‘If Bert don’t mind...’ The woman closed her eyes and slept, the baby clasped close to her, its cross little face now smoothed into that of a small cherub.
The doctor glanced across at the girl, still kneeling patiently. She was smiling down at the baby, and when she smiled she wasn’t in the least plain. When she looked up he saw how pale she was. ‘Are you not out rather late?’ he asked.
‘Well, it was just after seven o’clock when Bert stopped me. I was on my way home on my bike, you know. There’s not much traffic along here after five o‘clock. Two cars went by and he tried to stop them, but they took no notice...’
‘So you had a go?’
She nodded. ‘She’ll be quite comfortable at Blandford—but it’s a bit late...’
‘I’ll go in and see whoever’s on duty at the hospital.’ He sounded so reassuring that she said no more, and they crouched, the pair of them, beside the woman, saying nothing. From time to time the doctor saw to his patient, and once or twice he went to talk to her husband. He was packing up their possessions and stowing them on the hand-cart. When the doctor returned the second time he told the girl that the boy and the young women would stay the night, sleeping in the tent. ‘They say they will start walking in the morning.’
‘If they stop at Thinbottom I think I could get someone to give them and the cart a lift to Blandford.’
‘You live at Thinbottom?’
‘Me? I’m the vicar’s daughter.’
‘I’ll give you a lift as soon as the ambulance has gone.’
‘No need, thank you all the same,’ she said, and, in case that had sounded rude, added, ‘What I mean is, you’ve been awfully kind and it must have been a great nuisance to you. You’ll be very late home. Besides, my bike’s here.’
‘The boy can load it on the cart and drop it off tomorrow when they get to Thinbottom. Won’t your family be worried about you?’
‘I went over to Frogwell Farm—Granny Coffin. Mother will think that I’ve stayed the night—she’s very old and often ill.’
‘Nevertheless, I must insist on seeing you to your home,’ he said, and, when she would have protested, added, ‘Please, don’t argue—’ He broke off. ‘Ah. here’s the ambulance at last.’
He went out of the tent to meet the paramedies, and when they reached the tent she slipped out and stood on one side while they undid their equipment and saw to his patient. Then, satisfied, he stood up and walked back to the ambulance with them, his patient and the baby and the father. As he passed the girl he said, ‘Stay where you are,’ in a voice that she couldn’t ignore. In any case her bike was already roped onto the top of the hand-cart.
He came back presently. ‘Shall we introduce ourselves?’ he suggested. ‘Gijs van Kessel.’ He held out a large hand.
She shook it, feeling its firm grip. ‘Margo Pearson,’ she said, and then, ‘That’s not an English name—are you Dutch?’
‘Yes. If you will wait a moment while I have a word with this boy...’
Once he had done so, he picked up his bag and, with the boy ahead of them with a torch, went back to the road and handed her into the car. Margo, sinking back against the leather softness, said, ‘I’ve never been in a Rolls-Royce. It’s very comfortable—and large too. But then you’re a very large man, aren’t you?’ She sounded very matter-of-fact
‘Yes, I am. Miss Pearson, forgive me for mentioning it, but was it not rather foolhardy of you to rush into the road and stop a strange car? There are quite a few undesirable people around after dark.’
‘I would have screamed very loudly if you had been one,’ she told him sensibly. ‘And I dare say Bert or Willy would have come.’
He didn’t point out that by the time they could have reached her she might have been whisked away in the car or maltreated in some way.
They soon reached the village and she said, ‘It’s here on the left, by the church.’
He drew up at an open gateway. The house beyond was large and solid, a relic from the days when the parsonage had housed a cleric’s large family, and overshadowed by the church a stone’s throw from it. It, like the rest of the village, was in darkness, but as the doctor drew up a light shone through the transom over the front door.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Margo, and undid her seat belt.
He didn’t reply, but got out of the car, opened her door and walked the few yards to the house with her. By the time they had reached the door it had been opened to reveal the vicar in his dressing gown.
‘Margo—thank heaven. We had just phoned Frogwell Farm and been told that you left hours ago. You’re all right? An accident?’ He opened the door wide. ‘Come in, both of you...’
‘Father, this is Dr van Kessel, who kindly gave me a lift. There’s been no accident but he has been of the greatest possible help.’ She turned to greet her mother, a middle-aged replica of herself, as he and the vicar shook hands.
‘My dear sir, we are in your debt. Come into the sitting room—a cup of coffee? Something to eat?’
‘Thank you—but I’m on my way to Blandford to the hospital. Your daughter will explain. I am glad to have been of some help!’ He smiled at Mrs Pearson. ‘You have a very resourceful daughter, Mrs Pearson. I regret that I cannot stay and tell you of our evening’s adventure, but I’m sure Miss Pearson will do so.’
He shook hands all round again, and Margo, having her hand gently crushed, had time to study him in the dim light of the hall. He had seemed enormous back there in the woods and he didn’t seem any less so now. Not so very young, she decided. Mid-thirties, with fair hair already silvered, a commanding nose above a thin, firm mouth and startlingly blue eyes. She thought she would never forget him.
That he would forget her the moment he had resumed his journey went without saying; she had been a plain child and had grown into a plain young woman, and no one had ever pretended that she wasn’t.
Her father had assured her that one could be beautiful as well as being possessed of mediocre features, and her mother thought of her lovingly as a jolie laide, but even George Merridew, who, in village parlance, was courting her cautiously, had told her with a well-meaning lack of tact that she might not have much in the way of good looks but she had plenty of common sense and was almost as good a cook as his mother.
A remark which Margo had found unsatisfactory. Surely if George was in love with her he should think of her as rather more than a cook and a sensible pair of hands? Or was that what he wanted? He was a good farmer and a prosperous man and she liked him—was even a little fond of him—but such remarks did nothing to endear him to her. And now this man had appeared from nowhere and gone again, and had left her feeling uncertain.
She related the night’s happenings to her parents over a pot of tea and slices of bread and butter with lashings of jam. Caesar, the family cat, had curled up on her lap, and Plato, the elderly black Labrador, had got into his basket and gone back to sleep. She gobbled the last slice and sighed.
‘I’m so sorry you were worried, but I couldn’t leave them there, could I?’
‘No, love, of course not. You did quite the right thing. They will bring your bicycle in the morning?’
‘Oh, yes. I’m going to ask George to lend me the trailer, then they can put their hand-cart on it and go to Blandford.’
‘Will George do that?’ asked her father mildly.
‘Well, he won’t be using it until Wednesday, when he hauls the winter feed.’
Margo got up and tucked Caesar