Her mother dozed again and didn’t rouse as the teatrolley was wheeled in, which was a good thing since a cup of tea was out of the question, but Emma was given one, with two Petit Beurre biscuits, and since her hurried lunch seemed a long time ago she was grateful.
Her mother was soon awake again, content to lie quietly, not talking much and finally with an eye on the clock, Emma kissed her goodbye. ‘I’ll be here tomorrow,’ she promised, and went down to the main entrance.
She had just reached it when the Rolls came soundlessly to a halt beside her. The professor got out and opened her door, got back in and drove away with nothing more than a murmured greeting, but presently he said, ‘Your mother looks better, does she not?’
‘Oh, yes. She slept for most of the afternoon but she looks much better than I expected.’
‘Of course, she’s being sedated, and will be for the next forty-eight hours. After that she will be free of pain and taking an interest in life again. She’s had a tiring time…’
It was still raining—a cold rain driven by an icy wind—and the moor looked bleak and forbidding in the early dusk. Emma, who had lived close to it all her life, was untroubled by that; she wondered if the professor felt the same. He had said that he lived near Exeter. She wondered exactly where; perhaps, after a few days of going to and fro, he would be more forthcoming. Certainly he was a very silent man.
The thought struck her that he might find her boring, but on the following day, when she ventured a few remarks of a commonplace nature, he had little to say in reply, although he sounded friendly enough. She decided that silence, unless he began a conversation, was the best policy, so that by the end of a week she was no nearer knowing anything about him than when they had first met. She liked him—she liked him very much—but she had the good sense to know that they inhabited different worlds. He had no wish to get to know her—merely to offer a helping hand, just as he would have done with anyone else in similar circumstances.
Her mother was making good progress and Emma scanned the local paper over the weekend, and checked the advertisements outside the newsagents in the hope of finding a job.
Mrs Smith-Darcy had, surprisingly, sent Alice with her wages, and Emma had made a pot of coffee and listened to Alice’s outpourings on life with that lady. ‘Mad as fire, she was,’ Alice had said, with relish. ‘You should ‘ave ‘eard ‘er, Miss Trent. And that lunch party— that was a lark and no mistake—’er whingeing away about servants and such like. I didn’t ‘ear no kind words about you and your poor ma, though. Mean old cat.’ She had grinned. ‘Can’t get another companion for love nor money, either.’
She had drunk most of the coffee and eaten all the biscuits Emma had and then got up to go. ‘Almost forgot,’ she’d said, suddenly awkward, ‘me and Cook thought your ma might like a few chocs now she’s better. And there’s one of Cook’s steak and kidney pies— just wants a warm-up—do for your dinner.’
‘How lucky I am to have two such good friends,’ Emma had said and meant it.
Going to the hospital on Monday, sitting quietly beside Sir Paul, she noticed him glance down at her lap where the box of chocolates sat.
‘I hope that those are not for your mother?’ ‘Well, yes and no. Cook and Alice—from Mrs Smith-Darcy’s house, you know—gave them to me to give her. I don’t expect that she can have them, but she’ll like to see them and she can give them to her nurses.’
He nodded. ‘I examined your mother yesterday evening. I intend to have her transferred to Moretonhampstead within the next day or so. She will remain there for two weeks at least, three if possible, so that when she returns home she will be quite fit.’
‘That is good news. Thank you for arranging it,’ said Emma gratefully, and wondered how she was going to visit her mother. With a car it would have been easy enough.
She would have to find out how the buses ran—probably along the highway to Exeter and then down the turn-off to Moretonhampstead halfway along it—but the buses might not connect. She had saved as much money as she could and she had her last week’s wages; perhaps she could get the car from Mr Dobbs again and visit her mother once a week; it was thirty miles or so, an hour’s drive…
She explained this to her mother and was relieved to see that the prospect of going to a convalescent home and starting on a normal life once more had put her in such good spirits that she made no demur when Emma suggested that she might come only once a week to see her.
‘It’s only for a few weeks, Emma, and I’m sure I shall have plenty to keep me occupied. I’ve been so well cared for here, and everyone has been so kind. Everything’s all right at home? Queenie is well?’
‘She’s splendid and everything is fine. I’ll bring you some more clothes, shall I?’ She made a list and observed, ‘I’ll bring them tomorrow, for the professor didn’t say when you were going—when there’s a vacancy I expect—he just said a day or two.’
When she got up to go her mother walked part of the way with her, anxious to show how strong she had become. By the lifts they said goodbye, though, ‘I’m a slow walker,’ said Mrs Trent. ‘It won’t do to keep him waiting.’
For once, Emma was glad of Sir Paul’s silence, for she had a lot to think about. They were almost at Buckfastleigh when he told her that her mother would be transferred on the day after tomorrow.
‘So tomorrow will be the last day I go to the hospital?’
‘Yes. Talk to Sister when you see her tomorrow; she will give you all the particulars and the phone number. Your mother will go by ambulance. The matron there is a very kind woman, there are plenty of staff and two resident doctors so your mother will be well cared for.’
‘I’m sure of that. She’s looking foward to going; she feels she’s really getting well.’
‘It has been a worrying time for you.’ his voice was kind ‘—but I think she will make a complete recovery.’
Indoors she put the pie in the oven, fed an impatient Queenie and sat down to add up the money in her purse—enough to rent a car from Mr Dobbs on the following weekend and not much over. She ate her supper, packed a case with the clothes her mother would need and went to put the dustbin out before she went to bed.
The local paper had been pushed through the letterbox. She took it back to the kitchen and turned to the page where the few advertisements were and there, staring her in the face, was a chance of a job. It stated:
Wanted urgently—a sensible woman to help immediately for two or three weeks while present staff are ill. Someone able to cope with a small baby as well as normal household chores and able to cook.
Emma, reading it, thought that the woman wouldn’t only have to be sensible, she would need to be a bundle of energy as well, but it was only for two or three weeks and it might be exactly what she was looking for. The phone number was a local one too.
Emma went to bed convinced that miracles did happen and slept soundly.
In the morning she waited with impatience until half-past eight before going round to use Mr Dobbs’s phone. The voice which answered her was a woman’s, shrill and agitated.
‘Thank heaven—I’m at my wits’ end and there’s no one here. The baby’s been crying all night…’
‘If you would give me your address. I live in Buckfastleigh.’
‘So do I. Picket House—go past the otter sanctuary and it’s at the end of the road down a turning on the left. You’ve got a car?’
‘No, a bike. I’ll come straight away, shall I?’
She listened to a jumble of incoherent thanks and, after phoning the surgery to cancel her lift with Sir