Kitabı oku: «Dearest Mary Jane»

CHAPTER ONE

IT was five o’clock and the warm hazy sunshine of a September afternoon was dwindling into the evening’s coolness. The Misses Potter, sitting at a table in the window of the tea-shop, put down their teacups reluctantly and prepared to leave. Miss Emily, the elder of the two ladies, rammed her sensible hat more firmly on her head and addressed the girl sitting behind the tiny counter at the back of the room.

‘If we might have our bill, Mary Jane?’

The girl came to the table and the two ladies looked at her, wondering, as they frequently did, how whoever had chosen the girl’s name could have guessed how aptly it fitted. She looked like a Mary Jane, not tall, a little too thin, with an unremarkable face and light brown hair, straight and long and pinned in an untidy swirl on top of her head. Only when she looked at you the violet eyes, fringed with long curling lashes, made one forget her prosaic person.

She said now in her quiet voice, ‘I hope you enjoyed your tea. In another week or two I’ll start making teacakes.’

Her customers nodded in unison. ‘We shall look forward to that.’ Miss Emily opened her purse. ‘We mustn’t keep you, it’s closing time.’ She put money on the table and Mary Jane opened the door and waited until they were across the village street before closing it.

She cleared the table, carried everything into the small kitchen behind the tea-room and went to turn the notice to ‘Closed’ on the door just as a car drew up outside. The door was thrust open before she had time to turn the key and a man came in. He was massively built and tall, so that the small room became even smaller.

‘Good,’ he said briskly. ‘You’re not closed. My companion would like tea...’

‘But I am closed,’ said Mary Jane in a reasonable voice. ‘I’m just locking the door, only you pushed it open. You are not very far from Stow-on-the-Wold—there are several hotels there, you’ll get tea quite easily.’

The man spoke evenly, rather as though he were addressing a child or someone hard of hearing. ‘My companion doesn’t wish to wait any longer. A pot of tea is all I am asking for; surely that isn’t too much?’

He sounded like a man who liked his own way and got it, but Mary Jane had a lot to do before she could go to her bed; besides, she disliked being browbeaten. ‘I’m sorry...’

She was interrupted by the girl who swept into the tea-room. No, not a girl, decided Mary Jane, a woman in her thirties and beautiful, although her looks were marred by her frown and tight mouth.

‘Where’s my tea?’ she demanded. ‘Good lord, Thomas, all I want is a cup of tea. Is that too much to ask for? What is this dump, anyway?’ She flung herself gracefully into one of the little cane chairs. ‘I suppose it will be undrinkable tea-bags, but if there’s nothing else...’

Mary Jane gave the man an icy violet stare. ‘I do have drinkable tea-bags,’ she told him, ‘but perhaps the lady would prefer Earl Grey or Orange Pekoe?’

‘Earl Grey,’ snapped the woman, ‘and I hope I shan’t have to wait too long.’

‘Just while the kettle boils,’ said Mary Jane in a dangerously gentle voice.

She went into the kitchen and laid a tray and made the tea and carried it to the table and was very surprised when the man got up and took the tray from her.

In the kitchen she started clearing up. There would be a batch of scones to make after she had had her supper and the sugar bowls to fill and the jam dishes to see to as well as the pastry to make ready for the sausage rolls she served during the lunch-hour. She was putting the last of the crockery away when the man came to the doorway. ‘The bill?’ he asked.

She went behind the counter and made it out and handed it silently to him and the woman called across. ‘I imagine there is no ladies’ room here?’

Mary Jane paused in counting change. ‘No.’ She added deliberately, ‘The public lavatories are on the other side of the village square on the road to Moreton.’

The man bit off a laugh and then said with cool politeness, ‘Thank you for giving us tea.’ He ushered his companion out of the door, turning as he did so to turn the notice to ‘Closed’.

Mary Jane watched him drive away. It was a nice car—a dark blue Rolls-Royce. There was a lonely stretch of road before they reached Stow-on-the-Wold, and she hoped they would run out of petrol. It was unlikely, though, he didn’t strike her as that kind of man.

