The Right Kind of Girl Page 5

  ‘Mrs Hervey is a young woman, presumably?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Her husband is away—in America I believe. Mrs Hervey seems quite lost without him.’

  He agreed, that might be so.

  ‘I’m keeping you, Professor,’ she went on. ‘I’m sure you want to go home to your own family. It was very kind of you to come and see me. I told Emma not to come here; from what she said I rather think that she has very little time to herself and I shall soon be home.’

  ‘Indeed you will, Mrs Trent.’

  They shook hands and she added, ‘You won’t be seeing her, I suppose?’

  ‘If I do I will give her your love,’ he assured her.

  Fifteen minutes later he stopped the car outside his front door in the heart of Lustleigh village. The house was close to the church, and was a rambling thatched cottage, its roof at various levels, its windows small and diamond-paned. The door was arched and solid and its walls in summer and autumn were a mass of colour from the climbing plants clinging to its irregularities.

  He let himself in, to be met in the narrow hall by two dogs—a Jack Russell with an impudent face and a sober golden Labrador. He bent to caress them as a door at the end of the hall was opened and his housekeeper came trotting towards him. She was short and stout with a round, pink-cheeked face, small blue eyes and a smiling mouth.

  ‘There you are, then,’ she observed, ‘and high time too, if I might say so. There’s as nice a dinner waiting for you as you’d find anywhere in the land.’

  ‘Give me ten minutes, Mrs Parfitt, and I’ll do it justice.’

  ‘Had a busy day, I reckon. Time you took a bit of a holiday; though it’s not my place to say so, dear knows you’ve earned it.’ She gave an indignant snort. ‘Supposed to be free of all that operating and hospital work, aren’t you, for six months? And look at you, sir, working your fingers off to help out old Dr Treble, going to conferences…’

  Sir Paul had taken off his coat, picked up his bag and opened a door. ‘I’m rather enjoying it,’ he observed mildly, and went into his study.

  There was a pile of letters on his desk and the light on the answer-phone was blinking; he ignored them both and sat down at his desk and, lifting the phone’s receiver, dialled a number and waited patiently for it to be answered.

  Emma had soon discovered that it was impossible to get annoyed or impatient with Mrs Hervey. She had become resigned to the mess she found each morning when she arrived for work—the table in the kitchen left littered with unwashed crockery used by Mrs Hervey for the snack she fancied before she went to bed, the remnants of that snack left to solidify in the frying-pan or saucepan. But at least she had grasped the instructions for Bart’s feeds, even though she made no attempt to clean anything once it had been used. She was, however, getting much better at handling her small son, and although she was prone to weep at the slightest set-back she was invariably good-natured.

  Towards the end of the week Emma had suggested that it might be a good idea to take Bart to the baby clinic, or find out if there was a health visitor who would check Bart’s progress.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Mrs Hervey had said airily. ‘They talked about it while I was in the nursing home but of course I said there was no need with a trained nanny already booked.’

  ‘But the nanny isn’t here,’ Emma had pointed out.

  ‘Well, you are, and she’ll come soon—she said she would.’ Mrs Hervey had given her a sunny smile and begged her not to fuss but to come and inspect various baby garments which had just arrived from Harrods.

  By the end of the week Emma was tired; her few hours each afternoon were just sufficient for her to look after her house, do the necessary shopping, see to Queenie and do the washing and ironing, and by the time she got home in the evening she was too tired to do more than eat a sandwich and drink a pot of tea before tumbling into bed. She was well aware that she was working for far too many hours, but she told herself it was only for a few weeks and, with the first hundred pounds swelling the woefully meagre sum in their bank account, she went doggedly on.

  All the same, on Saturday evening, as nine o’clock approached, she heaved a sigh of relief. Sunday would be a day like any weekday, but perhaps by the end of another week someone—the cook or the housemaid— would be back and then her day’s work would be lighter. She had been tempted once or twice to suggest that Mrs Hervey might find someone to come in each day and do some housework, but this had been dismissed with a puzzled, ‘But you are managing beautifully, Emma; you’re doing all the things I asked for in the advert.’

