Dearest Love. Betty Neels
‘Yes. Yes, go along, Miss Lorimer. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.’
A practical girl, Arabella paused at the door. ‘I should like a plunger, sir.’ She saw that he was puzzled. ‘It is used for unstopping sinks and drains. They’re not expensive.’
Not a muscle of Dr Tavener’s handsome features moved; he asked gravely, ‘Have we a blocked sink, Miss Lorimer?’
‘No, but it’s something which usually happens at an awkward time—it would be nice to have one handy.’
Dr Marshall spoke. ‘Yes, yes, of course. Very wise. We have always called in a plumber, I believe.’
‘It isn’t always necessary,’ she told him kindly.
‘Ask Miss Baird to deal with it as you go, will you?’
Dr Tavener closed the door behind her and sat down. ‘A paragon,’ he observed mildly. ‘With a plunger too! Do we know anything about her, James?’
‘She comes from a place called Colpin-cum-Witham in Wiltshire. Parents killed in a car crash and—for some reason not specified—she had to leave her home. Presumably no money. Excellent references from the local parson and doctor. She’s on a month’s trial.’ He smiled. ‘Have you got flowers in your room too?’
‘Yes, indeed.’ He added, ‘Don’t let us forget that new brooms sweep clean.’
‘You don’t like her?’
‘My dear James, I don’t know her and it is most unlikely that I shall see enough of her to form an opinion.’ He got up and went to look out of the window. ‘I thought I’d drive up to Leeds—the consultation isn’t until the afternoon. I’ll go on to Birmingham from there and come back on the following day. Miss Baird has fixed my appointments so that I have a couple of days free.’
Dr Marshall nodded. ‘That’s fine. I’m not too keen on going to that seminar in Oslo. Will you go?’
‘Certainly. It’s two weeks ahead, isn’t it? If I fly over it will only take three days.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better do some work; I’ve that article to finish for the Lancet.’ He went to the door. ‘I’ve two patients for this evening, by the way.’
As for Arabella, she went back to her room, had lunch, fed Percy and, after a cautious look round, went into the garden with him, unaware that Dr Tavener was at his desk at the window. He watched her idly, admired Percy’s handsome grey fur, and then forgot her.
Miss Baird had been very helpful. There were, she had told Arabella, one or two small shops not five minutes’ walk away down a small side-street. Arabella put on her jacket and, armed with a shopping-basket, set off to discover them. They were tucked away from the quiet prosperous streets with their large houses—a newsagents, a greengrocer and a small general store. Sufficient for her needs. She stocked up with enough food for a couple of days, bought herself a newspaper and then went back to Wigmore Street. On Saturday, she promised herself, she would spend her free afternoon shopping for some of the things on her list. She was to be paid each week, Miss Baird had told her and, although she should save for an uncertain future, there were some small comforts she would need. She would have all Sunday to work without interruption.
After that first day the week went quickly; by the end of it Arabella had found her feet. She saw little of the nurses and still less of Dr Marshall, and nothing at all of his partner. It was only when she went to Miss Baird to collect her wages that she overheard one of the nurses remark that Dr Tavener would be back on Monday. ‘And a good thing too,’ she had added, ‘for his appointments book is full. He’s away again in a couple of weeks for that seminar in Oslo.’
‘He doesn’t get much time for his love-life, does he?’ laughed the other nurse.
Arabella, with her pay-packet a delightful weight in her pocket, even felt vague relief that he would be going away again. She had been careful to keep out of his way, although she wasn’t sure why, and the last two days while he had been away she had felt much more comfortable. ‘It’s because he’s so large,’ she told Percy, and fell to counting the contents of her pay-packet.
While her parents had been alive she had lived a comfortable enough life. There had always seemed to be money; she had never been spoilt but she had never gone without anything she had needed or asked for. Now she held in her hand what was, for her, quite a large sum of money and she must plan to spend it carefully. New clothes were for the moment out of the question. True, those she had were of good quality and although her wardrobe was small it was more than adequate for her needs. She got paper and pen and checked her list…
It took her until one o’clock to clear up after the Saturday morning appointments and then there was the closing and the locking up to do, the answering machine to set, the few cups and saucers to wash and dry, the gas and electricity to check. She ate a hasty lunch, saw to Percy’s needs then changed into her brown jersey skirt and the checked blouson jacket which went with it, stuck her rather tired feet into the Italian loafers she had bought with her mother in the happy times she tried not to remember too often, and, with her shoulder-bag swinging, caught a bus to Tottenham Court Road.
The tea-chests had yielded several treasures: curtains which could be cut to fit the basement windows and make cushion covers, odds and ends of china and kitchenware, a clock—she remembered it from the kitchen; a small radio—still working; some books and, right at the bottom, a small thin mat which would look nice before the gas fire.
She needed to buy needles and sewing cottons, net curtains, scissors and more towels, shampoo and some soap and, having purchased these, she poked around the cheaper shops until she found what she wanted: a roll of thin matting for the floor—it would be awkward to carry but it would be worth the effort. So, for that matter, would the tin of paint in a pleasing shade of pale apricot. She added a brush and, laden down with her awkward shopping, took a bus back to Wigmore Street.
Back in the basement again, she changed into an elderly skirt and jumper and went into the garden with Percy. It was dusk already and there were no lights on in the rooms above. The house seemed very silent and empty and there was a chilly wind. Percy disliked wind; he hurried back indoors and she locked and bolted the door before getting her supper and feeding him. Her meal over, she washed up and went upstairs to check carefully that everything was just as it should be before going back to lay the matting.
It certainly made a difference to the dim little room; the matting almost covered the mud-coloured flooring, and when she had spread an old-fashioned chenille tablecloth over the round table its cheerful crimson brightened the place further. It had been at the bottom of one of the tea-chests, wrapped around some of the china, and the curtains were of the same crimson. It was too late to start them that evening but she could at least sew the net curtains she had bought. It was bedtime by the time she had done that, run a wire through their tops, banged in some small nails and hung them across the bars of the windows. She went to bed then, pleased with her efforts.
She woke in the middle of the night, for the moment forgetful of where she was and then, suddenly overcome with grief and loneliness, cried herself to sleep again. She woke in the morning to find Percy sitting on her chest, peering down at her face—part of her old life—and she at once sat up in bed, dismissing self-pity. The walls had to be painted and if there was time she would begin on the curtains…
‘We have a home,’ she told Percy as she dressed, ‘and money in our pockets and work to keep us busy. It’s a lovely morning; we’ll go into the garden.’
There was a faint chill in the air and there was a Sunday morning quiet. She thought of all the things she would do, the places she would visit in the coming weeks, and feeling quite cheerful got their breakfasts.
She had covered the drab, discoloured wallpaper by the late afternoon and the room looked quite different. The pale apricot gave the place light and warmth and she ate her combined tea and supper in great content.
The smell was rather overpowering; she opened the door to the garden