Emma's Wedding Page 3

  ‘Well, well,’ he said softly, and his stare was just as intent as it had been in the baker’s shop.

  She found it disturbing, so that when she came back with the book she said tartly, ‘May I have your library ticket?’

  ‘Have I got one? Even if I knew where it was I wouldn’t have stopped to get it, not with small William bawling his head off.’

  He took the book from her, thanked Miss Johnson and was off.

  Emma set the books neatly in their places and hoped that someone would say something. It was Phoebe who spoke.

  ‘The poor man. I bet he’s had a busy day, and now he’s got to spend his evening reading to a small boy. As though he hadn’t enough on his plate…’

  Miss Johnson said repressively, ‘He is clearly devoted to children. Emma, make a note that the book hasn’t been checked out. Dr van Dyke will return it in due course.’

  Well, reflected Emma, at least I know who he is. And on the way home, as she and Phoebe walked as far as the main street she asked, ‘Is he the only doctor here?’

  ‘Lord, no. There’s three of them at the medical practice, and he’s not permanent, just taken over from Dr Finn for a few months.’

  Why had he stared so, and why had he said, ‘Well, well,’ in that satisfied voice? wondered Emma, saying goodnight and going back home through the quiet town.

  It wouldn’t be quiet for much longer. Visitors were beginning to trickle in, most of them coming ashore from their yachts, mingling with those who came regularly early in the season, to walk the coastal paths and spend leisurely days strolling through the town. More restaurants had opened, the ice cream parlour had opened its doors, and the little coastal ferry had begun its regular trips.

  Emma was pleased to see that her mother was already starting to enjoy what social life there was. She played bridge regularly with Mrs Craig and her friends, met them for coffee and occasionally did some shopping. But her gentle complaints made it clear that life in a small, off-the-beaten-track town was something she was bravely enduring, and whenever Emma pointed out that there was little chance of them ever leaving the cottage, Mrs Dawson dissolved into gentle tears.

  ‘You should have married Derek,’ she said tearfully. ‘We could have lived comfortably at his house. It was large enough for me to have had my own apartment…’

  A remark Emma found hard to answer.

  As for Emma, she hadn’t much time to repine; there was the cottage to clean, the washing and the ironing, all the small household chores which she had never had to do… At first her mother had said that she would do all the shopping, but, being unused to doing this on an economical scale, it had proved quite disastrous to the household purse, so Emma had added that to her other chores. Not that she minded. She was soon on friendly terms with the shopkeepers and there was a certain satisfaction in buying groceries with a strict eye on economy instead of lifting the phone and giving the order Mrs Dawson had penned each week with a serene disregard for expense…

  And Miss Johnson had unbent very slightly, pleased to find that Emma really enjoyed her work at the library. She had even had a chat about her own taste in books, deploring the lack of interest in most of the borrowers for what she called a ‘good class of book’. As for Phoebe, who did her work in a cheerful slapdash fashion, Emma liked her and listened sympathetically whenever Phoebe found the time to tell her of her numerous boyfriends.

  But Mrs Brooke-Tigh didn’t unbend. Emma was doing a menial’s job, therefore she was treated as such; she checked the cottages with an eagle eye but beyond a distant nod had nothing to say. Emma didn’t mind the cleaning but she did not like Mrs Brooke-Tigh; once the season was over she would look around for another job, something where she might meet friendly people. In a bar? she wondered, having very little idea of what that would be like. But at least there would be people and she might meet someone.

  Did Dr van Dyke go into pubs? she wondered. Probably not. He wouldn’t have time. She thought about him, rather wistfully, from time to time, when she was tired and lonely for the company of someone her own age. The only way she would get to know him was to get ill. And she never got ill…

  Spring was sliding into early summer; at the weekends the narrow streets were filled by visiting yachtsmen and family parties driving down for a breath of sea air and a meal at one of the pubs. And with them, one Sunday, came Derek.

  Mrs Dawson was going out to lunch with one of her bridge friends, persuaded that Emma didn’t mind being on her own. ‘We will go to evensong together,’ said her mother, ‘but it is such a treat to have luncheon with people I like, dear, and I knew you wouldn’t mind.’

