Dorcas had marched off down the hall to peer behind a couple of doors, in search of the cloakroom. “Aha!” I heard her say, in the manner of a Columbus bouncing his rowing boat onto a beach to behold a row of bikini-clad beauties holding up a sign stating AMERICA THIS WAY.
“How long have you been at St. Roberta’s?” I sat down across from Gillian on an oak bench with a tapestry cushion.
“This is my first year.” She made it sound an eternity. I told myself that lots of girls suffered from abysmal homesickness. Her distress over Harpsichord’s plight probably resulted from missing her cat, along with her parents and the little sister she had mentioned. But what if, despite her whispered assertion to Aiden Loverly that she wasn’t a thief, Gillian had taken the Loverly Cup?
My thoughts were cut off by Dorcas, who came back down the hall to say she had located cotton wool and a tube of antiseptic ointment in the cloakroom and would see to Gillian’s injuries.
“But they’re nothing!”
“Just scrapes,” Dorcas agreed bracingly. “But need to clean them up or Matron will have my hide.”
“No, she won’t! She’s always telling me I make too much fuss about everything and will end up with people thinking”—Gillian’s voice cracked—“that I exaggerate or even invent things to get attention.”
“Matron’s from the old school.” Dorcas drew Gillian up from the stairs and looked at me as I also got to my feet. “Stiff upper lip and all that.”
“I remember,” I said, rising from my bench.
“Of course … You said you were at St. Roberta’s. Matron’s my Aunt Wilma, great-aunt actually.” A sob broke through the words as Gillian backed against the wall. “Oh, I wish she’d never said she could get me in at reduced fees and talked Mum and Dad into sending me. I hate it! Hate it! And whatever she says, I’m not the only one who has caught glimpses of the Gray Nun from the dorm windows in the middle of the night.” With that she made a dash down the hall, and the cloakroom door slammed shut.
“Poor child!” Dorcas patted her pockets like a man from the golden tobacco age in search of his pipe. “I’ve been worried about her, particularly this past week.”
“Tell me later, dear,” I forced myself to say. “Go and calm her down.”
“Right ho! Clearly Gillian needs to talk. Hope I can get her to open up. Wouldn’t want to put a flannel in it.” Dorcas bravely resisted using the hanky she found in her hand. “Hard age, fourteen. Intense. Small problems magnified out of all proportion. Worse when worrying over end-of-term exams. See what I can do.”
“Do you think it would it be terrible cheek if I used the upstairs loo?” It had been a while since we stopped for lunch, and I was bordering on desperate.
“Good grief, no! Not that sort, the Middletons. Sister Ruth has a heart of gold. One of those nurturing souls!”
Dorcas disappeared and I marched upstairs like the grand old Duke of York with ten thousand men behind him. Luckily, I found the necessary door. There is nothing like being within imminent reach of a WC to make one feel nurtured without help from anyone. This one had an old-fashioned pull chain, which my children would have loved to yank till it came off in their hands. I smiled, thinking of them as I went back onto the landing. It was a broad space with paneled oak doors and a handsome brass urn on the table under the window that overlooked the apple tree. No sign of Mr. Middleton or Harpsichord.
Turning, I noticed a small arched niche displaying a bronze bust of Mozart in the wall across from the staircase. The house had some nice details, I thought, as I made my descent. Altogether, there was a solid feel to the place that might provide solace to Gillian with or without the music lessons. But had her problems reached a point requiring serious intervention, or had Aiden Loverly fabricated his accusation for the joy of watching a timid girl squirm?
Neither Gillian nor Dorcas was in the hall when I descended the stairs, but a woman’s voice reached me from the back of the house where the kitchen door was ajar. “We’ll talk more of this Aiden Loverly business later, Clive. What Gillian needs immediately is a cup of tea. Marilyn and I were just sitting down to one when Brian Roberts arrived with the cardigan she’d left at the surgery on Friday. It was such a warm afternoon, she took it off and forgot it. No, nothing wrong, just a routine visit. Marilyn told me Brian likes to keep an eye on her blood pressure, even though the tablets she takes seem to be doing the trick. What a gem that man is, as well as being a wonderful doctor. You know Marilyn, Clive. She is much more concerned with Mrs. Brown’s headaches than her own dizzy spells when she stands or sits up suddenly. But I’m worried that this could result in a fall and she’ll break a bone. Thank goodness for Brian. I’m sure that cardigan was an excuse to make a house call.”