She locked the door, tidied the small room with its four tables and went through to the kitchen where she washed the last of the tea things, put her supper in the oven and went up the narrow staircase tucked away behind a door by the dresser. Upstairs, she went first to her bedroom, a low-ceilinged room with a latticed window overlooking the back garden and furnished rather sparsely. The curtains were pretty, however, as was the bedspread and there were flowers in a bowl on the old-fashioned dressing-table. She tidied herself without wasting too much time about it, and crossed the tiny landing to the living-room at the front of the cottage. Quite a large room since it was over the tea-room, and furnished as sparsely as the bedroom. There were flowers here too, and a small gas fire in the tiled grate which she lighted before switching on a reading lamp by the small armchair, so that the room looked welcoming. That done, she went downstairs again to open the kitchen door to allow Brimble, her cat, to come in—a handsome tabby who, despite his cat-flap, preferred to come in and out like anyone else. He wreathed himself round her legs now, wanting his supper and, when she had fed him, went upstairs to lie before the gas fire.

Mary Jane took the shepherd’s pie out of the oven, laid the table under the kitchen window and sat down to eat her supper, listening with half an ear to the last of the six o‘clock news while she planned her baking for the next day. The bus went into Stow-an-the-Wold on Fridays, returning around four o’clock, and those passengers who lived on the outskirts of the village frequently came in for a pot of tea before they set off for home.

She finished the pie and ate an apple, cleared the table and got out her pastry board and rolling pin. Scones were easy to make and were always popular. She did two batches and then saw to the sausage rolls before going into the tea-room to count the day’s takings. Hardly a fortune; she just about paid her way but there was nothing over for holidays or new clothes, though the cottage was hers...

Uncle Matthew had left it to her when he had died two years previously. He had been her guardian ever since her own parents had been killed in their car. She and Felicity, who was older than she was, had been schoolgirls and their uncle and aunt had given them a home and educated them. Felicity, with more than her fair share of good looks, had taken herself off to London as soon as she had left school and had become a successful model, while Marv Jane had stayed at home to run the house for an ailing aunt and an uncle who, although kind, didn’t bother with her overmuch. When her aunt had died she had stayed on, looking after him and the house, trying not to think about the future and the years flying by. She had been almost twenty-three when her uncle died and, to her astonished delight, left her the cottage he had owned in the village and five hundred pounds. She had moved into it from his large house at the other end of the village as soon as she could, for Uncle Matthew’s heir had disliked her on sight and so had his wife...

She had spent some of the money on second-hand furniture and then, since she had no skills other than that of a good cook, she had opened the tea-room. She was known and liked in the village, which was a help, and after a few uncertain months she was making just enough to live on and pay the bills. Felicity had been to see her, amused at the whole set-up but of fering no hefp. ‘You always were the domestic type,’ she had observed laughingly. ‘I’d die if I had to spend my days here, you know. I’m going to the Caribbean to do some modelling next week—don’t you wish you were me?’

Mary Jane had considered the question. ‘No, not really,’ she said finally. ‘I do hope you have a lovely time.’

‘I intend to, though the moment I set eyes on a handsome rich man I shall marry him: She gave Mary Jane a friendly pat on the shoulder. ‘Not much hope of that happening to you, darling.’

Mary Jane had agreed pleasantly, reflecting that just to set eyes on a man who hadn’t lived all his life in the village and was either married or about to be married would be nice.

She remembered that now as she took the last lot of sausage rolls out of the oven. She had certainly met a man that very afternoon and, unless he had borrowed that car, he was at least comfortably off and handsome to boot. A pity that they hadn’t fallen in love with each other at first sight, the way characters did in books. Rather the reverse: he had shown no desire to meet her again and she hadn’t liked him. She cleared up once more and went upstairs to sit with Brimble by the fire and presently she went to bed.

It was exactly a week later when Miss Emily Potter came into the shop at the unusual hour—for her—of eleven o’clock in the morning.

Beyond an elderly couple and a young man on a motorbike in a great hurry, Mary Jane had had no customers, which was a good thing, for Miss Emily was extremely agitated.