  She peered at herself in the mirror. ‘Is this hat all right? I really need some new clothes.’

  ‘You look very smart, Mother, and the hat’s just right. Have a lovely lunch. I’ll have tea ready around four o’clock.’

  Alone, Emma went into the tiny courtyard beyond the kitchen and saw to the tubs of tulips and the wallflowers growing against the wall. She would have an early lunch and go for a walk—a long walk. North Sands, perhaps, and if the little kiosk by the beach there was open she would have a cup of coffee. She went back into the cottage as someone banged the door knocker.

  Derek stood there, dressed very correctly in a blazer and cords, Italian silk tie and beautifully polished shoes. For a split second Emma had a vivid mental picture of an elderly sweater and uncombed hair.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she wanted to know with a regrettable lack of delight.

  Derek gave her a kind smile. He was a worthy young man with pleasant manners and had become accustomed to being liked and respected.

  He said now, ‘I’ve surprised you…’

  ‘Indeed you have.’ Emma added reluctantly. ‘You’d better come in.’

  Derek looked around him. ‘A nice little place—rather different from Richmond, though. Has your mother settled down?’

  ‘Yes. Why are you here?’

  ‘I wanted to see you, Emma. To talk. If you would change into a dress we could have lunch—I’m staying at the other end of the town.’

  ‘We can talk here. I’ll make cheese sandwiches…’

  ‘My dear girl, you deserve more than a cheese sandwich. We can talk over lunch at the hotel.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Something which will please you…’

  Perhaps something they hadn’t known anything about had been salvaged from her father’s estate… She said slowly, ‘Very well. You’ll have to wait while I change, though, and I must be back before four o’clock. Mother’s out to lunch.’

  While she changed out of trousers and a cotton top into something suitable to accompany Derek’s elegance, she wondered what he had come to tell her. Mr Trump had hinted when they had left their home that eventually there might be a little more money. Perhaps Derek had brought it with him.

  When she went downstairs he was standing by the window, watching the people strolling along the path.

  ‘Of course you can’t possibly stay here. This poky little place—nothing to do all day.’

  She didn’t bother to answer him, and he said impatiently, ‘We shall have to walk; I left the car at the hotel.’

  They walked, saying little. ‘I can’t think why you can’t tell me whatever it is at once,’ said Emma.

  ‘In good time.’ They got out of the road onto the narrow pavement to allow a car to creep past. Dr van Dyke was sitting in it. If he saw her he gave no sign.

  The hotel was full. They had drinks in the bar and were given a table overlooking the estuary, but Derek ignored the magnificent view while he aired his knowledge with the wine waiter.

  I should be enjoying myself, reflected Emma, and I’m not.

  Derek talked about his work, mutual friends she had known, the new owner of her old home.

  Emma polished off the last of her trifle. ‘Are you staying here on holiday?’

  ‘No, I must return tomorrow.’

  ‘Then you�
��d better tell me whatever it is.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘It’s half past two…’

  He gave a little laugh. ‘Can’t get rid of me soon enough, Emma?’

  He put his hand over hers on the table. ‘Dear Emma, I have given much thought to this. The scandal of your father’s bankruptcy has died down; there are no debts, no need for people to rake over cold ashes. There is no likelihood of it hindering my career. I have come to ask you to marry me. I know you have no money and a difficult social position, but I flatter myself that I can provide both of these for my wife. In a few years the whole unfortunate matter will be forgotten. I have the deepest regard for you and you will, I know, make me an excellent wife.’

  Emma had listened to this speech without moving or uttering a sound. She was so angry that she felt as though she would explode or burst into flames. She got to her feet, a well brought up young woman who had been reared to good manners and politeness whatever the circumstances.

  ‘Get stuffed,’ said Emma, and walked out of the restaurant, through the bar and swing doors and into the car park.

  She was white with rage and shaking, and heedless of where she was walking. Which was why she bumped into Dr van Dyke’s massive chest.

  She stared up into his placid face. ‘The worm, the miserable rat,’ she raged. ‘Him and his precious career…’

  The doctor said soothingly, ‘This rat, is he still in the hotel? You don’t wish to meet him again?’

