A Gentle Awakening. Betty Neels

her day; she helped Nanny with the ironing and the cleaning of the silver, took Pauline mushrooming in the early mornings, and, with Mrs Frobisher’s consent, started to give her cooking lessons. By the time Sir William arrived on Friday afternoon, there was a dish of jam tarts and a fruit cake, a little soggy in the middle but still edible, both of which Pauline bore to the tea table with pride. Sir William, a kind and loving parent, ate quantities of both.

      The weekend was one of the happiest Florina had spent for a long time. For one thing, there was a peaceful content over the old home. Sir William insisted that they all breakfast together in the kitchen, a meal which Florina cooked with an almost painful wish to serve up something to perfection, just to please him. She succeeded very well; he ate everything put before him, carrying on a cheerful conversation meanwhile, even making Nanny laugh, something she seldom did. They were at the toast and marmalade stage on Saturday morning, when Pauline said, ‘I wish it could be like this always—just us, Daddy—you and me and Nanny and Florina. Must you marry Wanda? She wouldn’t sit at the kitchen table, and she’s always fussing about eating in case she gets fat.’

      Florina saw the look on Sir William’s face. There was a nasty temper hidden away behind that calm exterior, and to avert it she got to her feet, exclaiming loudly, ‘Shall I make another pot of coffee? And how about more toast?’ At the same time she cast a warning glance at Pauline.

      The child had gone very red and tears weren’t far off. She sighed and said, ‘I’m sorry, Daddy.’

      His face was placid again. ‘That’s all right, darling. What are we going to do today?’

      The pair of them went off presently, and Florina prepared lunch, decided what to have for dinner, made the coffee and went to help Nanny with the beds. The rest of the weekend was peaceful, and Florina, taking along the coffee tray to the patio where Sir William had settled with the Sunday papers after church, while Pauline fed the swans, thought how delightful life was.

      She gave him breakfast the next morning, happily aware that he would be back on Friday afternoon. Wanda Fortesque had gone to stay with friends in the south of France, and Florina allowed herself the childish hope that something, anything, would prevent her from ever coming back from there!

      The weather changed suddenly during the day, by the evening it was chilly and grey, and Pauline seemed to have the beginnings of a cold.

      Nanny came down to the kitchen after she had seen Pauline to bed. ‘The child’s feverish,’ she declared. ‘I think I’d better keep her in bed tomorrow; these summer colds can be heavy.’

      But when morning came, Pauline was feeling worse; moreover, she had a pinky, blotchy rash.

      ‘Measles,’ said Nanny, and phoned for the doctor.

      He came from Wilton that morning, confirmed Nanny’s diagnosis, and observed that there was a lot of it about and that Pauline, having had an anti-measles injection when she was a little girl, would soon be on her feet again. ‘Plenty to drink,’ he advised, ‘and keep her in bed until her temperature is down.’ He patted Nanny reassuringly on the shoulder. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

      All the same, Nanny telephoned Sir William in London, only to be told that he was at the hospital and would be there all day. She put the phone down, undecided as to what to do, when it rang again.

      Florina, making iced lemonade for the invalid, heard her talking at some length, and presently she came back to the kitchen.

      ‘Sir William’s not at home and won’t be until the evening, but Miss Fortesque was there. She rang back when I told her I wanted him urgently, said she would tell him when he got back. I would rather have phoned the hospital, but that would be no use if he is in the theatre or the out-patients.’

      By the time they were ready for bed, more than ready, for Florina had suggested that neither Mrs Deakin nor Mrs Datchett came to work until Pauline was better, for they both had children, there had been no word from Sir William. Nanny telephoned once more, only to be told by Miss Fortesque that he was still out.

      Pauline was much better in the morning and Nanny, while still a tiny bit puzzled as to why Sir William hadn’t telephoned, decided that there was no need to bother him, not until the evening at any rate. She and Florina spent another busy day, for the house was large and there was a certain amount of work to get through, as well as pandering to Pauline’s increasing whims. Nanny had a headache by teatime, and Florina persuaded her to go to bed early.

      ‘Only if you telephone Sir William,’ declared Nanny.

      Florina waited until she had taken up two supper trays, eaten a scratch meal of beans on toast herself, before dialling the number she had been given. Miss Fortesque answered. No, Sir William wasn’t at home and wasn’t likely to be for some time and was it urgent? He had had a busy day and needed his rest. She slammed down the receiver before Florina had got her mouth open.

      Nanny had a rash in the morning, a high temperature, a terrible headache and a firmly rooted opinion that she was going to die.

      ‘Nonsense, Mrs Frobisher,’ said Florina robustly. ‘You’ve got the measles. I’m going to get the doctor.’

      He wasn’t quite as cheerful about Nanny. It transpired that she had never had measles as a child, an illness, which he pointed out to Florina, that could be quite serious in anyone as elderly as Nanny. ‘Keep her in bed,’ he advised. ‘Plenty of fluids, and don’t let her read or use her eyes. Keep the blinds drawn and take her temperature every four hours. I’ll be out to see her again tomorrow.’ He added as an afterthought, ‘Can you manage?’

      Sir William would be home on the next day, so Florina assured the doctor that, of course, she could manage.

      It was hard work. Pauline had made a quick recovery, although she still needed looking after and had to stay in bed for another day or so, but Nanny, suddenly an old, ill Nanny, needed constant attention. Not that she was a difficult patient, but she was feverish, her head ached and she fretted at lying in bed.

      Florina, trotting up and down stairs with trays and cool drinks, was tempted to telephone Sir William again, but it hardly seemed worth it since he would be home in less than twenty-four hours. She settled her two patients for the night at last, and went to the kitchen to make out a menu for Sir William’s dinner for the following evening. It would have to be something quick, and which could be left in the Aga to look after itself. She made a chocolate mousse and put it in the freezer, made a vegetable soup, and then decided that she would make a cheese soufflé—something which could be done at the last minute. She had picked some peas and beans earlier in the day, and there was plenty of fruit and cheese and biscuits. She went to take a last look at her two patients and then went to bed herself, to sleep the moment her head touched the pillow.

      Doctor Stone came again the next morning, cautioned her that Pauline should stay in bed for another day or so, declared that Nanny was holding her own nicely, but that she would need careful nursing, accepted a cup of coffee and remarked that Florina was managing very well.

      ‘No need to send you a nurse,’ he told her, ‘and, since there isn’t one available at the moment, that’s a good thing. Is Sir William coming down for the weekend?’

      Florina said that, yes, he was, and thought tiredly of all the extra cooking there would be. She was, after all, the cook, and he had every right to expect well prepared meals to be set before him. Doctor Stone went, and she made a large quantity of lemonade, then made herself a sandwich and started to get a light lunch for Pauline. Nanny didn’t want anything, but Florina made an egg nog and spent some precious time persuading her to drink it.

      She spent more time settling Pauline for the afternoon. There was the radio, of course, and her cassette player, and since reading wasn’t to be encouraged, a sketch-book had to be found with coloured crayons. Florina, finally free to go to the kitchen, put on a clean apron, tossed her plait over her shoulder and started to shell the peas.

      She was very tired; she let the sound of the stream, racing under the house and on into the garden, soothe her. She was disturbed five minutes later by a leisurely tread