The Right Kind of Girl. Бетти Нилс

told her to do—undressed like lightning and got into bed. She was asleep within minutes.

      She woke suddenly to the sound of the door-knocker being thumped.

      ‘Mother,’ said Emma, and scrambled out of bed, her heart thumping as loudly as the knocker. Not bothering with slippers, she tugged her dressing-gown on as she flew downstairs. It was already dusk; she had slept for hours—too long—she should have phoned the hospital. She turned the key in the lock and flung the door open.

      Professor Sir Paul Wyatt was on the doorstep. He took the door from her and came in and shut it behind him. ‘It is most unwise to open your door without putting up the chain or making sure that you know who it is.’

      She eyed him through a tangle of hair. ‘How can I know if I don’t look first, and there isn’t a chain?’ Her half-awake brain remembered then.

      ‘Mother—what’s happened? Why are you here?’ She caught at his sleeve. ‘She’s worse…’

      His firm hand covered hers. ‘Your mother is doing splendidly; she’s an excellent patient. I’m sorry, I should have realised…You were asleep.’

      She curled her cold toes on the hall carpet and nodded. ‘I didn’t mean to sleep for so long; it’s getting dark.’ She looked up at him. ‘Why are you here, then?’

      ‘I’m on my way home, but it has occurred to me that I shall be taking morning surgery here for the next week or two. I’ll drive you up to Exeter after my morning visits and bring you back in time for evening surgery here.’

      ‘Oh, would you? Would you really do that? How very kind of you, but won’t it be putting you out? Sister said that you were taking a sabbatical, and that means you’re on holiday, doesn’t it?’

      ‘Hardly a holiday, and I’m free to go in and out as I wish.’

      ‘But you live in Exeter?’

      ‘No, but not far from it; I shall not be in the least inconvenienced.’

      She looked at him uncertainly, for he sounded casual and a little annoyed, but before she could speak he went on briskly, ‘You’d better go and put some clothes on. Have you food in the house?’

      ‘Yes, thank you. Cook gave me a pasty.’ She was suddenly hungry at the thought of it. ‘It was kind of you to come. I expect you want to go home—your days are long…’

      He smiled. ‘I’ll make a pot of tea while you dress, and while we are drinking it I can explain exactly what I’ve done for your mother.’

      She flew upstairs and flung on her clothes, washed her face and tied back her hair. Never mind how she looked—he wouldn’t notice and he must be wanting to go home, wherever that was.

      She perceived that he was a handy man in the kitchen—the tea was made, Queenie had been fed, and he had found a tin of biscuits.

      ‘No milk, I’m afraid,’ he said, not looking up from pouring the tea into two mugs. And then, very much to her surprise he asked, ‘Have you sufficient money?’

      ‘Yes—yes, thank you, and Mrs Smith-Darcy owes me a week’s wages.’ Probably in the circumstances she wouldn’t get them, but he didn’t need to know that.

      He nodded, handed her a mug and said, ‘Now, as to your mother…’

      He explained simply in dry-as-dust words which were neither threatening nor casual. ‘Your mother will stay in hospital for a week—ten days, perhaps—then I propose to send her to a convalescent home—there is a good one at Moretonhampstead, not too far from here—just for a few weeks. When she returns home she should be more or less able to resume her normal way of living, although she will have to keep to some kind of a diet. Time enough for that, however. Will you stay here alone?’ He glanced at her. ‘Perhaps you have family or a friend who would come…?’

      ‘No family—at least, father had some cousins somewhere in London but they don’t—that is, since he died we haven’t heard from them. I’ve friends all over Buckfastleigh, though. If I asked one of them I know they’d come and stay but there’s no need. I’m not nervous; besides, I’ll try and find some temporary work until Mother comes home.’

      ‘Mrs Smith-Darcy has given you the sack?’

      ‘I’m sure of it. I was very rude to her this morning.’ Anxious not to invite his pity, she added, ‘There’s always part-time work here—the abbey shop or the otter sanctuary.’ True enough during the season—some months away!

      He put down his mug. ‘Good. I’ll call for you some time after twelve o’clock tomorrow morning.’ His goodbye was brief.

      Left alone, she put the pasty to warm in the oven, washed the mugs and laid out a tray. The house was cold—there had never been enough money for central heating, and it was too late to make a fire in the sitting-room. She ate her supper, had a shower and went to bed, reassured by her visitor’s calm manner and his certainty that her mother was going to be all right. He was nice, she thought sleepily, and not a bit pompous. She slept on the thought.

      It was raining hard when she woke and there was a vicious wind driving off the moor. She had breakfast and hurried round to Dobbs’s garage to use his phone. Her mother had had a good night, she was told, and was looking forward to seeing her later—reassuring news, which sent her back to give the good news to Queenie and then do the housework while she planned all the things she would do before her mother came home.

      She had a sandwich and a cup of coffee well before twelve o’clock, anxious not to keep the professor waiting, so that when he arrived a few minutes before that hour she was in her coat, the house secure, Queenie settled in her basket and the bag she had packed for her mother ready in the hall.

      He wished her a friendly good morning, remarked upon the bad weather and swept her into the car and drove away without wasting a moment. Conversation, she soon discovered, wasn’t going to flourish in the face of his monosyllabic replies to her attempts to make small talk. She decided that he was tired or mulling over his patients and contented herself with watching the bleak landscape around them.

      At the hospital he said, ‘Will half-past four suit you? Be at the main entrance, will you?’ He added kindly, ‘I’m sure you’ll be pleased with your mother’s progress.’ He got out of the car and opened her door, waited while she went in and then, contrary to her surmise, drove out of the forecourt and out of the city. Emma, unaware of this, expecting him to be about his own business in the hospital, made her way to her mother’s room and forgot him at once.

      Her mother was indeed better—pale still, and hung around with various tubes, but her hair had been nicely brushed and when Emma had helped her into her pink bed-jacket she looked very nearly her old self.

      ‘It’s a miracle, isn’t it?’ said Emma, gently embracing her parent. ‘I mean, it’s only forty-eight or so hours and here you are sitting up in bed.’

      Mrs Trent, nicely sedated still, agreed drowsily. ‘You brought my knitting? Thank you, dear. Is Queenie all right? And how are you managing to come? It can’t be easy—don’t come every day; it’s such a long way…’

      ‘Professor Wyatt is standing in for Dr Treble, so he brings me here after morning surgery and takes me back in time for his evening surgery.’

      ‘That’s nice.’ Mrs Trent gave Emma’s hand a little squeeze. ‘So I’ll see you each day; I’m so glad.’ She closed her eyes and dropped off and Emma sat holding her hand, making plans.

      A job—that was the most important thing to consider; a job she would be able to give up when her mother returned home. She might not be trained for anything much but she could type well enough and she could do simple accounts and housekeep adequately enough; there was sure to be something…

      Her mother woke presently and she talked cheerfully about everyday things, not mentioning Mrs Smith-Darcy and, indeed, she didn’t intend to do so unless her mother asked.