  Emma had said no more—what was the use? She only hoped that Mrs Hervey would never fall on hard times; her cushioned life had hardly prepared her for that.

  She was about to put on her coat when Mrs Hervey’s agitated voice made her pause. She took off her coat again and went back upstairs to find her bending over Bart’s cot. ‘He’s red in the face,’ she cried. ‘Look at him; he’s going to have a fit, I know it!’

  ‘He needs changing,’ said Emma.

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad you’re still here.’ Mrs Hervey gave her a warm smile and went to answer the phone.

  She came back a few moments later. ‘A visitor,’ she said happily. ‘He’s on his way. I’ll go and get the drinks ready.’

  Emma, still coping with Bart’s urgent needs, heard the doorbell presently, and voices. Mrs Hervey was laughing a lot; it must be someone she knew very well and was glad to see. She had, so far, refused all invitations from her friends and hadn’t invited any of them to come to the house. ‘I promised Mike that I’d stay quietly at home and look after Baby,’ she had explained to Emma. ‘As soon as Nanny is here and settled in then I shall make up for it.’ Her eyes had sparkled at the thought.

  Bart, now that she had made him comfortable once more, was already half-asleep; Emma was tucking him up when the door was opened and Mrs Hervey came in and, with her, Sir Paul Wyatt.

  Emma’s heart gave a delighted leap at the sight of him while at the same time she felt a deep annoyance; she looked a fright—even at her best she was nothing to look at, but now, at the end of the day, she wasn’t worth a glance. What was he doing here anyway? She gave him a distant look and waited to see who would speak first.

  It was Mrs Hervey, bubbling over with pleasure. ‘Emma, this is Sir Paul Wyatt; he’s a professor or something. He’s Mike’s oldest friend and he’s come to see Bart. He didn’t know that I was home—I did say that I would go to Scotland until Mike came home. Just fancy, he’s turned into a GP, just for a bit while Dr Treble is away.’ She turned a puzzled gaze to him. ‘I thought you were a surgeon?’

  ‘I am. This is by way of a change. Emma and I have already met; I operated upon her mother not so long ago.’ He smiled at her across the room. ‘Good evening, Emma. You are staying here?’

  ‘No, I’m just going home.’

  ‘Rather late, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s my fault,’ said Mrs Hervey cheerfully. ‘Bart went all red and was roaring his head off and Emma hadn’t quite gone so she came back. I thought he was ill.’

  He lifted an enquiring eyebrow as Emma said in a nononsense voice, ‘He needed changing.’

  He laughed. ‘Oh, Doreen, when will you grow up? The sooner Mike gets back the better!’ He had gone to lean over the cot and was looking at the sleeping infant. ‘The image of his father. He looks healthy enough.’ He touched the small cheek with a gentle finger. ‘Why do you not have a nanny, and where are the servants?’

  Mrs Hervey tugged at his sleeve. ‘Come downstairs and have a drink and I’ll tell you.’

  Emma, longing to go, saw that Bart was already asleep.

  ‘How do you get back?’ he enquired of Emma.

  ‘I bike—it’s only a short way.’ She added, in a convincingly brisk tone, ‘I enjoy the exercise.’

  He held the door open and she followed Mrs Hervey downstairs, got into her coat once again and heard him telling Mrs Hervey that he could spare ten minutes
and no more. She wished them goodnight and then let herself out of the house and pedalled furiously home.

  It was already half-past nine and, although she was hungry, she was too tired to do more than put on the kettle for tea. She fed a disgruntled Queenie and poked her head into the fridge and eyed its sparse contents, trying to decide whether a boiled egg and yesterday’s loaf would be preferable to a quick bath and a cup of tea in bed.

  A brisk tattoo on the door-knocker caused her to withdraw her head smartly and listen. The tattoo was repeated and she went to the door then, suddenly afraid that it was bad news of her mother. She put up the new chain and opened the door a few inches, her view quite blocked by the professor’s bulk.

  He said testily, ‘Yes, it is I, Emma.’

  ‘What do you want?’ The door was still on the chain but she looked up into his face, half-hidden in the dark night. ‘Mother?’ she asked in a sudden panic.

