Philomena's Miracle (Betty Neels Collection)

by Betty Neels

  All the same, she worried a little as she sat in the plane, halfway to England and with the leisure now to wonder if she had done the right thing. Perhaps she should have waited and talked to Walle herself but then it would have meant waiting until the morning to start her journey, and supposing something prevented him from telephoning after all. She comforted herself with the thought that his aunt would explain, and she would be back in a few days, she reminded herself, watching the first English fields slip past below, peaceful in the evening light. If Chloe was really ill, she would have to go to hospital, and if it was just chickenpox she would recover quickly. She had found time to telephone from Schiphol and Molly had answered; her stepmother was out, but Molly was sure she would drive up to Heathrow and fetch Philomena.

  She had to wait at the airport, but she hadn’t expected anyone to be waiting for her; she whiled away the time with a cup of coffee while she caught up with the news, and she was just beginning to feel a little uneasy when she saw her stepmother at the barrier.

  Mrs Parsons looked harassed and upset, and after a brief greeting, the answers she gave to Philomena’s questions were vague and not very much to the point. That Chloe was covered in spots and had lost her looks was made abundantly clear, but everything else was shrugged off with a quick: ‘Well, how should I know, Philly, I’m not a nurse.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘Shall we talk about something cheerful? I’m so tired… Have you made plans for your wedding? A quiet one, I gather. Very wise, darling—you know how much I have your interest at heart and you’d not stand a chance if you had a big wedding—I mean, everyone would be looking at Chloe and Miriam, wouldn’t they, when they should be looking at you?’ She gave a little laugh. ‘That would never do, a wedding is supposed to be a bride’s day. No, you’re quite right, darling, a nice quiet ceremony—there are plenty of village churches near home. We can shop around for a pretty outfit. I suppose you’ll be going straight back to Holland?’

  ‘I expect so,’ Philomena agreed quietly. Her stepmother wasn’t being deliberately unkind, but her words had hurt more than she could have believed possible; her own reasons for a quiet wedding had been the very ones her stepmother had voiced, but there had been no need to put them into words. She drew a calming breath. ‘Poor Chloe, I’m sorry she’s so ill, but it shouldn’t last long—once the fever’s gone she’ll be quite all right except for the rash, and that will die down soon.’

  ‘That horrid rash, and just as the Pierce boy was on the point of proposing. Heaven knows, Chloe has had to work hard enough…’

  ‘I shouldn’t have thought she would have needed to lift so much as a finger,’ Philomena observed.

  ‘Well, she did,’ snapped Mrs Parsons, ‘and now it’s probably all for nothing.’

  ‘But if he loves her he won’t care a fig for a few spots.’

  Her stepmother clashed the gears. ‘That’s what you think,’ she snapped. ‘Just wait until that Walle of yours sees you without any make-up!’

  Philomena was on the point of saying that he had, frequently, and it hadn’t made any difference to his feelings as far as she could tell. Instead she said soothingly: ‘Let’s stop at that all-night place along here and have some coffee and then I’ll drive the rest of the way, you must be tired out.’

  Her stepmother dozed after that, but when they reached Wareham at last she sat up quickly and said urgently: ‘Don’t go home, Philly, take the Weymouth road.’

  Philomena slowed the car. ‘But why aren’t we going home?’

  ‘Chloe isn’t there—I’ll explain. You remember that cottage Molly’s aunt used to live in at Osmington? She rents it out in the summer now—well, Chloe’s there—there’s someone with her, a girl who’s done some nursing. She lives in Wareham, and she said she’d stay until you got there.’

  ‘But why?’ Philomena was as puzzled as she sounded.

  Her stepmother answered impatiently: ‘The rash, of course—darling Chloe had to go away. Supposing someone saw the poor sweet? She’d never want to show her face again.’

  ‘I don’t see why not—rashes fade, there’s no reason why she should have any scars, unless she scratches.’

