The idea that she was only worth a reasonably priced dinner rankled with Mary, but she got out a pretty if somewhat out-of-date dress, put polish on her nails, did her face and piled her glorious hair on top of her head. She made sure that the casserole for the family supper was safely in the oven, and went to remind her father that she was going out.
He looked up from his writing. ‘Out? Well, enjoy yourself, my dear. Have you a key?’
She went down to the hut next. ‘I’m going out to dinner with Arthur, Mother. The supper’s in the oven; it’ll be ready at half-past seven. I’ve told Polly.’
‘Dear child,’ said her mother fondly, ‘go and enjoy yourself—who with?’
‘Arthur.’
‘Oh, Arthur, of course. Tell me, do you like robins on this card, or do you suppose a bunch of holly would be better?’
‘Robins,’ said Mary.
Polly was in the hall. ‘I’ll see to supper, Mary. Did you feed Bingo?’
The family cat had made himself scarce while Great Aunt Thirza had been there, only skimming in for his meals, but now he was in possession of the house once more, commandeering laps and eating heartily.
‘Yes—here’s Arthur...’
Polly caught her arm. ‘Don’t say yes, Mary,’ she whispered urgently. ‘He might propose!’
‘Arthur has never done anything hastily in his life; he’ll have to give a proposal a lot of thought, and he’ll lead up to it so gradually that I’ll have plenty of time to think about it.’
‘You like him?’
Mary said guardedly, ‘I’ve known him for a long time, love; he’s a good man but I don’t want to marry him.’ She added thoughtfully, ‘I don’t think he really wants to marry me...’
Arthur had got out of the car and thumped the doorknocker; she kissed Polly and went to meet him.
Arthur’s ‘Hello, old girl,’ had nothing lover-like about it. She said, ‘Hello, Arthur,’ and got into the car beside him and enquired about his course.
Telling her about it took up the entire drive and he still hadn’t finished when they sat down at a table in the restaurant. It was a pleasant place but not, she decided, the right background for romance. Its pale green walls were too cool, and the white tablecloths and little pot of dried flowers echoed the coolness, but since Arthur obviously had no thought of romance that didn’t matter.
Mary ate her plaice, French fries and macédoine of vegetables, chose trifle for pudding and listened to him. She was a kind girl, and it was obvious that he needed to tell someone everything which had occurred at the course. She said ‘Oh, splendid,’ and ‘Really?’ at suitable intervals, and wondered what Professor van Rakesma was doing...
She thanked Arthur when he took her back home, offered him coffee, which he refused, and accepted his kiss on her cheek. ‘A splendid evening, Mary—we’ve had a good talk.’ He added, in a rather condescending tone which grated on her ear, ‘When I can find the time we must do it again.’
What about my time? thought Mary, and murmured politely.
Getting into bed, she decided that in ten years’ time Arthur would definitely be pompous.
She was getting the breakfast ready the next morning when the phone rang. Mrs Cox, usually so calm, sounded agitated. ‘Miss Mary? The doctor’s here; your aunt’s took bad. She wants you—ever so restless she is. The doctor said if you could come to ease her mind. Won’t go to the hospital, she says, at least not until you come.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can, Mrs Cox. Tell Great Aunt Thirza, will you?’
Mary switched off the gas under the frying-pan and went to find her mother.
CHAPTER TWO
THERE were cars parked on either side of the road where Mrs Winton lived. Mary wedged the elderly Austin into the space between a new Rover and a Rolls Royce and nipped smartly across the pavement and up the steps to the front door.
‘I thought you’d never get here,’ said Mrs Cox, no longer the silent and austere housekeeper now that she was thoroughly put out. ‘Your aunt’s real poorly; the doctor’s with her now.’
‘If she’s so ill she must go back to hospital or have a nurse here—where’s this doctor?’
‘Ah—the niece,’ said a voice gently beside her. There he was—the man she had been thinking of all day and every day, standing a foot from her, smiling. ‘Mrs Winton’s doctor is with her; I thought it best if I were to have a word with you...’ He glanced at Mrs Cox. ‘If we might go somewhere quiet?’
They were ushered into the drawing-room and Mary sat down on the self-same horsehair chair that she had so happily vacated so short a time ago. She was glad to sit down; she had never believed that nonsense about knees turning to jelly when one was confronted by the loved one, but hers were jelly now.
‘Fancy seeing you again,’ she said, and added, ‘That’s a silly thing to say.’ And she blushed because he was smiling again, although he said nothing.
He stood by the door, watching her, and presently said, ‘Your aunt has had a mild heart attack. Not serious enough for her to return to hospital but she will need to stay quietly at home for a few days. As you may know, the treatment is now quite an active one, but she is old which largely precludes it. If it is difficult for you to stay with her I’m sure Dr Symes will be able to find a nurse from one of the agencies, but I understand from Mrs Winton that you are a very capable young woman, and, of course, a nurse—a private nurse—is a costly expense in these days.’
I don’t cost a penny, reflected Mary bleakly.
‘There will be very little for you to do,’ said the Professor smoothly, watching her expressive face from under heavy lids. ‘See that she takes gentle exercise each day, eats sensibly, doesn’t become agitated...’ Mary gave him a cold look. ‘Yes, I quite understand that Mrs Winton is used to having her own way, but she appears to like you and will probably do what you ask of her.’
He came and sat down opposite her on another horsehair chair. ‘You are needed at home?’ He sounded casually sympathetic. ‘You live close by?’
‘No, no, I don’t; at least, Hampstead isn’t far, but it’s an awkward journey. Besides, there’s no one to see to the house.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘You live alone? I gathered from the hospital that Mrs Winton was staying with a nephew—your father?’
‘Yes, but Father’s writing a book and my mother paints. My sister’s only thirteen and she’s at school all day. Mrs Blackett could manage for a day or two, but she’s always on the point of leaving.’
‘Mrs Blackett?’ prompted the professor gently, greatly enjoying himself.
‘Our daily. At least, she comes four mornings a week, but—she didn’t get on well with Great Aunt Thirza.’
‘Just so.’ The professor might have been only thirty-five years old, but his manner was that of a man twice his age, seemingly prepared to listen sympathetically and give suitable advice. Mary responded to that; she had plenty of friends of her own age, but it wouldn’t have entered her head to bore them with her worries, but here was a sympathetic ear, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to unburden herself.
‘Mother——’ she began. ‘Mother’s a darling, and so clever with a paintbrush, but of course she’s artistic and she doesn’t really like cooking and that kind of thing; besides,