collect an armful of small garments ready for the washing machine, and added comfortably: ‘Well, I’ll be off to my kitchen. I must say you’re a real help around the house, Nanny, not like some of those toffee-nosed au pairs Mrs Burns has tried out. Not a success they weren’t.’

      Deborah looked up briefly. ‘I’m only here for a short time, Mary. I expect Mrs Burns will have other plans.’

      ‘Ah, well as long as they speak English,’ she sighed.

      The professor appeared suddenly and almost silently, just as Deborah was settling Dee back in her pram after her morning feed. ‘Any coffee?’ he wanted to know.

      ‘Mary will have it ready, I expect.’ Deborah kicked the brake off, and began to wheel the pram across the lawn towards the drive. She usually had her coffee with Mary, this morning she would go for a walk first and leave the housekeeper to enjoy their visitor’s company.

      But it seemed that the professor had other ideas. He laid a large hand on the pram’s handle so that she was forced to stop. He said smoothly: ‘You don’t have to run away you know, I don’t bite; we’ve had no chance to get to know each other.’

      ‘What would be the point?’ she wanted to know matter-of-factly. ‘We’re most unlikely to meet again; I go all over the place.’

      He had steered the pram towards the patio, anchored it there and put his head through the open french window to shout to Mary. When he emerged he observed in a friendly way: ‘You must see quite a lot of life,’ and spoilt it by adding: ‘From the wings as it were.’

      She said in a decidedly acid voice: ‘I daresay that’s more fun than being buried alive in economics.’

      ‘Ah, but when I’ve reduced high powered chaos to orderly statistics, I er—I enjoy myself.’

      Mary came with the coffee and the three of them sat drinking it in the bright sunshine while the talk eddied to and fro between Mary and the professor, with Deborah not saying much. She was in truth, very occupied in wondering just how he enjoyed himself. In a room full of computers, perhaps? catching up on a little light reading in the Financial Times? entertaining some pretty girl to dinner, spending the evening—the night, with her? more than likely.

      ‘A penny for them,’ said the professor suddenly so that she went a bright and becoming pink. She mumbled something and Mary said comfortably: ‘Thinking about where she’ll go next, I’ll be bound. Isn’t that right, Nanny? For all you know it’ll be one of those Arab countries with gold bath taps and a horde of servants—much in demand our nannies are in that part of the world. Would you love to go there, dear?’

      ‘No, I don’t think so.’ It was a great relief that she hadn’t had to answer Professor Beaufort’s question.

      ‘But you do travel?’

      ‘Well, yes, but I’ve only been to the south of France and Brussels and Scotland. I’m quite happy to stay in England.’

      ‘But you don’t object to going abroad?’ The professor’s voice was very casual.

      ‘Not in the least. Children are the same anywhere.’ She put down her coffee cup and got to her feet. ‘I’ll take Dee for her walk.’ She glanced at her watch, but before she could speak: ‘I’ll fetch the twins, Nanny. Mary, may we have lunch just a little early so that I can get away in good time?’

      As she wheeled the pram away Deborah took time to tell herself how pleasant it would be when he’d gone—quite quiet and a bit dull perhaps, but pleasant; he was a disturbing person to have around the house. ‘He may be your uncle,’ she told the sleeping Dee, ‘but I don’t like him. Him and his economics, indeed.’ She tossed her sandy head and marched smartly through the village and up the hill on the other side where presently she sat down with her back against a tree until it was time to go back and give Dee her orange juice.

      Lunch was a boisterous affair which petered out into tears and tantrums from the twins because their uncle was going away again.

      He swung them in the air in turn and hugged them briefly. ‘If you are very good and don’t howl in that frightful fashion and do exactly what Nanny tells you and eat your dinners without fuss, I’ll give you each a real bicycle. It had better be before Christmas otherwise I might get in Father Christmas’s way. Let’s see, shall we say the first of December?’

      He left them with a brief nod to Deborah and a much warmer leave taking from Mary. If she hadn’t been kept so busy all the afternoon counting days on the calendar for the twins’ benefit, she might have had the time to feel annoyed about that. Although in all fairness she herself had pointed out that they were most unlikely to see each other again, and as far as she could see they had absolutely nothing in common.

      There was no point in thinking about him; she dismissed him from her mind and bent to the task of keeping the twins occupied in a suitable fashion, making sure that they ate their food and acting as mediator when they quarrelled—which was often. What with the pair of them and baby Dee, who although no trouble at all, needed her attentions more or less round the clock, the next few days passed rapidly enough. But Mrs Burns gave no indication as to when she would return although she telephoned each day.

      It was four days since the professor had left, just as they were about to start a picnic tea on the lawn, that Mrs Burn’s racy sports car turned into the drive and stopped with a squealing of brakes before her front door.

      The children had seen of course, and were already racing to meet her as she got out of the car. They closed in on her and for a moment there was pandemonium; laughing and shrieks of delight and Mrs Burns explaining that she had come home, Granny was well enough to leave and Daddy was on his way back too. She crossed the lawn to where Deborah sat with Dee on her lap, beginning to explain all over again long before she reached her.

      ‘I should have phoned, Nanny, but I wanted to make sure that Doctor Wyatt was perfectly satisfied with my mother’s progress. There’s a nurse with her of course, but when he said that she was quite out of danger and that I need stay no longer, I just threw my things into a bag and came racing home. And Bill’s on his way back too; it’s all so exciting!’

      She held out her arms for the baby who smiled contentedly showing a good deal of gum. Her mother kissed the top of her head: ‘They all look marvellous. Have they been good? I know you said each day that they were giving no trouble, but I daresay you were driven out of your mind…’

      Deborah laughed. ‘No, indeed, I wasn’t—and they were good, really they were. Would you like tea here, or indoors?’ She got to her feet. ‘I’ll go and tell Mary…’

      ‘No need, Nanny. I’m going to have tea here with you. I’ll borrow Simon’s mug and he can share with Suzy.’ She settled gracefully on the garden seat and patted it. ‘Come and sit beside me and tell me what you think of my family.’ She tucked Dee under her arm, told the twins to sit on the grass beside her, and watched Deborah pouring the tea, handing round mugs of milk and plates of bread and butter.