  Her companion shuddered, genuinely horrified at the idea. ‘You must see…’

  Philomena saw only too well: she had been called home, not because Chloe was really ill, but because the girl was too vain of her appearance to be nursed like anyone else. Fine friends she’s got, thought Philomena, if they can’t bear the sight of a few spots! Presumably Chloe intended to stay at the cottage until she was her own lovely self once more, and Philly, so conveniently a nurse, should be the one to stay with her. She felt tears prick her eyelids. She need not have come, there was nothing urgent about Chloe’s illness; she could have been with Walle.

  The cottage was on the edge of the small village, not exactly isolated but standing well apart from a scattering of similar dwellings. It was screened from the lane by overgrown hedges and trees and the path to its small front door was overgrown with roses and weeds and brambles. Philomena parked the car and got out, glad to see that despite the lateness of the hour there was a light in one of the downstairs windows. The front door was opened as she and her stepmother reached it, and a young woman, dressed in a light coat, ushered them inside without a word and before either of them could speak she broke the silence. ‘You’re late—if this is the lady who’s going to stay, I’m ready to leave now, Mrs Parsons. Your daughter doesn’t need the two of us. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t be at home like anyone else, you know—she’s not feverish any more, and you told me the doctor said she’d be over it in no time at all.’ She gave Mrs Parsons a hard stare. ‘A lot of nonsense,’ she finished.

  ‘Out of the question,’ Mrs Parsons spoke sharply, ‘but come back with me if you wish to. My daughter will look after her sister. Just tell her anything she needs to know and we’ll go.’ She turned to a silent Philomena. ‘You’ll manage, won’t you, darling? The doctor said a week or ten days before the rash goes, and that was four days ago. There’s no telephone, but I’ll come and see how you’re getting on in a few days.’

  Philomena was almost too furious to speak. Her stepmother’s colossal selfishness in bringing her all the way from Holland just to be with Chloe, who wasn’t even ill, had left her too indignant for words. She said now in a cold voice: ‘A few days won’t do, will you come tomorrow? I should like to talk to you.’ She would have liked to have said a good deal more, but the young woman was standing with them and showed no signs of leaving them alone; perhaps she was afraid that Mrs Parsons would go without her.

  Mrs Parsons looked surprised and then annoyed.

  ‘Tomorrow will be awkward; there’s a bridge party, besides…’

  ‘Then you’ll have to cancel it,’ said Philomena. ‘I’ll expect you after lunch.’

  She got a grudging nod in reply and: ‘I don’t know what’s come over you, Philly.’

  The young woman was getting impatient; she fired off what information she thought necessary about the patient, the provisions in the cottage and where the clean linen was kept. ‘And I didn’t make up the bed,’ she went on. ‘Why should I? No one made it up for me.’

  A difficult remark to answer. Philomena held the door open a little wider and watched the two of them go down the path. Neither of them looked back.

  Chloe, when she went to look, was asleep and not looking in the least ill—indeed, there were few pock-marks to be seen on her face, certainly she wasn’t the hideous sight Philomena had been led to believe. She closed the door of the small room and went to look at the other room across the landing. The tumbled bed was uninviting and at the sight of it Philomena realised how tired she was. All the same, something had to be done about it. She made it up with fresh linen, carried up her case, went down again to the dark little kitchen at the back of the cottage and made herself a cup of tea, and then went to bed. Perhaps, she told herself bracingly, things wouldn’t look quite so beastly in the morning. If only W
alle had been there; calm and placid and knowing just what to do.

  Walle, at that late hour, was neither calm nor placid, although he knew exactly what to do. No one at the medical school dinner he had attended that evening had known that he was in a towering rage; a little distrait, perhaps, but then, they told each other, these clever men so often were. He had telephoned earlier that evening and when his aunt had told him that Philomena wasn’t there, he had only been momentarily put out. It was when Mevrouw van Niep had added with something like relish: ‘She’s gone home, Walle—to England,’ that he had felt a flicker of unease.

  His silence had disconcerted her and she had made haste to add: ‘We had a long talk this morning. She’s been unhappy, Walle—I don’t think you knew that, did you? She realised that you could never be happy together. She wanted to make a clean break.’

