The buses were strange, not to say fearsome vehicles, ramshackle to the point where it was astounding that every jolt over the roads didn’t cause them to fly apart. Decorated in garish colours, crammed with passengers, and invariably ornamented with painted signs of a religious nature, at once stoutly optimistic and realistically aware of peril implicit in the next lurch.
Miss Tillard had been accompanied on her fateful excursion by Theresa Onil, then a young woman in her early twenties. She had been enrolled as a pupil at the school not very long after Elinor became headmistress; a couple of years later her mother had died and Theresa had been kept on as a boarder, her fees being paid by Elinor who liked the girl and felt sorry for her. Besides, there was really nowhere else for her to go. She seemed to have no knowledge of any relatives back in her native village, and Miss Tillard knew that a light-skinned child was unlikely to be welcomed by any connections who might be discovered. Inquiries were made through the District Commissioner but no one came forward to claim Theresa.
She had formed an ambition to become a teacher, probably in imitation of her admired Miss Tillard, but she hadn’t managed to pass the examinations. When she was eighteen she had begun to take on a number of unofficial duties which she allotted to herself and discharged with care. By the end of another year or two she was supervising the welfare of the youngest children, occasionally acting as a classroom assistant, helping Miss Tillard with a number of irritating minor tasks and in general making herself useful and agreeable all round.
Elinor had felt a blend of sentimental nostalgia and holiday gaiety as she boarded the bus. Theresa had worn an unsmiling look, considering the expedition both undignified and unwise. On the front of the vehicle a short length of wood hammered into place above the driver’s seat bore the flowing inscription: The Lord Will Lead Me. Beneath it a second piece of wood said simply but alarmingly: To The Cemetery.
Half a mile outside the town Theresa had suddenly seized Elinor’s arm and pointed with horror at the road ribboning out behind them. Elinor had just time to catch sight of a wheel from the bus bouncing along on its own before the vehicle fell over.
When Elinor came out of hospital some weeks later it seemed a very good idea for Theresa to accompany her on the voyage home and see her settled into temporary accommodation. Two or three months had lengthened into six, into a year. And then there was the move to the new bungalow, Theresa would be so useful at such a time. Miss Tillard had always intended to lead an active life during her retirement, but the England in which she perched her exotic bungalow was a good deal changed from the country in which she had grown up; in fact she frequently felt herself in the first year or two after her return as much of an alien as she had felt during the recent upheavals in the Gold Coast.
And physically she had never been the same woman since her disastrous trip in the bus. Time drifted by and she made a cosy little nest for the two of them on the outskirts of this quiet English village. She saw a certain amount of her brother and his family, but nothing like as much as she had expected.
She had barely moved into her bungalow when her brother’s elder daughter got married and took herself off with her new husband to the other side of England. A year later the second girl also married; Miss Tillard had scarcely had time to congratulate herself on the fact that Pauline would be living at Oakfield, more or less on her own doorstep, when she learned that Godfrey Barratt intended to make his career in the Army.
Eighteen months later Elinor’s brother died and his widow sold her house, disposed of the half-share in the estate agency to a Tillard cousin – neither of the girls having the slightest inclination to concern themselves with the firm – and took herself off to Spain to live.
The next eight or nine years floated past Elinor like a none too pleasant dream. She no longer even raised the question of sending Theresa back to Africa; without her she would have felt herself totally isolated, a prey to melancholy. It scarcely ever occurred to Godfrey Barratt’s father, perfectly content with his life at Oakfield, his long-settled hobbies and interests, to invite Miss Tillard in for a meal or to share in an outing, nor did it ever cross the mind of Bessie Forrest – who ran Oakfield after the death of Mrs Barratt – that she might make overtures of friendship to the young African woman at the bungalow.
Miss Tillard was able to feel little regret when old Mr Barratt died and it was with deep relief that she learned soon afterwards that his son was leaving the Army and coming home to settle.
Godfrey stood now just inside Miss Tillard’s gate. Must be about time for Nightingale to be leaving; he walked briskly up the path and pressed the bell. The door was opened a minute or two later by Theresa who gave him her usual calm glance.
‘Do come in.’ She stood aside to let him enter the bright airy hall decorated with mementoes of Africa. ‘I don’t think Dr Nightingale will be much longer.’ She opened the door into the sitting room. ‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting in here.’ A little heavier than when she had first come to England but still trimly built, rather tall, with a graceful, erect way of walking. Not a particularly handsome woman but pleasant enough to look at. Large brown eyes, a smooth skin the colour of milky coffee, shining black hair with a strong wave, taken neatly back and arranged in heavy coils.
A few minutes later Godfrey heard the murmur of voices and after a brief interval the sitting room door opened and Theresa ushered in the young doctor.
‘I gather you’re worried about your aunt,’ Nightingale said cheerfully when Theresa had discreetly removed herself.
‘Actually, Miss Tillard is my wife’s aunt,’ Godfrey said in precise tones.
Nightingale smiled affably. ‘I’ve written her a prescription, we’ll see how she gets along with that. I’ll look in again on Monday.’
‘She’s had a number of these upsets over the last few years.’
Nightingale raised his shoulders. ‘Colonial types,’ he said lightly. ‘Like their curries and their groundnut stews. A bit hard on the digestion. I’ve had a word with Miss Onil, she seems a sensible woman.’ He glanced round the walls, at the wooden masks, crossed spears, curious shaped objects of incised brass. ‘Quite a little outpost of Empire.’ He picked up his bag. ‘No reason why you shouldn’t go in and see your aunt.’
Miss Tillard had raised herself against the pillows when Theresa ushered Godfrey into the bedroom. ‘I feel a little better already,’ Elinor said with an air of thankfulness. ‘I don’t know if it’s just the effect of Dr Nightingale’s manner.’ She smiled faintly. ‘He’s rather bracing.’
Theresa went along to the kitchen to make the coffee. ‘I’m worried about her,’ Miss Tillard said with an anxious look.
‘I’m sure you’ve no need to be.’ Godfrey patted her hand. ‘She always appears very content.’
Miss Tillard put up a thin hand and touched her hair, once so long, so thick and dark, now sparse, almost totally white. She sighed and shook her head. ‘It isn’t the present I’m thinking about, it’s the future. Theresa’s future.’ She shot a direct look at Godfrey. ‘My own future may not extend all that far.’
‘You mustn’t talk like that. You’ll be up and about in no time at all.’
‘I haven’t been fair to Theresa,’ Miss Tillard said as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘I’ve been a very selfish woman. Whether I die this year or in ten years’ time, what is to become of her when I’m gone?’
Godfrey frowned. ‘Surely I understood from you that you’ve made provision for Theresa?’
Elinor made an impatient movement of her head. ‘I added a codicil to my will ten or twelve years ago,’ she said with contempt. ‘I’ve left her some money.’
Godfrey had