‘I did not know which way to turn,’ she began breathlessly, ‘and then I thought of you, Mary Jane. Mrs Stokes is away, you know, and Miss Kemble over at the rectory has the young mothers’ and toddlers’ coffee-morning. The taxi is due in a short time and dear Mabel is quite overwrought.’

Mary Jane saw that she would have to get to the heart of the matter quickly before Miss Emily became distraught as well. ‘Why?’

Miss Potter gave her a startled look. ‘She has to see this specialist—her hip, you know. Dr Fellows made the appointment but now she is most unwilling to go. So unfortunate, for this specialist comes very rarely to Cheltenham and the appointment is for two o’clock and I cannot possibly go with her, Didums is poorly and cannot be left...’

‘You would like me to have Didums?’ asked Mary Jane and sighed inwardly. Didums was a particularly awkward pug dog with a will of her own; Brimble wouldn’t like her at all.

‘No, no—dear Didums would never go with anyone but myself or my sister. If you would go with Mabel?’ Miss Potter gazed rather wildly around the tea-room. ‘There’s no one here; you could close for an hour or two.’

Mary Jane forbore from pointing out that although there was no one there at the moment, any minute now the place might be filled with people demanding coffee and biscuits. It wasn’t likely but there was always a chance. ‘When would we get back?’ she asked cautiously.

‘Well, if the appointment is for two o’clock I don’t suppose she will be very long, do you? I’m sure you should be back by four o‘clock...’

Miss Potter wrung her hands. ‘Oh, dear, I have no idea what to do.’

The taxi would take something over half an hour to get to the hospital. Mary Jane supposed that they would need to get there with half an hour to spare.

‘I believe that there is a very good place in the hospital where you can get coffee—dear Mabel will need refreshment.’

Mary Jane thought that after a ride in the taxi with the overwrought Miss Mabel Potter she might be in need of refreshment herself. She said in her calm way, ‘I’ll be over in half an hour or so, Miss Potter. There’s still plenty of time.’

A tearfully grateful Miss Potter went on her way. Mary Jane closed the tea-room, changed into a blouse and skirt and a cardigan, drank a cup of coffee and ate a scone, made sure that Brimble was cosily asleep. on the end of her bed and walked across the village square and along the narrow country lane which led to the Misses Potter’s cottage. It was called a cottage but, in fact, it was a rather nice house built of Cotswold stone and much too large for them. They had been born there and intended to live out their lives there, even though they were forced to do so as economically as possible. Mary Jane went up the garden path, rang the bell and was admitted by Miss Emily and led to the drawing-room where Miss Mabel sat surrounded by furniture which had been there before she was born and which neither she nor her sister would dream of changing.

Mary Jane sat down on a nice little Victorian button-back chair and embarked on a cheerful conversation. It was rather like talking to someone condemned to the guillotine; Miss Mabel bore the appearance of someone whose last moment had come. It was a relief when the taxi arrived and the cheerful conversation was scrapped for urgent persuasions to get in.

They were half an hour too early for their appointment, which was a mistake, for the orthopaedic clinic, although it had started punctually, was already running late. It was going on for three o’clock by the time the severe-looking sister called Miss Potter’s name and by then she was in such a nervous state that Mary Jane had a job getting her on to her feet and into the consulting-room.

The consultant sitting behind the desk got up and shook Miss Potter’s nerveless hand—the man who had demanded tea for his tiresome companion. Mary Jane, never one to think before she spoke, said chattily, ‘Oh, hello—it’s you—fancy seeing you here.’

She received a look from icy blue eyes in which there was no hint of recollection, although his ‘Good afternoon’ was uttered with detached civility and she blushed, something she did far too easily however much she tried not to. The stern-faced sister took no notice. She said briskly, ‘You had better stay with Miss Potter, she seems nervous.’