  ‘If I were a man I’d knock him down…’ She sniffed and gulped and two tears slid down her cheeks.

  ‘Then perhaps it would be a good idea if you were to sit in my car for a time—in case he comes looking for you. And, if you would like to, tell me what has upset you.’

  He took her arm and walked her to the car. He popped her inside and got in beside her. ‘Have a good cry if you want to, and then I’ll drive you home.’

  He gave her a large handkerchief and sat patiently while she sniffed and snuffled and presently blew her nose and mopped her face. He didn’t look at her, he was watching a man—presumably the rat—walking up and down the car park, looking around him. Presently he went back into the hotel and the doctor said, ‘He’s a snappy dresser, your rat.’

  She sat up straight. ‘He’s gone? He didn’t see me?’

  ‘No.’ The doctor settled back comfortably. ‘What has he done to upset you? It must have been something very upsetting to cause you to leave Sunday lunch at this hotel.’

  ‘I’d finished,’ said Emma, ‘and it’s kind of you to ask but it’s—it’s…’

  ‘None of my business. Quite right, it isn’t. I’ll drive you home. Where do you live?’

  ‘The end cottage along Victoria Quay. But I can walk. It is at the end of Main Street and you can’t drive there.’

  He didn’t answer but backed the car and turned and went out of the car park and drove up the narrow road to the back of the town. It was a very long way round and he had to park by the pub.

  As he stopped Emma said, ‘Thank you. I hope I haven’t spoilt your afternoon.’

  It would hardly do to tell her that he was enjoying every minute of it. ‘I’ll walk along with you, just in case the rat has got there first.’

  ‘Do you think he has? I mean, I don’t suppose he’ll want to se me again.’ She sniffed. ‘I certainly don’t want to see him.’

  The doctor got out of the car and opened her door. It was a splendid car, she noticed, a dark blue Rolls-Royce, taking up almost all the space before the pub.

  ‘You have a nice car,’ said Emma, feeling that she owed him something more than thanks. And then blushed because it had been a silly thing to say. Walking beside him, she reflected that although she had wanted to meet him she could have wished for other circumstances.

  Her mother wasn’t home and Emma heaved a sigh of relief. Explaining to her mother would be better done later on.

  The doctor took the key from her and opened the door, then stood looking at her. Mindful of her manners she asked, ‘Would you like a cup of tea? Or perhaps you want to go back to the hotel—someone waiting for you…?’

  She was beginning to realise that he never answered a question unless he wanted to, and when he said quietly that he would like a cup of tea she led the way into the cottage.

  ‘Do sit down,’ said Emma. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ And at the same time run a comb through her mop of hair and make sure that her face didn’t look too frightful…

  It was tear-stained and pale and in need of powder and lipstick, but that couldn’t be helped. She put the kettle on, laid a tray, found the cake tin and made the tea. When she went back into the sitting room he was standing in front of a watercolour of her old home.

  ‘Your home?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘Until a month or so ago. Do you take milk and sugar?’

  He sat down and took the cup and saucer she was offering him. ‘Do you want to talk about the—er—rat? None of my business, of course, but doctors are the next best thing to priests when one wishes to give vent to strong feelings.’

  Emma offered cake. ‘You have been very kind, and I’m so grateful. But there’s nothing—that is, he’ll go back to London and I can forget him.’

  ‘Of course. Do you enjoy your work at the library?’

  She was instantly and unreasonably disappointed that he hadn’t shown more interest or concern. She said stiffly, ‘Yes, very much. Miss Johnson tells me that you don’t live here, that you are filling in for another doctor?’

  ‘Yes, I shall be sorry to leave…’

  ‘Not yet?’

  His heavy-lidded eyes gleamed. ‘No, no. I’m looking forward to the summer here.’ He put down his cup and saucer. ‘Thank you for the tea. If you’re sure there is nothing more I can do for you, I’ll be off.’

  Well, he had no reason to stay, thought Emma. She was hardly scintillating company. Probably there was someone—a girl—waiting impatiently at the hotel for him.

  ‘I hope I haven’t hindered you.’

  ‘Not in the least.’