“I’ll never forget how helpful his father was to me when I was going through my bad time.” That was Mr. Middleton speaking.
“I’d love to see Brian find the right woman and get married … . Do you think I should nip outside and ask him to come and take a look at Gillian? If I can catch him, that is; he was in the back garden admiring Marilyn’s rhubarb when I left. I know you said the child wasn’t really hurt, but this nervy business has me worried. People are too quick to say all adolescents are emotional and shrug it off. Not that I think Wilma Johnson would do that in her role as matron, but family is different, isn’t it?”
“The whole world is family to you, Ruth.” Mr. Middleton’s voice carried affection.
I missed what else was said between brother and sister because Dorcas and Gillian emerged from the cloakroom. The girl looked better. Her face was less strained and she had tidied her hair.
“Is Mr. Middleton back with Harpsichord?” she asked me.
Before I could answer, he came into the hall with the cat tucked under his arm. “All patched up, Gillian?” He smiled at her.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Nasty scrape on her left knee.” Shoulders squared, arms to her sides, Dorcas might have been delivering a report to a senior medical consultant with an entire alphabet of letters after his name. “Applied a good squirt of ointment but decided against a bandage. Best left to the open air was my thinking, but stand ready to be corrected. Can’t claim to be Florence Nightingale.”
“Dr. Roberts may think you too modest. He was next door visiting Ms. Chips. Ruth was there too and left abruptly when she looked out the front-room window and saw me descending the apple tree. She’s gone back to ask if they’d care to come in for a cup of tea and a slice of the walnut cake she made this morning. May I hope, Miss Critchley, that you and your friend will join us?”
The word cake always brings out the best in me. I liked Mr. Middleton more and more. After adding my thanks, I was moved to stretch out a hand to Harpsichord. A mistake! I was counting my fingers to make sure she hadn’t helped herself to any of them when we assembled in the living room. In addition to the grand piano, there were bookcases on either side of the fireplace with its Victorian overmantel, a sofa of a russet similar to the stair carpet, and a number of comfortable armchairs, their solid shapes softened by embroidered linen cushions. The room nicely blended the masculine and the feminine and was large enough not to be dwarfed by the piano with its display of photographs.
Mr. Middleton saw me glancing that way, said from his chair that they were of his wife, and encouraged me to take a closer look.
“Thank you,” I said, crossing the room.
“She was a concert violinist.” Easing himself up, he joined me at the piano. What does one say when presented with an unknown image? There’s the difficulty of being sufficiently complimentary without sounding fulsome. Especially awkward if one finds oneself looking nose to frame—without benefit of a fond eye—at someone without any redeeming features. Fortunately there was no such problem here. When Mr. Middleton handed me the largest of the photographs, I was able to say, simply and sincerely, “She’s lovely.”
“Her name was Anya. That was taken on our silver wedding anniversary.”
“I can see the happiness.” In addition to the softly curling dark hair and beautiful eyes, there was warmth and laughter.
“She was forty-seven. Two weeks later she was killed by a hit-and-run driver when she was walking our dog two streets away.”
“What a tragedy.” There was a catch in my throat. “Was the culprit apprehended?”
“Never.” Mr. Middleton took the photo from me and gently placed it back on the piano.
“No one came forward with information?”
“Mr. Soames, the old gentleman who was out on the green, had also been out walking his dog and gave a statement to the police saying he was sure the driver was a woman, but he didn’t get even the beginning of the license number, let alone the make or color of the vehicle. He’s not into cars, never having owned one. And though it was summer, the light was poor at ten in the evening.”
“No suspects?”
“The person best known for driving when he shouldn’t was the late Sir Henry—her ladyship’s husband—but he was in the clear, being three sheets to the wind at the White Dog. The landlord said he never staggered farther than the Gentlemen’s all evening.”