  Walle’s voice had been very quiet. ‘She left a letter for me?’

  ‘Well, no, dear. She asked me to say what I have just told you, although she did say that she would write to you and she said particularly that you were not to telephone until you had heard from her. She left this afternoon.’ She added with some anxiety: ‘You’re not coming home?’

  ‘No, Aunt, that’s impossible. I shall be back tomorrow evening.’

  Mevrouw van Niep let out a sigh of relief. ‘I thought that, Walle. I shall be here and so will Tritia. Your mother won’t be back for several days, though.’ She added: ‘I’m sorry, Walle, Philomena was a charming girl but not for you.’

  ‘No?’ Something in his voice uttering the single word made her frown, although it turned to a smile as he added: ‘But Tritia is, perhaps?’

  She agreed too eagerly. ‘Something I have always longed for, Walle.’

  ‘I’m flattered that you have my interest at heart, Aunt.’ He wished her goodbye with his usual calm and she, well satisfied with her meddling, sat down to contemplate a future in which dear Tritia would become the mistress of the castle and she herself living there in luxury and ease, for of course the dear girl would be grateful.

  The doctor arrived back before he was expected, although in a household as well ordered as his, this made no difference. Mathias met him at the door with his usual stately welcome, relieved him of his overnight bag, assured him that dinner would be advanced to whatever hour he wished and opened his study door invitingly, but the doctor responded to these courtesies in an absent-minded fashion and beyond asking if there had been any news of Miss Parsons, had nothing to say. ‘Where’s my aunt?’ he enquired at length.

  ‘In the small sitting room, mijnheer—Mevrouw van der Tacx has returned unexpectedly and is with her.’

  The doctor nodded. ‘Thanks. Pack me a bag, will you? I shall be leaving for England first thing in the morning.’ He glanced at the old man and saw the look of pleased satisfaction on his face. ‘I shall be bringing Miss Parsons back with me—see to her room, will you?’ He added quietly: ‘We need her back, don’t we, Mathias?’

  His faithful servant nodded a delighted head. ‘Oh, yes indeed! We none of us could understand…’

  ‘I’m a bit vague about it myself,’ remarked the doctor over his shoulder, and went into the sitting room.

  His greeting was affable to the two ladies sitting there. As he kissed his mother he said pleasantly: ‘Good of you to come at once, Mama.’ They smiled at each other before he turned to his aunt.

  ‘Shall we make it brief?’ he wanted to know, silkily pleasant still. ‘I telephoned Philomena’s home within minutes of your message, Aunt, and had an entirely different story from the one which you told me—now I wonder why you should wish to mislead me so grossly? Philomena went home because one of her stepsisters is ill and I feel sure that the message she asked you to deliver wasn’t at all the one which you gave. I cannot see why you should have wished to change it. You must have known that it would have caused doubt and anxiety—or perhaps that was what you wanted?’

  His voice had become very soft and there was a small smile around his mouth. Both ladies stirred in their chairs; the doctor was in a rage, and his mother at least hoped that he would hold it in check.

  He did. Presently he went on hurriedly: ‘You must think me a great fool, Aunt; I cannot conceive of any man neglecting to take immediate steps to discover the whereabouts of the girl he intends to marry—you shouldn’t have advised me so strongly not to telephone, you know, you were too eager.’

  His blue eyes were like ice. ‘Perhaps it would be as well if you were to leave my house—after dinner, of course. One of the maids shall pack for you. I have already telephoned Tritia and her things will be sent on. It may interest you to know that I have never felt the faintest desire to marry the girl…’

  Mevrouw van Niep interrupted him shrilly. ‘She adores you, she wants to go everywhere with you…’

  The doctor made a furious sound, half snort half groan. ‘My dear aunt, she regards me as an elderly type, useful upon which to practise her wiles when there is no one else handy. In time she will find someone of her own age and settle down, without any help from you, I fancy.’ He added blightingly: ‘You have meddled too much.’

  He walked over to the sofa table. ‘And now what about a drink before dinner?’

