The Doubtful Marriage. Бетти Нилс

and she married Leslie. She was a fortunate girl, she knew that, but at the same time there was the disturbing thought, buried deep, that something was missing from her life: romance; and being a normal pretty girl, she wanted that. It was something she wouldn’t get from Leslie; he would be a good husband and once they had settled down she would forget the romantic world she dreamed of. She was old enough to know better, she chided herself briskly, and, indeed, she wasn’t quite sure what she wished for.

      She went down to the village presently; supper would need to be augmented by a few extras. It was still raining and very windy as she went round the side of the house to the front drive. The doctor’s car was standing there: a Rolls-Royce in a discreet dark blue, and she stopped to admire it. Undoubtedly a successful man, their guest.

      The doctor, watching her admire his car from the study window, admired her.

      Mrs Binns, in the village shop, already knew as much about Dr Groves’s guest as Tilly. The village was very small but there were scattered farms all around it and, although many of the villagers went into nearby Haddenham to shop, Mrs Binns was still the acknowledged source of local gossip.

      ‘So ’e’s ’ere, Miss Matilda, and an ’andsome gent from what I hear.’ She sliced bacon briskly. ‘Nice bit of company for the doctor. Speaks English, does ’e?’

      ‘Very well, Mrs Binns. I’d better have some cheese…’

      ‘Mr Leslie coming this weekend?’

      ‘Yes. I hope it will stop raining.’

      People were more interesting than the weather from Mrs Binns’s point of view. ‘He’ll be glad to get ’ome, I’ll be bound. Named the day yet, ’ave you, Miss Matilda?’

      ‘Well, no.’ Matilda sought for something harmless to say which Mrs Binns wouldn’t be able to construe into something quite different. ‘We’re both so busy,’ she said finally.

      Which was true enough, but, when all was said and done, no reason for not getting engaged.

      She started back up the lane and met Dr van Kempler. He said cheerfully, ‘Hello, I’ve come to carry your basket. Is there a longer way back or do you mind the rain?’

      ‘Not a bit. We can go down Penny Lane and round Rush Bottom. It’ll be muddy…’ She glanced down at her companion’s highly polished shoes.

      ‘They’ll clean,’ he assured her laconically. ‘What do you do in your spare time, Matilda?’

      ‘Walk, garden, play tennis in the summer. Go to Thame or Oxford to shop.’

      ‘Never to London to go to a play or have an evening out?’ He glanced at her from under heavy lids. ‘Your uncle mentioned your…fiancé, is he?’

      ‘Not yet. He is a barrister and he’d rather spend his weekends here than in London.’ She got over the stile to Rush Bottom. It was her turn to ask questions. ‘Are you married, Dr van Kempler?’

      ‘No, though I hope to be within the next months. Life is easier for a doctor if he has a wife.’

      She was tempted to ask him if that was his reason for marrying, but she didn’t know him well enough and, although she thought he was friendly, she sensed that he could be quite the reverse if he were annoyed. He didn’t want to talk about himself; he began to talk about her work as practice nurse with her uncle. That lasted until they got back to the house.

      She was in his company only briefly after that; there was the evening visit to Mrs Jenkins before she phoned the district nurse in Haddenham who would take over for the weekend. When she got back, Emma, normally so unflappable, was fussing over the supper. ‘Such a nice young man,’ she enthused. ‘I must do me best.’

      ‘You always do, Emma,’ Tilly assured her, and then, ‘He’s not all that young, you know.’ She paused over the egg custard she was beating gently over the pan of hot water. ‘All of thirty-five—older than that…’

      ‘In ’is prime,’ declared Emma.

      Her uncle had no surgery in the morning. After breakfast he and his guest disappeared into his study, leaving Tilly free to clear the table, make the beds and tidy the house, having done which she got into her newest tweed skirt and quilted jacket, tied a scarf over her dark locks and walked through the village to the Manor.

      Leslie always drove himself down late on Friday evening, too late to see her; besides, as he had pointed out so reasonably, he needed a good night’s sleep after his busy week in town. He would be waiting for her and they would decide where they would walk, and afterwards he would go with her to her uncle’s house, spend five minutes talking to him and then go home to his lunch. It was a routine which never varied and she had accepted it, just as she had accepted Sunday’s habitual visit to morning church and then drinks at the Manor afterwards. Sometimes she wished for a day driving with Leslie, just the two of them, but he had pointed out that his mother had come to depend on his weekly visits, so she had said nothing more.

      He was in the sitting-room, glancing through the papers, when she reached the Manor and for some reason his, ‘Hello, old girl,’ annoyed her very much. Normally she was an even-tempered girl and sensible; better a sincere greeting shorn of glamour than a romantic one meaning nothing.

      She paid a dutiful visit to his mother and they had their walk, he talking about his week and she listening. He was still explaining a particularly interesting case when they reached her uncle’s house, to find him and the Dutch doctor sitting in the drawing-room, deep in discussion. They got to their feet as Tilly and Leslie went in and the doctor introduced Leslie to his guest and offered him a drink. It irked Tilly considerably that Leslie should refuse and, worse, give her a careless pat on the shoulder and a ‘’Bye, old girl,’ as he took his leave. With a heightened colour she gave the Dutchman a defiant look and met a bland face which gave nothing away; all the same she was sure that he was amused.

      She wouldn’t be seeing Leslie until the next morning; he was taking his mother over to Henley to see old friends and would stay there to dine, something which she had to explain to her uncle at lunch.

      ‘Pity you couldn’t go, too. Better still, have a day out together…’

      Tilly, serving the custard, said calmly, ‘I dare say we shall when the weather’s better.’

      ‘Well, if you’ve nothing else to do, you can go with Rauwerd to Oxford. He has a mind to renew his acquaintance with the colleges.’

      Dr van Kempler came to her rescue very nicely. ‘I’d be delighted if you would,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mention it because I supposed that you would be spending the day with—er—Leslie, but I should enjoy it much more if I had a companion.’

      ‘Oh, well, then I’ll come.’ Tilly smiled at him. ‘Were you there?’

      ‘Yes, years ago. There was a splendid tea-room in the High Street…’

      ‘It’s still there.’

      ‘Then perhaps we might have tea there?’

      The afternoon was a success. The rain didn’t bother the doctor. They walked down High Street to Magdalen Bridge and looked at the river, stopped to stare at Tom Tower, peered around Magdalen College, studied Radcliffe Camera, the Sheldonian Theatre and the Rotunda and then had their tea in a tea-room which the doctor swore hadn’t altered so much as by a teaspoon since he was there. They walked back presently to where he had parked the car and drove home. He was nicer than she had at first thought, mused Tilly, sitting back in the comfort of the Rolls, and it had been pleasant to spend an afternoon well away from the village. A pity that she and Leslie couldn’t take time to do that sometimes… She dismissed the thought as disloyal.

      The doctor wasn’t going until after tea on Sunday; Tilly got up early, made a trifle for lunch so that Emma would be free to see to the main course, whisked together a sponge cake as light as air, helped to get breakfast and went to church, Uncle Thomas on one side, Dr van Kempler on the other. Their pew was on the opposite side of the aisle to