  ‘Your mother is well; I have seen her recently. Now, open the door, there’s a good girl.’

  She was too tired to argue. She opened it and he crowded into the narrow hall, his arms full.

  ‘Fish and chips,’ said Emma, suddenly famished.

  ‘A quick and nourishing meal, but it must be eaten immediately.’

  She led the way into the kitchen, took down plates from the small dresser and then paused. ‘Oh, you won’t want to eat fish and chips…’

  ‘And why not? I have had no dinner this evening and I am extremely hungry.’ He was portioning out the food on to the two plates while she laid the cloth and fetched knives and forks.

  ‘I was making tea,’ she told him.

  ‘Splendid. You do not mind if I join you?’

  Since he was already sitting at the table there seemed no point in objecting, and anyway, she didn’t want to!

  They sat opposite each other at the small table with Queenie, aroused by the delightful smell, at their feet, and for a few minutes neither of them spoke. Only when the first few mouthfuls had been eaten did Sir Paul ask, ‘How long have you been with Doreen Hervey?’

  Emma, gobbling chips, told him.

  ‘And what free time do you have? It seems to me that your day is excessively long.’

  ‘I come home each afternoon just for an hour or two…’

  ‘To shop and wash and clean and make your bed? You are too pale, Emma; you need fresh air and a few idle hours.’

  ‘Well, I’ll get them in a week or two; the nanny said it would be only a few weeks, and Mrs Hervey told me today that the housemaid is coming back in just over a week.’

  ‘Of course you need the money.’

  He said it in such a matter-of-fact way that she said at once, ‘Yes, I do, I won’t be able to work for a bit when Mother comes home.’ She selected a chip and bit into it. She had small very white teeth, and when she smiled and wasn’t tired she looked almost pretty.

  It was surprising, he reflected, what fish and chips and a pot of tea did for one. He couldn’t remember when he had last had such a meal and he was glad to see that Emma’s rather pale cheeks had taken on a tinge of colour.

  He got up from the table, took their plates to the sink and poured the water from the kettle into the bowl.

  ‘You can’t wash up,’ said Emma.

  ‘I can and I shall. You may dry the dishes if you wish.’

  ‘Well, really…’ muttered Emma and then laughed. ‘You’re not a bit like a professor of surgery.’

  ‘I am relieved to hear it. I don’t spend all day and every day bending over the operating table, you know. I have a social side to my life.’

  She felt a pang of regret that she would never know what that was.

  As soon as the last knife and fork had been put away he wished her a pleasant good evening and went away. She felt deflated when he had gone. ‘Only because,’ she explained to Queenie, for lack of any other listener, ‘I don’t get many people—well, many men.’

  Half an hour later Sir Paul let himself into his house, to be greeted as he always was by his dogs and his housekeeper.

  ‘Dear knows, you’re a busy man, sir, but it’s long past the hour any self-respecting man should be working. You’ll be wanting your dinner.’

  ‘I’ve dined, thank you, Mrs Parfitt. I would have phoned but there was no phone.’

  ‘Dined? With Dr Treble?’ She sniffed. ‘His housekeeper is a careless one in the kitchen—I doubt you enjoyed your food.’

  ‘Fish and chips, and I enjoyed every mouthful.’

  ‘Not out of newspaper?’ Mrs Parfitt’s round face was puckered in horror.

  ‘No, no. On a plate in the company of a young lady.’

  Mrs Parfitt twinkled at him. ‘Ah, I’m glad to hear it, sir. Was she pretty?’

  ‘No.’ He smiled at her. ‘Don’t allow your thoughts to get sentimental, Mrs Parfitt—she needed a meal.’

  ‘Helping another of your lame dogs over the stile, were you? There’s a pile of post in your study; I’ll bring you a tray of coffee and some of my little biscuits.’

  ‘Excellent. They should dispel any lingering taste of my supper.’

  Mrs Parfitt was right; there were a great many letters to open and read and the answering machine to deal with. He was occupied until the early hours of the morning, when he took the dogs for a brisk walk, and saw them to their baskets and finally took himself off to bed. He hadn’t thought of Emma once.

