Emma’s Wedding. Betty Neels
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 ungrateful. 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