“Nevertheless”—Dorcas pulled out her hanky for an emotional blow—“you’d think someone had to know something.”
“People hesitate to step forward for fear of involvement.” Mr. Middleton took the photo from me and gently replaced it on the piano. “Or because they’re loath to turn in a friend or family member.”
“It would take courage,” I said.
“Can’t go through life being a coward.” Dorcas always sounds her gruffest when her tender heart is touched.
Gillian sat gripping the arms of her chair, her face a pale blur against the room’s warm colors. “It must have been terrible for you, Mr. Middleton,” she whispered.
“I don’t know if it would have been harder or easier if we’d had children. We both wanted them. Friends rallied round.” He picked up Harpsichord before she could leap onto the piano. “The staff from St. Roberta’s were especially kind, particularly Marilyn Chips. She couldn’t do enough.”
“Not something you forget.” Dorcas made noisy use of the handkerchief.
“And then, above and beyond all else, there was dear Ruth. When she realized how bad things were with me, she gave up her job and her flat in Harrow and moved here. The original idea was for her get a place of her own when the time was right, but we settled down well together and made it permanent.”
His pause stretched into silence until Harpsichord got away from him and pranced across the piano keys. Despite her name, it was clear she was not musically gifted, or such was my opinion. Apparently Dorcas heard the horrible jangle of sound differently.
“Ah! Beethoven’s Fifth, that bit where Death comes knocking. Oh, I say! Hoof in my mouth again. Didn’t think! Should have done! Your beloved wife, Mr. Middleton!” Face turning a deep russet to match the sofa, she would have floundered on had Gillian not scrambled to her feet and hurried over to the piano. Seating herself on the stool, she began to play. Immediately, all else was stillness; even Harpsichord turned motionless in Mr. Middleton’s arms.
As I’ve said, I can’t sing in tune. Nor did I ever learn to play a musical instrument. My parents gently discouraged the idea after someone gave me a whistle. Nevertheless, I know the exquisite when I hear it. The air was filled with rapture, floating into the sunshine, then ebbing back to some deep quiet where one wanted to follow and have everything revealed.
“She’s still a child!” I finally whispered.
Mr. Middleton smiled. “Don’t worry; I doubt she knows we’re in the room. She has gone inside the music. I wish so much that Anya could have heard her. Already she is beyond me. All I can provide is encouragement. Amazingly, she’s insecure about her abilities. Also, she worries about the expense of furthering her studies. Her family is not well off. St. Roberta’s would have been out of the question but for Matron’s pull.”
“A scholarship to a music college?” I suggested.
“I’ve been looking into it.” Mr. Middleton stood stroking Harpsichord.
At that moment, a middle-aged woman entered through a door to the side of the French windows with their view of the small but pretty back garden. Unless she had wandered into the house by mistake or to help herself to the family silver, she had to be his sister Ruth. I got the impression of a comfortably roomy figure and a face as pleasant as the voice I had heard coming from the kitchen when I was hovering in the hall.
“Marilyn will be over in a minute; she’s getting an overnight bag ready. She’s doing dorm duty tonight at the school, filling in for that attractive Mrs. Frenton, who I’m pleased to hear has a date this evening. But look who I was able to bring,” she proclaimed cheerfully. Close behind her came a tall, ruggedly good-looking man in his late thirties to early forties, carrying a heavily loaded tea tray.
Dorcas got smartly to her feet, but Gillian did not look up. Her fingers continued to ripple across the keyboard, and her eyes remained closed while her expression shifted from dreamy to intent.
“I hesitated to interrupt,” said the man softly. He had a deep voice. “It seemed on a par with slashing a painting at the Tate.”
“But you see it’s just as I told you.” Ruth smiled at him. “Our Gillian is lost to all but her music. It’s a wonderful escape,” she added, in a more sober murmur, “for those blessed with finding the door.”
“Let me set this down on the coffee table.” Mr. Middleton took the tray. “Brian, do you know Miss Critchley?”