  ‘Fancy you knowing Paul,’ said Mrs Hervey, when Emma arrived in the morning. ‘He’s a stunner; if Mike hadn’t turned up I could have fallen for him. Not that he gave me any encouragement.’ She sighed. ‘You see, he’ll pick a suitable wife when he decides he wants one and not a minute sooner. I don’t believe he’s ever been in love—oh, he’s dozens of girlfriends, of course, but it’ll take someone special to touch his heart.’

  Emma nodded. It would have to be someone like Mrs Hervey, pretty as a picture, amusing and helpless; men, Emma supposed, would like that. She thought with regret that she had never had the opportunity to be helpless. And she would never, she decided, taking a quick look in the unnecessary looking-glass in the nursery, be pretty.

  That her eyes were large and thickly lashed and her hair, confined tidily in a French pleat, was long and silky, and that her mouth, though too wide, was gentle and her complexion as clear and unblemished as a baby’s quite escaped her attention.

  Sir Paul Wyatt, fulfilling his role of general practitioner in the middle of the following week, allowed his thoughts to dwell on just those pleasing aspects of Emma’s person, only relinquishing them when the next patients came into the surgery. Surgery finished, he went on his rounds; the inhabitants of Buckfastleigh were, on the whole, a healthy bunch and his visits were few. He drove himself home, ate his lunch, took the dogs for a walk and then got into the Rolls and drove back to Buckfastleigh again.

  Emma was at home; her elderly bike was propped against the house wall and the windows were open. He knocked on the door, wondering why he had come.

  She answered the door at once, an apron tied round her slender middle, her hair, loosed from its severe plait, tied back with a ribbon.

  She stared up at him mutely, and he stared back with a placid face.

  ‘Not Mother?’ she said finally, and he shook his head.

  ‘Is Mrs Hervey all right? Bart was asleep when I left.’

  He nodded and she asked sharply, ‘So why have you come?’ She frowned. ‘Do you want something?’

  He smiled then. ‘I am not certain about that…May I come in?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Emma. ‘Please do—I was surprised to see you…’ She added unnecessarily, ‘I was just doing a few chores.’

  ‘When do you have to go back?’ He was in the hall, taking up most of the space.

  ‘Just after four o’clock to get Mrs Hervey’s tea.’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘May we have tea here first? I’ll go and get something—crumpets—while you do the dusting.’

  Emma was surprised, although she ag
reed readily. Perhaps he had missed his lunch; perhaps surgery was earlier than usual that afternoon. She stood in the doorway and watched him drive away, and then rushed around with the duster and the carpet-sweeper before setting out the tea things. Tea would have to be in the kitchen; there was no fire laid in the sitting-room.

  She fed Queenie, filled the kettle and went upstairs to do her face and pin her hair. Studying her reflection, she thought how dull she looked in her tweed skirt, blouse and—that essentially British garment—a cardigan.

  She was back downstairs with minutes to spare before he returned.

  It wasn’t just crumpets he had brought with him— there were scones and doughnuts, a tub of butter and a pot of strawberry jam. He arranged them on a dish while she put the crumpets under the grill and boiled the kettle, all the while carrying on an undemanding conversation about nothing much so that Emma, who had felt suddenly awkward, was soothed into a pleasant feeling of ease.

  They had finished the crumpets and were starting on the scones when he asked casually, ‘What do you intend doing when you leave Doreen Hervey, Emma?’

  ‘Do? Well, I’ll stay at home for a bit, until Mother is quite herself again, and then I’ll look for another job.’

  He passed her the butter and the jam. ‘You might train for something?’

  ‘I can type and do shorthand, though I’m not very good at either, and people always need mother’s helps.’ She decided that it was time to change the conversation. ‘I expect Mother will be on some kind of a diet?’

  ‘Yes—small meals taken frequently, cut out vinegar and pickles and so on.’ He sounded impatient. ‘She will be given a leaflet when she comes home. The physicians have taken over now.’ He frowned. ‘Is it easy to get a job here?’