A few minutes later she went back up the stairs, carrying a tray. ‘Doctor Tredgold will be here about half past eleven,’ she told Mrs Foster.
She set down the cup of chocolate and a small plate of the sugary biscuits Mrs Foster liked. She made no mention of the doctor’s irritated references to neurotic female patients and the wasting of his valuable time.
‘I knew he’d come,’ Vera said with a satisfied smile. ‘He always comes when I want him.’ She waved a hand. ‘I’ll have the white tablets now.’
Miss Jordan brought over the bottle; it was almost empty. Vera tipped a tablet out into her palm. ‘I’ll have to ask him for some more of these,’ she said.
As she sipped her chocolate she suddenly said, ‘You might pass me my father’s photograph.’
This was a large studio portrait. Vera often liked to hold it, to look at her father’s wide brow and resolute chin, letting the happy days of the past rise up before her.
Miss Jordan picked up the photograph in its heavy silver frame and carried it over to the bed.
‘I’ve always liked this one best,’ Vera said fondly. She smiled down at her father, sitting with one hand propped under his chin, gazing back at her with his shrewd and penetrating look.
‘That’s the way I remember Daddy. Sitting at his desk downstairs, looking just like that, thinking about things.’
It was past noon by the time Doctor Tredgold’s car halted outside the front door of Lynwood.
‘Mrs Foster can be very difficult when she chooses,’ the doctor said to Miss Jordan as they went up the stairs. ‘But I’m sure there’s no need for me to tell you not to pamper her.’ He had formed a high regard for Miss Jordan’s competence.
‘Mrs Foster’s very much inclined to make the most of this sciatica,’ he added. ‘Nothing she likes better than being waited on and fussed over.’ A widower now for many years, with his own burden of aches and pains to bear as the years ground remorselessly on, he had less and less sympathy these days with any attitude on the part of his patients that remotely resembled hypochondria.
‘I’ve already mentioned that I’m thinking of leaving in a few days,’ Miss Jordan said.
He nodded energetically. ‘That’s the ticket. Force her to get up. She’d stay in bed till Christmas if we let her.’
They reached the door of Vera’s bedroom. ‘Come now,’ Tredgold said to his patient with forceful joviality as soon as Miss Jordan showed him into the room. ‘Why aren’t you sitting outside on this beautiful day?’ Vera made no reply; her face took on a mutinous look.
The curtains were partly drawn together against the dazzling sunlight and the doctor crossed to the window and drew them fully apart. He glanced out at the valley lying tranquil in the sparkling air.
‘We won’t get many more days like this before winter,’ he said. ‘You should make the most of them.’
Miss Jordan withdrew to the door. ‘I’ll be just along the corridor if you should need me,’ she said as she went out and closed the door behind her.
The doctor stood looking out at the hill opposite, at the porcupine crest of trees along the ridge, the green tints shading from palest lime to deepest olive.
‘I’ve always loved that view.’ He was silent for a moment, remembering how he had stood there in Duncan Murdoch’s time; Duncan had been a valued friend. He gave a little sigh and turned back to the bed with a softer expression.
‘Is the leg really painful still?’ he asked with a little grin. ‘Or are you laying it on – just a bit?’
Vera closed her eyes. ‘The pain comes and goes. It’s still pretty bad at times.’ She opened her eyes. ‘I need some more of the white tablets.’
He picked up the bottle and looked at the few remaining tablets. ‘You’re taking a lot of these,’ he said with mild reproof. ‘You should take them only when you find it necessary, not three times a day like clockwork.’
She pulled a little face, placatory, like a child. ‘I don’t take them as often as that. But you can see I need some more, they’re almost finished.’
He gave her a considering glance. She returned his gaze. Her expression changed to a bolder, defiant stare. ‘I’m not a baby,’ she said with spirit.
His eyes held hers for a few seconds, then he shrugged. ‘Oh, very well.’
Irritability rose inside him but he pushed it sternly down. He had two more calls to make before lunch and already he felt worn out. ‘You can get Alma to call in for the tablets this afternoon.’ He pulled out a pad and began to write.
‘It’s Alma’s day for Cannonbridge,’ Vera said. ‘She won’t be back here till tomorrow morning. This is the night she sleeps at Pinetrees.’
‘Oh, yes.’ It was at Tredgold’s suggestion that Vera had offered the old couple at Pinetrees this use of Alma’s services. ‘It’s very good of you to let her go there,’ he said. ‘I know they appreciate it.’
He leaned down and patted her hand, gave her a little indulgent smile, remembering her all at once as a child with long fair pigtails and bright blue eyes, running up to him, laughing, catching at his hand.
‘Take your time,’ he said, against the judgment of his professional nature. ‘If you want to take it easy for another day or two, stay where you are.’
He looked at his watch. ‘You can ask Miss Jordan to call in for the tablets. Any time after four.’
The kitchen clock struck two. ‘You go and get yourself ready,’ Miss Jordan said to Alma Driscoll. ‘I’ll finish the washing-up for you.’ She smiled and her face at once looked younger and less sombre, almost handsome. ‘You can trust me to do it properly,’ she added lightly. ‘I’ve done it often enough in my life.’
Alma unfastened her vast gingham apron and turned from the sink. ‘Oh, that is kind of you,’ she said with eager acceptance. She hung the apron up behind the door and dried her hands on the roller towel. ‘I do appreciate it.’
She’d come across more than one temporary lady help from staff agencies. Half of them couldn’t wash a teacup and the other half wouldn’t dream of lowering themselves by attempting it.
Miss Jordan picked up a pair of rubber gloves and smoothed them on. ‘It really is nothing,’ she said as she ran fresh hot water into the basin.
‘Don’t forget Mrs Foster’s porridge,’ Alma reminded her. Though she was sure Miss Jordan didn’t really need reminding, she’d made the porridge very nicely the last time Alma had slept out at Pinetrees.
‘No, I won’t forget. You go off and enjoy yourself, don’t worry about a thing.’ Miss Jordan began to wash the dishes.
Alma hurried up the back staircase to her comfortable bedroom at the rear of the house. She performed a swift but careful toilet.
I’ll be quite sorry to see Miss Jordan leave when Mrs Foster’s downstairs again, she thought as she sat at her dressing table, arranging her curly auburn hair into its most becoming style. Miss Jordan was very efficient but she didn’t put your back up like some did by making a song and dance about her efficiency.
And she was happy to take her meals in the kitchen with Alma, none of that irritating nonsense of having to lay a single place in the dining room or run about after her with dainty trays. What was more, she managed to be companionable without being either inquisitive or secretive.
Alma pulled on her tweed coat. No need for a hat today, thank goodness, nice and warm, no