  She stood in the doorway watching him walking away, back to his car. He must think her a tiresome hysterical woman, because that was how she had behaved. And all the fault of Derek. She swallowed rage at the thought of him and went back to clear away the tea tray and lay it anew for her mother.

  Mrs Dawson had had a pleasant day; she began to tell Emma about it as she came into the cottage, and it wasn’t until she had had her tea and paused for breath that she noticed Emma’s puffy lids and lightly pink nose.

  ‘Emma, you’ve been crying. Whatever for? You never cry. You’re not ill?’

  ‘Derek came,’ said Emma.

  Before she could utter another word her mother cried, ‘There—I knew he would. He’s changed his mind, he wants to marry you—splendid; we can leave here and go back to Richmond…’

  ‘I would not marry Derek if he was the last man on earth,’ said Emma roundly. ‘He said things—most unkind things—about Father…’

  ‘You never refused him?’

  ‘Yes, I did. He took me to lunch and I left him at the table. I met one of the doctors from the health centre and he brought me home. Derek is a rat and a worm, and if he comes here again I shall throw something at him.’

  ‘You must be out of your mind, Emma. Your future—our future—thrown away for no reason at all. Even if Derek upset you by speaking unkindly of your father, I’m sure he had no intention of wounding you.’

  ‘I’m not going to marry Derek, Mother, and I hope I never set eyes on him again.’

  And Emma, usually soft-hearted over her mother’s whims and wishes, wouldn’t discuss it any more, despite that lady’s tears and gentle complaints that the miserable life she was forced to lead would send her to an early grave.

  She declared that she had a headache when they got back from evensong, and retired to bed with a supper tray and a hot water bottle.

  Emma pottered about downstairs, wondering if she was being selfish and ungr
ateful. But, even if she were, Derek was still a worm and she couldn’t think how she had ever thought of marrying him.

  Mrs Dawson maintained her gentle air of patient suffering for the rest of the following week, until Emma left the house on Saturday morning to clean the cottage. The week’s tenants had had a large family of children and she welcomed the prospect of hard work. As indeed it was; the little place looked as though it had been hit by a cyclone. It would take all her time to get it pristine for the next family.

  She set to with a will and was in the kitchen, giving everything a final wipe-down, when the cottage door opened and Mrs Brooke-Tigh came in, and with her Dr van Dyke and a pretty woman of about Emma’s own age.

  Mrs Brooke-Tigh ignored her. ‘You’re so lucky,’ she declared loudly, ‘that I had this last-minute cancellation. Take a quick look round and see if it will suit. The next party are due here in half an hour but the girl’s almost finished.’

  ‘The girl’, scarlet-faced, had turned her back but then had to turn round again. ‘Miss Dawson,’ said Dr van Dyke, ‘what a pleasant surprise. This is my sister, who plans to come for a week with her children.’

  He turned to the woman beside him. ‘Wibeke, this is Emma Dawson; she lives here.’

  Emma wiped a soapy hand on her pinny and shook hands, wishing herself anywhere else but there, and listened to Wibeke saying how pleased she was to meet her while Mrs Brooke-Tigh, at a loss for words for once, tapped an impatient foot.

  Presently she led them away to see round the cottage, and when they were on the point of leaving Mrs Brooke-Tigh said loudly, ‘I’ll be back presently to pay you, Emma. Leave the cleaning things at my back door as you go.’

  The perfect finish for a beastly week, thought Emma, grinding her splendid teeth.

  And Mrs Brooke-Tigh hardly improved matters when she paid Emma.

  ‘It doesn’t do to be too familiar with the tenants,’ she pointed out. ‘I hardly think it necessary to tell you that. Don’t be late on Wednesday.’

  Emma, who was never late, bade her good afternoon in a spine-chilling voice and went home.

  It would have been very satisfying to have tossed the bucket and mop at Mrs Brooke-Tigh and never returned, but with the bucket and mop there would have gone sixty pounds, not forgetting the tips left on the dressing table. She would have to put up with Mrs Brooke-Tigh until the season ended, and in the meantime she would keep her ears open for another job. That might mean going to Kingsbridge every day, since so many of the shops and hotels closed for the winter at Salcombe.