The Fortunes of Francesca. Betty Neels

he said slowly. ‘I trust Lady Trumper doesn’t have to listen to your chatter?’

      ‘No. No, she doesn’t, I only speak when spoken to. I’m sorry if I bored you, only I thought—well, I thought you looked the kind of person one could chat with.’ She crossed the narrow pavement and took out her key.

      ‘Goodnight, Professor.’ The door closed softly behind her.

      The professor drove himself back over Westminster Bridge, along Whitehall, into Trafalgar Square and so into Pall Mall, going north until he reached Wimpole Street. He had a flat here, over his consulting room, for he spent a fair amount of time in London. He drove the car round to the mews behind the row of tall houses, walked back to his front door and let himself in.

      The hall was narrow with the waiting room and his consulting room on one side of it. An elegant staircase led to the floor above and he took these two at a time to his own front door, just as it was opened by a rotund little man with a thatch of grey hair and a round, merry face.

      He answered the professor’s greeting merrily. ‘A bit on the late side, aren’t you, sir? But dinner’s waiting for you when you want it. You’re going out later—I was to remind you…’

      The professor had thrown down his coat and was crossing the hall to one of the doors leading from it, his bag and a pile of letters in his hand.

      ‘Thanks, Crisp. Dinner in ten minutes.’

      His study was a comfortable room lined with bookshelves, with a fire burning in the small fireplace and a desk loaded with papers, a computer, telephone and reference books. He sat down behind it with a sigh of pleasure. This was where he would have liked to have spent his evening, writing learned articles for the medical journals, reading, going over his notes concerning his patients. If it hadn’t been for that girl he would have been home an hour earlier and would have had time to finish notes for a lecture he was to give later that week. He wondered briefly why he had stopped to give her a lift. She hadn’t been particularly grateful…

      He dined presently, changed and went out again, this time to an evening party given by one of his colleagues. He knew many of the guests there. All of them were pleasant people, leading pleasant lives—the men in one or other of the professions, the women well-dressed, amusing, able to carry on a witty conversation. He didn’t know any of them well and was unaware that he was liked. He got on well with the men and was charming to the women, but the charm hid a reserve none of them, so far, had been able to penetrate.

      He left early with the plea that he needed to go back to St Giles’ to check his latest patient—something which disappointed several of the women there who had made up their minds to beg him for a lift to their home.

      He thought about them as he drove back towards the City. They were all delightful companions, and a delight to the eye, so why were their elegant images dimmed by the tiresome Franny with her dowdy mac and damp, untidy hair? He supposed that he must feel sorry for her. He smiled to himself; she wouldn’t thank him for that. She needed no one’s pity; she was one of those tiresome people who bounced back…

      Auntie and Finn were in the sitting room, one with his head bowed over his books, the other silently knitting. They both looked up as she went in.

      ‘Did I hear a car?’ asked Auntie.

      ‘Yes. A Rolls-Royce. That doctor—he’s a professor—saw me as I came out of a solicitor’s office in the City and gave me a lift.’

      ‘Why were you there, dear?’

      Franny explained. ‘But I didn’t enjoy the ride very much. I expect he was tired after a hard day’s work. He was a bit snappy. I suppose he felt that he simply had to give me a lift once he’d seen me.’

      ‘Which Rolls was it?’ asked Finn.

      ‘Well, it was a Rolls-Royce. Aren’t they all the same?’

      ‘Not by a long chalk. What’s his name, this professor?’

      ‘Van der Kettener—he’s Dutch. Perhaps that’s why he’s so testy…’

      Finn gave her an exasperated look. ‘You only had a lift with one of the best heart surgeons in Europe. He was mentioned in a lecture the other day, goes all over the place, operating and lecturing, but spends a lot of time here. He’s honorary consultant in several hospitals. Lives in Holland. You lucky girl.’

      Finn went back to his books and Auntie said mildly, ‘Well, that’s nice, isn’t it, love? Such a clever man, no doubt, and yet sparing time to bring you home.’

      ‘Pooh,’ said Franny. ‘With a car like that it couldn’t have been a bother. I don’t suppose he ever has to queue for a bus or get his own breakfast.’

      ‘You don’t like him, dear?’

      She thought about that. ‘I think I’m sorry for him. He was ever so—so remote. Perhaps he’s quite different at home, with his wife and children. I wonder if they come over here with him, or do they live in Holland?’

      She glanced at the clock. ‘Heavens, is that the time? I’ll get the supper. Macaroni cheese.’ She paused in the doorway. ‘I was going to make a cheese pudding, but the macaroni is quicker. Pay day tomorrow—I’ll get fish and chips.’

      Finn gave a satisfied grunt, but Auntie sighed for the days when things had been different. Not that she wasn’t grateful for this poky little house in the wrong part of London, and her pension and the company of Franny and Finn. She had been a widow when they had come to live with her, and they had just lost their parents.

      If only she hadn’t fallen ill and Franny hadn’t had to give up her nursing training to look after her and Finn. They had had plans for the future—Franny, once trained, would have found a post at some hospital in a country town, they would have lived in a small flat and managed very nicely, while Finn trained to be a doctor. With him living on his grant and any money Franny could spare, they would have made a success of things.

      As it was now, they were in a cleft stick. Their combined savings were at a low ebb and there was no hope of Franny going back to the hospital; she had had to find this job where she could also cope with the house, the shopping and the cooking. Auntie had been warned that her doing anything other than the lightest of tasks might have serious consequences.

      The house, which they all secretly hated, had been offered to her at a very low rent after her husband died, by his firm, and, since there had been nothing else to do, she had accepted the offer.

      Her husband, a scientist, had had a good job and they had lived pleasantly in a pretty little mews cottage in Islington. But he had been so absorbed in his work that mundane things such as life assurance or saving for a rainy day had been overlooked. Auntie had never blamed him for that—he had been a good husband—but she was thankful that they had had no children.

      She put down her knitting wool and went to the kitchen to lay the table for their meal. She didn’t feel very well, but there was enough for them to worry about without fussing over her. She said cheerfully, ‘Tell me more about this professor—he sounds interesting.’

      The next day, pay day, was the bright spot in Franny’s week. One of her duties was to go to the bank each week, collect the money for the wages and hand over the little envelopes to the staff. She hadn’t liked the idea of handing Barker’s wages over to him; she left his envelope on the desk in her little office. It was an old-fashioned way to be paid, money in an envelope, but somehow much more satisfying than a cheque. Feeling rich, she bought the fish and chips on the way home.

      They enjoyed their supper and Auntie went to bed early. ‘And don’t fuss,’ she begged Franny. ‘I’m only a little tired.’

      Franny skimmed around the kitchen, tidying it and putting everything ready for breakfast while Finn finished his studies and took himself off to his room. Once he had gone, she gave the sitting room a good clean. It was almost midnight when she went to bed and she slept at once.

      She woke suddenly