Mary Jane sat herself down in a corner of the room where Miss Potter could see her and watched the man wheedle that lady’s complaints and symptoms out of her. He did it very kindly and without any sign of impatience, even when Miss Potter sidetracked to explain about the marmalade which hadn’t jelled because she had felt poorly and hadn’t given it her full attention. A nasty, arrogant man, Mary Jane decided, but he had his good points. She had thought about him once or twice of course, and with a touch of wistfulness, for handsome giants who drove Rolls-Royce motor cars weren’t exactly thick on the ground in her part of the world, but she hadn’t expected to see him again. She wondered about his beautiful companion and was roused from her thoughts by Sister leading Miss Mabel away to a curtained-off corner to be examined.

The man took no notice of Mary Jane but wrote steadily and very fast until Sister came to tell him that his patient was ready.

He disappeared behind the curtain and Mary Jane, bored with sitting still and sure that he would be at least ten minutes, got up and went over to the desk and peered down at the notes he had been writing. She wasn’t surprised that she could hardly make head or tail of it, for he had been writing fast, but presently she began to make sense of it. There were some rough diagrams too, with arrows pointing in all directions and what looked like Latin. It was a pity that no one had seen to it that he wrote a legible hand when he was a schoolboy.

His voice, gently enquiring as to whether she was interested in orthopaedics, sent her whirling round to bump into his waistcoat.

‘Yes—no, that is...’ She had gone scarlet again. ‘Your writing is quite unreadable,’ she finished.

‘Yes? But as long as I can read it...you’re a nosy young woman.’

‘The patients’ charter,’ said Mary Jane, never at a loss for a word. He gave rather a nasty laugh.

‘And a busybody as well,’ be observed.

He sat down at his desk again and started to write once more and she went back to her chair and watched him. About thirty-five, she supposed, with brown hair already grizzled at the sides, and the kind of commanding nose he could look down. A firm mouth and a strong chin. She supposed that he could be quite nice when he smiled. He was dressed with understated elegance, the kind which cost a great deal of money, and she wondered what his name was. Not that it mattered, she reminded herself, as Miss Mabel came from behind the curtain, fully dressed even to her hat and gloves.

He got up as she came towards him and Mary Jane liked him for that, and for the manner in which he broke the news to his patient that an operation on her hip would relieve her of pain and disability.

He turned to Mary Jane. ‘You are a relation of Miss Potter?’ His tone was politely impersonal.

‘Me? No. Just someone in the village. Miss Potter’s sister couldn’t come because of Didums...’ His raised eyebrows forced her to explain. ‘Their dog—she’s not very well, the vet said...’ She stopped. It was obvious that he didn’t want to know what the vet had said.

‘Perhaps you could ask Miss Potter’s sister to ring the hospital and she will be told what arrangements will be made to admit her sister.’

He addressed himself to Miss Mabel once more, got to his feet to bid her goodbye, nodded at Mary Jane and Sister ushered them out into the waiting-room again.

‘What is his name?’ asked Mary Jane.

Sister had her hand on the next case sheets. She gave Mary Jane a frosty look. ‘If you mean the consultant you have just seen, his name is Sir Thomas Latimer. Miss Potter is extremely lucky that he will take her as a patient.’ She added impressively, ‘He is famous in his field.’

‘Oh, good.’ Mary Jane gave Sister a sunny smile and guided Miss Mabel out of the hospital and into the forecourt where the taxi was parked.

The return journey was entirely taken up with Miss Mabel’s rather muddled version of her examination, the driver’s rather lurid account of his wife’s varicose veins and their treatment and Mary Jane doing her best to guide the conversation into neutral topics.

It took some time to explain everything once they had reached the cottage. Mary Jane’s sensible account interlarded with Miss Mabel’s flights of fancy, but presently she was able to wish them goodbye and go home. Brimble was waiting for her, wanting his tea and company. She fed him, made a pot of tea for herself and, since it was almost five o’clock by now, she made no attempt to open the tea-room. She locked up and went upstairs and sat down by the gas fire with Brimble on her lap, thinking of Sir Thomas Latimer.

Nothing happened for several days; the fine weather held and Mary Jane reaped a better harvest than usual from motorists making the best of the last of summer. She had seen nothing of the Misses Potter but she hadn’t expected to; they came once a week, as regular as clockwork, on a Thursday to draw their pensions and indulge themselves with tea and scones, so she looked up in surprise when they came into the tea-room at eleven o’clock in the morning, two days early.