“I regret I haven’t had the pleasure.”
Dorcas rose smartly to her feet, looking as if she were about to salute. That’s the way shyness takes her at such moments. Flinging out a hand, she took the one extended to her in a masterful grip.
“Brian Roberts.” His whimper, if any, was swept away with the music.
“Our local doctor.” Ruth was now smiling at me.
“Yes,” I said, feeling myself drifting. It had dawned on me who he was: son of the previous GP, in medical school when Philippa Boswell was in the lower sixth form—her boyfriend, the one she had been accused of sneaking out to meet in Lilypad Lane. I found myself shaking hands with Ruth, saying something about being pleased to be back in the area and what a warm, inviting house she and Mr. Middleton shared.
“Thank you. Bumbletons were the builders. It’s a very old firm, dating back to the middle of the nineteenth century. One of their special touches was the addition of niches. There’s one on the landing upstairs.” Before I could say I had seen it, she continued. “And the Chaplain’s House has several of them. I suppose they were originally included to suit the architecture of the time and became a tradition.”
“I like niches,” I told her, “and I love your house.”
“That’s nice to hear.” Her smile became a beam. “Most of the furnishings are handed down from our parents. They were the sort who thought a home should look established. Fortunately, Anya liked a homey look. She was such an easygoing person. None of the temperament that might have been expected from a woman who traveled the world as a first violinist.”
“Just been hearing about her. Sounds a gem!” Dorcas again reached into her pocket for the handkerchief.
There was a general movement to be seated. Abruptly, Gillian stopped playing and came to join the circle around the coffee table, huddling—it seemed to me—away from the outpouring of praise that greeted her. Ruth poured from the handsome silver teapot and her brother handed around the cups and saucers, along with plates to hold the sensibly sized ham sandwiches and even more generous wedges of cake that were quickly proffered.
“This is splendid, Ruth,” said the doctor, “and more than welcome, seeing I skipped lunch.”
“In addition to breakfast, if I know you.” A laugh colored her voice and lighted up the brown eyes that must have matched her curly hair when she was younger.
“I’ve been rather rushed off my feet these past few da
ys. Half of both Lower and Upper Swan-Upping are coming down with one thing or another. How’s it going at St. Roberta’s?” he asked Gillian while helping himself to another sandwich. “Matron not being kept too busy in the sick bay?”
“I don’t think so.” The girl hadn’t eaten anything or sipped her tea.
“And yourself?” He was sizing her up in a casual manner. “Not slacking off on second helpings of wonderful school food?”
“No.” This said over the general ripple of laughter. She finally took a determined bite of her sandwich. Was he reflecting behind his thoughtful gray eyes that it might be a good idea to have a talk with her great-aunt about getting to the root of her unhappiness? Had that been Ruth Middleton’s hope in fetching him over here? My thoughts wandered off down their own path. How long was it since Dr. Brian Roberts had last thought of Philippa Boswell? My romantic—some might say mindless—meandering was cut short when I heard what sounded like the back door opening, and footsteps accompanied a voice in announcing another visitor.
“Any tea left in the pot?” It was cheerfully said, and everyone in the room beamed in response, except for Gillian—although she did smile faintly—and, of course, my cowardly self, who felt my face congeal as I burrowed back in my chair.
“I’m pouring you a cup, Marilyn.” Ruth’s hands moved efficiently, happily, among the contents of the tray as the two men got to their feet and Dorcas sat smartly to attention, while I stared fixedly at the woman stepping past the piano with a smoothness of motion that could equally be called grace. What was I thinking? This was recognizably Ms. Chips of haunted memory. Not that I had recalled her entirely accurately. The image I’d held in my mind had been of a beanpole of a woman with a severely plain face. In reality she was about five-foot-seven, with a slim figure that, if not curvy, did not go straight up and down. Her hair, which appeared more ash blond than gray, was confined now, as it had been all those years ago, in a French pleat. At the time I had thought the style pinched her face into grim authority, but I now saw it not only suited her but added a timeless elegance to her quiet good looks.
Goodbye, Ms. Chips Page 5
