‘Tomorrow?’ she asked.
Susan nodded. ‘Ar past eight, miss, till ’ar past twelve.’ She was putting on her coat. ‘There’s things for supper in the larder—eggs and that.’
Phoebe opened the door, wished her goodbye and closed it quietly. Tea first, she decided, and something to eat. She was famished again, and once Aunt Kate woke she would probably be kept busy.
She put the kettle on, found teapot, tea, a bottle of milk and the sugar bowl and half a packet of digestive biscuits, and presently sat down at the table. It wasn’t much of a meal, but she felt all the better for it and after she had tidied up she poked her head into the larder and assessed its contents. Eggs, some fish on a plate—but only enough for one—bread in the bin, butter, some old cheese and nothing much else. She wondered what the nurse had had to eat, and what, for that matter, she was to eat herself. The cupboards yielded a good supply of flour and oats and rice and sugar though; given time she should be able to whip up some sort of meal for the invalid. She found a tray and put it ready in case Aunt Kate should wake. It was well after four o’clock and perhaps she should take a look.
There was no need, a bell tinkled urgently and Phoebe hurried up the stairs, tapped on her aunt’s door and went in.
Aunt Kate was propped up in bed, swathed in a thick shawl and by no means in a good temper. ‘So there you are,’ she snapped between coughs. ‘And high time too—when a body can’t depend on her own kith and kin taking care of her it’s a poor state of affairs. I don’t know what the world’s coming to!’
Phoebe didn’t know either, and since Aunt Kate’s remarks were exactly the same as the last time they had met, she said merely: ‘I came as soon as the hospital had your message, Aunt Kate, I’m sorry you are ill.’
‘Pooh,’ said Aunt Kate strongly. ‘Fiddlesticks—and don’t think you’ll get a penny piece from me, my girl— I’ve better ways of leaving my money.’ She added quickly: ‘Not that I have any money, living here on my own with no one to bother about me.’
‘The nurse?’ asked Phoebe.
‘Bah—stupid woman, all she could think of was her meals.’ She shot Phoebe a grumpy look, her dark little eyes half closed. ‘Do you eat a lot?’
‘Yes,’ said Phoebe simply. ‘Would you like your tea now?’
Aunt Kate had a fit of coughing. ‘Yes—thin bread and butter with it. When I’ve had it I’ll talk to you.’
It was hard to be sorry for the old lady; she was ill and crippled with arthritis, and Phoebe did her best to pity her as she went back to the kitchen. She made the tea, cut paper-thin bread and butter and at the same time made jam sandwiches for herself, since she was still hungry, and having settled her aunt against her pillows with the tea tray on the bed table, went down again to make another pot of tea to accompany the sandwiches. She had just finished the last of them when Aunt Kate rang the bell.
‘You’ll stay of course,’ she began without preamble. ‘You’re my niece, my great-niece, and it’s your duty.’
‘I’ve been training as a nurse,’ observed Phoebe mildly.
‘Time enough for that after I’ve gone. I’ll not last long that Dr Pritchard says I’m good for a few more years yet, but I know better.’
‘What happened to Dr Bennett?’ asked Phoebe, vaguely remembering a small neat man with a goatee beard who called Aunt Kate ‘dear lady’ and sometimes had stayed for tea.
‘Retired, drat him. Now I have to bear with this little whipper-snapper who takes no notice of me whatsoever.’ Aunt Kate pushed the bed table away impatiently. ‘You can take this; I’ll have a bit of fish for my supper—done in milk, mind—and an egg custard.’
Phoebe took the bed table away and picked up the tray. ‘Tomorrow,’ she said with firm gentleness, ‘perhaps you will give me some money and I’ll buy some food. There’s almost nothing to eat in the house.’
‘My appetite’s poor,’ snapped Aunt Kate.
‘I expect so, but mine isn’t. If I’m to stay, Aunt Kate, then I shall want to be fed, and since I’ve no money of my own, I’m afraid you’ll have to pay me a salary.’
The old lady’s eyes snapped. ‘My own niece demanding a salary?’
‘That’s right. After all, you had to pay the nurse, didn’t you? Private nurses are very expensive.’
Aunt Kate mumbled something in a cross voice and Phoebe was given to understand that she would be given pocket money—the sum mentioned would buy toothpaste and shampoo and tights, but precious little else, but Phoebe was satisfied. It was, after all, a small declaration of independence; if she hadn’t taken a stand then and there, she would have become a doormat.
She took the tea tray downstairs and went back again to wash her aunt’s face and hands and make her bed, chatting cheerfully as she did so. The doctor, her aunt told her grudgingly, came in the morning after surgery; it was he who had insisted on her having a nurse after calling unexpectedly one afternoon and finding her out of bed and struggling to get downstairs to get herself a meal.
‘Why not the district nurse?’ asked Phoebe.
‘Won’t have her near me,’ declared Aunt Kate, and Phoebe sighed; the old lady took fierce dislikes to some people and no amount of inconvenience to other people would alter that. ‘Nothing more than a baggage, that nurse Dr Pritchard made me have. Always looking at herself in the glass, wanting time off, if you please, said she needed recreation.’ Aunt Kate gave a weary little snort. ‘As though she had anything to do here! Susan cleans the house.’
Phoebe held her tongue and then asked what time she wanted her supper.
‘Half past seven, and no later. And mind you do that fish in milk.’
Phoebe left a bedside light on, laid spectacles, book, handkerchief and bell within reach and took herself off to the kitchen. The fish looked unappetising; a morsel of creamed potato might brighten it up a bit, and she could purée a few carrots.
She had just set the egg custard in its pan of warm water when the front door was opened. Susan couldn’t have closed it properly and she hadn’t bothered to look herself. It might be a neighbour, but she doubted that; Aunt Kate didn’t encourage neighbours; she ought to go into the hall and see who it was, but if she did the custard might spoil if she didn’t get it into the oven at once.
Her decision was made for her. The kitchen door, half open, was flung wide and a large man came in. He was tall as well as broad with fair hair, cut short; a handsome face and a decidedly brisk manner.
‘So you got here,’ he stated with satisfaction. ‘Thought I’d make sure you had arrived, otherwise it would have been the district nurse and fireworks. What’s your name?’
‘Phoebe Creswell.’ Phoebe frowned. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Pritchard, George.’ He held out a hand and smiled and she didn’t feel put out any more; he had a smile which was nice, friendly and reassuring. ‘I hope your aunt is pleased to see you.’
Phoebe closed the door gently on the custard. ‘Well, yes, I think on the whole she is.’
He nodded. ‘Good. She’s ill, you know that.’ His gaze swept round the kitchen and stayed on the fish. ‘Her supper?’ he wanted to know. ‘What about you?’
She was touched that he had thought