  It was a good deal later, after Mevrouw van Niep had left, that he asked his mother: ‘You didn’t mind coming back at a moment’s notice? You will be here when we get back?’

  She smiled at him. ‘Of course I’ll be here, Walle. I have been very much shocked by your aunt’s extraordinary behaviour. Thank heaven you made enquiries at once—poor Philomena, having to rush off like that! I hope that her stepsister isn’t very ill.’

  Her son gave her a thoughtful look. ‘Somehow I doubt it, but we will know soon enough. I’m leaving very early, Mama, I should be in Wareham by late afternoon, perhaps sooner.’

  ‘Philly knows that you are coming? You left a message?’

  He smiled. ‘No—I shall deliver my own message, my dear.’

  Philomena was tired. She had spent an exhausting day reassuring Chloe that she wouldn’t be disfigured for life, dabbing lotion on spots and coaxing her to eat the meals she had cooked with some difficulty on the small electric stove the cottage boasted. Now she had coaxed her back into her bed, given her her supper and had left her with a pile of magazines while she went downstairs to get a meal for herself. Twice during the day she had essayed to leave Chloe, walk through the village to the main road where there was a telephone box, and telephone Walle, but her stepsister became almost hysterical at the very idea of being left even for an hour and Philomena had to give up the idea. She hurried over a boiled egg and toast and started on a letter. The milkman could take it for her in the morning and even though it would take several days it was better than nothing. Her stepmother hadn’t come; probably she had never intended to in the first place, and Philomena had never felt so cut off and helpless. The idea that she might hire a car somewhere and take Chloe home and then return to Holland had crossed her mind, but then supposing her stepsister should take cold or become ill, the blame would be hers entirely.

  It was very quiet, the evening sky still light and the air warm. Somewhere inside the cottage walls a mouse nibbled and scratched, and the small sound made the quiet even quieter. Philomena wrote on, page after page, pouring out her indignation and worry. It was deep dusk by the time she had finished, and when she should have gone to bed, Chloe demanded that her rash must be treated before she could settle for the night. It was late by the time Philomena put out her light for the last time, so that she overslept and missed the milkman who would have taken her letter. There was no post either; she had half expected something from her stepmother and, although she knew it was quite impossible, she had hoped for a letter from Walle, which was silly, since he didn’t even know where she was, she supposed. She dressed herself rather grumpily and set about ordering their day.

  Chloe was better. She looked a fright, true enough, but the rash would fade in time and there was nothing w
rong with the girl other than a peevishness hard to put up with and a ridiculous fear that someone would see her before she was restored to her usual good looks. She spent the day in the small overcrowded sitting room, worrying about her looks and screaming and crying in the most alarming fashion whenever Philomena suggested that she could be left alone for a short time while she walked to the telephone.

  She gave up in the end and went into the kitchen to make their tea, and while the kettle boiled wandered down the short path outside the back door and peered into the lane. It wound away to open country on one side and on the other began the slow climb to the village and the main road. There was a car coming down the hill; she couldn’t see it, but she could hear it. It came into view a second later—her stepmother. Philomena, forgetful of the kettle, went right into the lane and saw that there was another car too—the Khamsin, with Walle at the wheel. Mrs Parsons slid to an untidy stop and called something, but Philomena didn’t hear her. She had sped past her and come to a halt beside the Khamsin. She didn’t know that tears were running down her cheeks and even if she did, she wouldn’t have cared.

  For a man as large as he was, the doctor had got out of the car very fast indeed. Philomena ran into his arms and stayed there, muttering and mumbling away in a happy voice into his shoulder, and he let her be just for a few moments. Presently she raised a streaky face to look at him and laughed a little.

  ‘I always seem to be howling,’ she told him, ‘only I’m so happy—I didn’t know what to do and there was no telephone and I didn’t think you’d know where I was—I left a message…’ She stopped because he was kissing her, but presently she went on: ‘I wrote you a letter, but I missed the milkman… Walle, did you ever want to marry Tritia? Your aunt…’