‘We have had a letter,’ observed Miss Emily, ‘which we should like you to read, Mary Jane, since it concerns you. And since we are here, I think that we might indulge ourselves with a cup of your excellent coffee.’

Mary Jane poured the coffee and took the letter she was offered. It was very clearly worded: Miss Mabel was to present herself at the hospital in four days’ time so that the operation found necessary by Sir Thomas Latimer might be carried out. Mary Jane skimmed over the bit about bringing a nightgown and toiletries and slowed at the next paragraph. It was considered advisable, in view of Miss Mabel’s nervous disposition, that the young lady who had accompanied her on her previous visit should do so again so that Miss Potter might be reassured by her company.

‘Well, I never,’ said Mary Jane and gave the letter back.

‘You will do this?’ asked Miss Emily in a voice which expected Mary Jane to say yes. ‘Most fortunately, you have few customers at this time of year, and an hour or so away will do you no great harm.’

Mary Jane forbore from pointing out that with the fine weather she could reasonably expect enough coffee and tea drinkers, not to mention scone eaters, to make it well worth her while to stay open from nine o‘clock until five o’clock. The good weather wouldn’t last and business was slack during the winter months. However, she liked the Misses Potter.

‘Three o’clock,’ she said. ‘That means leaving here some time after two o‘clock, doesn’t it? Yes, of course I’ll go and see Miss Mabel safely settled in.’

The ladies looked so relieved that she refilled their cups and didn’t charge them for it. ‘I hope,’ commented Miss Emily, ‘that Didums will be well enough for me to leave her so that I may visit Mabel. I do not know how long she will be in the hospital.’

‘I’ll try and find out for you.’ The tea-room door opened and four people came in and she left them to their coffee while she attended to her new customers: two elderly couples who ate a gratifying number of scones and ordered a pot of coffee. Mary Jane took it as a sign that obliging the Misses Potter when she really hadn’t wanted to would be rewarded by more customers than usual and more money in the till.

Indeed, it seemed that that was the case; she was kept nicely busy for the next few days so that she turned the ‘Open’ notice to ‘Closed’ with reluctance. It was another lovely day, and more people than usual had come in for coffee and if today was anything like yesterday she could have filled the little tea-room for most of the afternoon...

Miss Mabel wore an air of stunned resignation, getting into the taxi without needing to be coaxed, and Mary Jane’s warm heart was wrung by the unhappiness on her companion’s face. She strove to find cheerful topics of conversation, chattering away in a manner most unusual for her so that by the time they reached the hospital her tongue was cleaving to the roof of her mouth. At least there was no delay; they were taken at once to the ward and Miss Potter was invited to undress and get into bed while Mary Jane recited necessary information to the ward clerk, a jolly, friendly woman who gave her a leaflet about visiting and telephoning and information as to where the canteen was. ‘Sister will be coming along in a minute; you might like a word with her.’

Mary Jane went back to Miss Potter’s cubicle and found that lady was lying in bed, looking pale although she mustered a smile.

‘Sister’s coming to see you in a minute,’ said Mary Jane. ‘I’ll take your clothes back with me, shall I, and bring them again when you’re getting up?’ She cocked an ear at the sound of feet coming down the ward. ‘Here’s Sister.’

It was Sir Thomas Latimer as well, in a long white coat, his hands in his trouser pockets. He wished Miss Potter a cheerful good afternoon, gave Mary Jane a cool stare and addressed himself to his patient.

He had a lovely bedside manner, Mary Jane reflected, soothing and friendly and yet conveying the firm impression that whatever he said or did would be right. Mary Jane watched Miss Potter relax, even smile a little, and edged towards the curtains; if he was going to examine his patient he wouldn’t want her there.

‘Stay,’ he told her without turning his head.

She very much wanted to say ‘I shan’t,’ but Miss Potter’s precarious calm must not be disturbed. She gave the back of his head a look to pierce his skull and stayed where she was.

