Matilda's Wedding. Бетти Нилс
and settled down happily enough to write.
That his wife was by no means as content as he was was a worry, but he assumed that, given time, she would settle down to their new life. Matilda had given him no worries; she had accepted everything without demur, only declaring that if possible she would find a job.
When she had left school she had taken a course in shorthand and typing, learned how to use a computer and simple bookkeeping. She had never had the chance to use these skills, for her mother had needed her at home, but now, several years later, she was glad that she would be able to augment her father’s pension. It had been a lucky chance that Mrs Simpkins had mentioned that the doctor needed a receptionist…
She left her father with the promise of bringing him a cup of coffee and went in search of her mother.
Mrs Paige was upstairs in her bedroom, sitting before her dressing table, peering at her face. She had been a pretty girl but the prettiness was marred by a discontented mouth and a frown. She turned away as Matilda went in.
‘The nearest decent hairdresser is in Taunton—miles away. Whatever am I going to do?’ She cast Matilda a cross look. ‘It’s all very well for you; you’re such a plain girl, it doesn’t really matter…’
Matilda sat down on the bed and looked at her mother; she loved her, of course, but there were times when she had to admit that she was selfish and spoilt. Hardly Mrs Paige’s fault—she had been an only child of doting parents and her husband had indulged her every whim to the best of his ability and Matilda had been sent away to boarding-school so that she had never been close to her daughter.
And Matilda had accepted it all: her father’s vague affection, her mother’s lack of interest, her life at the vicarage, helping Sunday school, the Mother’s Union, the annual bazaar, the whist drives… But now that was all over.
‘I’ve got the job at the doctor’s,’ she said. ‘Part-time, mornings and evenings, so I’ll have plenty of time to do the housework.’
‘How much is he paying you? I can’t manage on your father’s pension and I haven’t a farthing myself.’
When Matilda told her she said, ‘That’s not much…’
‘It’s the going rate, Mother.’
‘Oh, well, it will be better than nothing—and you won’t need much for yourself.’
‘No. Most of it must go for the housekeeping; there might be enough for you to have help in the house once or twice a week.’
‘Well, if you are working for most of the day I shall need someone.’ Her mother smiled suddenly. ‘And poor little me? Am I to have something too? Just enough so that I can look like a rural dean’s wife and not some poverty-stricken housewife.’
‘Yes, Mother, we’ll work something out without disturbing Father.’
‘Splendid, dear.’ Her mother was all smiles now. ‘Let me have your wages each week and I’ll see that they are put to good use.’
‘I think I shall put them straight into Father’s account at the bank and just keep out enough for you and me.’
Her mother turned back to the mirror. ‘You always have been selfish, Matilda, wanting your own way. When I think of all I have done for you…’
Matilda had heard it all before. She said now, ‘Don’t worry, Mother, there will be enough over for you.’
She went across the small landing to her own room, where she sat down on her bed and did sums on the back of an envelope. She was well aware of the inadequacies of her father’s pension; if they lived carefully there was just enough to live on and pay the bills; anything extra had to be paid for from his small capital—smaller still now with the expense of his illness and their move.
He had received a cheque from his parishioners when he had left the vicarage, but a good deal of that had been swallowed up by carpets and curtains and having the functional bathroom turned into one in which Mrs Paige could bear to be in. The bathroom as it was had been adequate, but her father loved his wife, could see no fault in her, and since she’d wanted a new bathroom she had had it…
He was an unworldly man, content with his lot, seeing only the best in other people; he was also impractical, forgetful and a dreamer, never happier than when he could sit quietly with his books or writing. Matilda loved him dearly and, although his heart attack had led to his retirement and coming to live in straitened circumstances, she had welcomed it since it meant that he could live a quiet life. Now she had a job and could help financially she had no doubt that once her mother had got over her disappointment they would be happy enough.
She went downstairs to the small kitchen to make coffee, and while the kettle boiled she looked round her. It was a rather bare room with an old-fashioned dresser against one wall, an elderly gas cooker and the new washing machine her mother had insisted on. The table in its centre was solid and square—they had brought it with them from the vicarage—and there were four ladder-backed chairs round it. By the small window was a shabby armchair, occupied by the family cat, Rastus. Once she had a little money, decided Matilda, she would paint the walls a pale sunshine-yellow, and a pretty tablecloth and a bowl of bulbs would work wonders…
She carried the coffee into the living room and found her mother there. ‘I’ll take Father his,’ Matilda suggested, and she crossed the hall to the small, rather dark room behind the kitchen, rather grandly called the study. It was very untidy, with piles of books on the floor awaiting bookshelves, and more books scattered on the desk, which was too large for the room but Mr Paige had worked at it almost all of his life and it was unthinkable to get rid of it.
He looked up as she went in. ‘Matilda? Ah, coffee. Thank you, my dear.’ He took off his spectacles. ‘You went out this morning?’
‘Yes, Father, for an interview with Lovell who has the practice here. I’m going to work for him part-time.’
‘Good, good; you will meet some young people and get some sort of a social life, I dare say. It will not entail too much hard work?’
‘No, no. Just seeing to patients and their notes and writing letters. I shall enjoy it.’
‘And of course you will be paid; you must get yourself some pretty things, my dear.’
She glanced down at the desk; the gas bill was lying on it and there was a reminder from the plumber that the kitchen taps had been attended to.
‘Oh, I shall, Father,’ she said in an over-bright voice.
On Monday morning Matilda got up earlier than usual, took tea to her parents and retired to her room. She couldn’t turn herself into a beauty but at least she could be immaculate. She studied her face as she powdered it and put on some lipstick. She wiped it off again, though. She hadn’t worn it at the interview, and although she didn’t think that Dr Lovell had noticed her at all there was always the chance that he had. She suspected that she had got the job because she was as near alike to Miss Brimble as her youth allowed.
She had met that lady once: plain, bespectacled, clad in something dust-coloured. There had been nothing about her to distract the eye of Dr Lovell, and Matilda, unable to find anything in her wardrobe of that dreary colour, had prudently chosen navy blue with a prim white collar. Such a pity, she reflected, dragging her hair back into its French pleat, that circumstances forced her to make the least of herself.
She pulled a face at her reflection. Not that it mattered. She had as much chance of attracting him as the proverbial pig had of flying. Falling in love with a man who hadn’t even looked at you for more than a moment had been a stupid thing to do.
The surgery was at one side of the house and a narrow path led to the side door. It was already unlocked when she got there and a woman was dusting the row of chairs. Matilda bade her good morning and, obeying the instructions she had been given, went into the surgery beyond. The doctor wasn’t there; she hadn’t expected him to be for it was not yet eight o’clock.
She