She had had a busy day and she was a little tired. She eased herself from one foot to the other and wished she could be like Sister, standing on the other side of the bed. A handsome woman, still young and obviously highly efficient. She and Sir Thomas exchanged brief remarks from time to time, none of which made sense to her, not that they were meant to. She stifled a yawn, smiled at Miss Potter and eased a foot out of a shoe.

Sister might be efficient, she was kind too; Miss Potter was getting more and more cheerful by the minute, and when Sir Thomas finally finished and sat down on her side of the bed she smiled, properly this time, and took the hand he offered her, listening to his reassuring voice. It was when he said, ‘Now I think we might let Miss...?’ that he turned to look at Mary Jane.

‘Seymour,’ she told him frostily, cramming her foot back into its shoe.

His eyes went from her face to her feet, his face expressionless.

‘Miss Potter may be visited the day after tomorrow. Her sister is free to telephone whenever she wishes to. I shall operate tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. Miss Potter should be back in her bed well before noon.’ He added, ‘You are on the telephone?’

‘Me? No. We use the post office and Miss Kemble at the rectory will take a message. Everyone knows the Misses Potter. I’ve given the ward clerk several numbers she can ring. But someone will phone at noon tomorrow.’

He nodded, smiled very kindly at his patient and went away with Sister as a young nurse took their place. The promise of a cup of tea made Mary Jane’s departure easier. She kissed the elderly cheek. ‘We’ll all be in to see you,’ she promised, and took herself off to find the taxi and its patient driver.

By the time they were back in the village and she had explained everything to Miss Emily it was far too late to open the tea-room. She made herself a pot of tea, fed Brimble, and padded around in her stockinged feet getting everything ready for the batch of scones she still had to make ready for the next day. While she did it she thought about Sir Thomas.

The operation was a success; the entire village knew about it and, since they foregathered in Mary Jane’s tea-room to discuss it, she was kept busy with pots of tea and coffee. Miss Kemble, being the rector’s sister, offered to drive to the hospital on the following day. ‘The car will take four—you will come of course, Miss Emily, and Mrs Stokes, how fortunate that she is back—and of course my brother.’

Miss Emily put down her cup. ‘It would be nice if Mary Jane could come too....’

‘Another day,’ said Miss Kemble bossily. ‘Besides, who is to look after Didums? You know she is good with Mary Jane.’

So it was agreed and the next day, encouraged by Sister’s report that Miss Mabel had had a good night, they set off. Mary Jane watched them go holding a peevish Didums under one arm. She took the dog up to the sitting-room presently and closed the door, thankful that Brimble was taking a nap on her bed and hadn’t noticed anything. She would have liked to have visited Miss Mabel and now she would have to wait until she could find someone who would give her a lift into Cheltenham.

As it turned out, she didn’t have to wait long; Mrs Fellowes popped in for a cup of tea and wanted to know why Mary Jane hadn’t gone with the others. ‘That’s too bad,’ she declared, ‘but not to worry. I’m driving the doctor to Cheltenham on Sunday—about three o’clock, we’ll give you a lift in, only we shan’t be coming back. Do you suppose you can get back here? There’s a bus leaves Cheltenham for Stratford-upon-Avon, so you could get to Broadway...’ She frowned. ‘It’s a long way round, but I’m sure there’s an evening bus to Stow-on-the-Wold from there.’

Mary Jane said recklessly, ‘Thank you very much, I’d like a lift. I’m sure I can get a bus home. I’ll have a look at the timetable in the post office.’

It was going to be an awkward, roundabout journey home and it would depend on her getting on to the bus in Cheltenham. She would have to keep a sharp eye on the time; the bus depot was some way from the hospital. All the same she would go. She wrote a postcard telling Miss Mabel that she would see her on Sunday afternoon and put it in the letterbox before she could have second, more prudent thoughts.

Miss Emily, coming to collect Didums, had a great deal to say. Her sister was doing well, Sister had said, and she was to get out of bed on the following day. ‘Modern surgery,’ observed Miss Potter with a shake of the head. ‘In my youth we stayed in bed for weeks. That nice man—he operated; Sir someone—came to see her while I was there and told me that the operation had been most successful and that dear Mabel would greatly benefit from it. Nice manners, too.’