by Betty Neels
‘So is Serena by way of being an heiress?’
‘It seems so. Neither her father nor her brothers seem to have mentioned it to her, but I have heard that Gregory is aware of it.’
‘So he would have told her, surely?’
‘Oh, no. That might give her the idea that he only wants to marry her for her money and the house.’
The Dutchman raised heavy brows. ‘And does he?’
‘Of course. My dear Ivo! He’s not in love with her, I feel sure, and I doubt very much if she is with him, but he’s always very attentive if they should go out together, which isn’t often, and I think she likes him well enough. She’s a sensible girl; she knows she hasn’t much in the way of looks, and very little chance of leaving home unless her father dies. Even then she has had little chance to go out into the world and meet people.’
‘It’s a shame,’ said Mrs Bowring, ‘for she’s great fun and so kind and gentle; she must long for pretty clothes and a chance to meet people of her own age. You’ve no idea what a job it is to get her here for drinks or dinner. Her wretched father manages to feel ill at the last minute, or he telephones just as we’re sitting down to dinner and demands her back home because he’s dying.’
They began to talk of other things then, and Serena wasn’t spoken of again. Two days later Mr van Doelen drove himself back to London and shortly after, back to Holland.
It was the following Saturday when Gregory called to see Serena, although after greeting her in a somewhat perfunctory fashion he went upstairs to see her father. A man who knew on which side his bread was buttered, and intending to have jam on it too, he lost no opportunity of keeping on good terms with Mr Lightfoot. He spent half an hour or so discussing the stockmarket, and listening with every appearance of serious attention to Mr Lightfoot’s pithy remarks about the government, before going back downstairs to the sitting room to find Serena sitting on the floor, doing the Telegraph crossword puzzle.
He sat down in one of the old-fashioned armchairs. ‘Would you not be more comfortable in a chair, Serena?’
‘Do you suppose an etui is the same thing as a small workbag, Gregory?’
He frowned. ‘Really, my dear, you ask the most stupid questions.’
‘Well, they can’t be all that stupid or they wouldn’t be in a crossword puzzle.’ She sat back on her heels and looked at him. ‘You forgot my birthday.’
‘Did I? After all, birthdays aren’t important, not once one is adult.’
Serena pencilled in a word. Gregory was probably quite right; he so often was—and so tolerant. Her brothers had told her that he would be a good and kind husband. Sometimes, though, she wondered if she would have liked him to be a little more exciting. And why was it that everyone took it for granted that she would marry him?
She said now, ‘I should have liked a card, and flowers—a great sheaf of roses in Cellophane tied with ribbon—and a very large bottle of perfume.’
Gregory laughed. ‘You really must grow up, Serena. You must have been reading too many novels. You know my opinion about wasting money on meaningless rubbish…’
She pencilled in another word. ‘Why should flowers and presents be meaningless rubbish when they are given to someone you love or want to please? Have you ever felt that you wanted to buy me something madly extravagant, Gregory?’
He lacked both imagination and a sense of humour, and besides, he had a high opinion of himself. He said seriously, ‘No, I can’t say that I have. What would be the point, my dear? If I were to give you a diamond necklace, or undies from Harrods, when would you have the occasion to wear them?’
‘So when you buy me a present at Christmas you think first, Now, what can I buy Serena that she can find useful and use each day? Like that thing you gave me for shredding things which takes all day to clean?’
He refused to get annoyed. He gave her an indulgent smile. ‘I think you must be exaggerating, Serena. How about a cup of tea? I can’t stay long; I’m dining with the head of my department this evening.’
So she fetched the tea, and he told her of his week’s work while he drank it and ate several slices of the cake she had baked. Since she had little to say, and that was sensible, he reflected that despite her lack of looks she would be a quite suitable wife for him; he didn’t allow himself to dwell on the house and the comfortable inheritance she would have, and which would make her even more suitable.
He went back upstairs to say goodbye to Mr Lightfoot, and presently came down again to give her a peck on a cheek and tell her that he would do his utmost to come and see her the following weekend.
Serena shut the door behind him and gathered up the tea things. She reflected that Gregory wasn’t just frugal, he was downright mean. Washing up, impervious to her father’s voice demanding attention, she considered Gregory. She wasn’t sure when it had first become apparent that he was interested in her. She had felt flattered and prepared to like him, for her life had been dull, and, after a while, her father had signified his approval of him. When her brothers had met him, they had assured her in no uncertain terms that Gregory would be a splendid husband, and she, with the prospect of a life of her own, had allowed herself to agree with them.
But now the years were slipping away, and Gregory, although he talked often enough of when they would marry, had never actually asked her to marry him. He had a steady job, too. Serena being Serena, honest and guileless and expecting everyone else to be the same—except for her father, of course—had never for one moment thought that Gregory was waiting for her father to die, at which point he would marry her and become the owner of the house and a nice little capital. He had no doubt that Serena would be only too glad to let him take over the house and invest her money for her. He didn’t intend to be dishonest, she would have all she wanted within reason, but it would be his hand which held the strings of her moneybags.
Of course, Serena knew nothing of this… All the same doubts were beginning to seep into her head. Other thoughts seeped in, too, about the stranger she had talked to so freely on Barrow Hill. She had liked him; it had seemed to her that she had known him for a long time, that he was like an old, trusted friend. Nonsense, of course—but, nonsense or not, his memory stayed clearly in her head.
During the week her elder brother came. His visits were infrequent, although he lived in Yeovil, but, as he pointed out, he was a busy man with little leisure. At Christmas and on his father’s birthday he came, with his wife and two children—duty visits no one enjoyed—and every month or so he came briefly. He was very like his father, and they didn’t get on well, so the visits were brief. Serena, offering coffee or tea, was always questioned closely as to finances, warned to let him know if she should ever need him, but was never asked if she was happy or content with the life she led. And this visit was like all the others: brief and businesslike with no mention of herself.
Over a second cup of coffee she said, ‘I should like a holiday, Henry.’
‘A holiday? Whatever for? Really, Serena, you are sometimes quite lacking in sense. You have a pleasant life here; you have friends in the village and leisure. And who is to look after Father if you were to go away?’
‘You could pay someone—or your wife Alice could come and stay. You said yourself that you have a splendid au pair who could look after the children.’
Henry’s colour had heightened. ‘Impossible. Alice has the house to run, and quite a busy social life. Really, Serena, I had no idea that you were so selfish.’ He added, ‘And the au pair is leaving.’
He went away then, wishing her an austere goodbye, leaving her to go upstairs and discover why her father was shouting for her.
A few days later her younger brother came. Matthew was a gentler version of his brother. He also didn’t get on well with his father, but he was a dutiful son, tolerant of Mr Lightfoot’s ill temper while at the same time paying no more than duty visits. He was accompanied by his wife, a forceful young woman who was scornful of Serena, whom she considered w
as hopelessly old-fashioned in her ideas. She came into the house declaring breezily that Serena was neglecting the garden, and did she know there was a tile loose on the porch roof?
‘These things need attention,’ she pointed out. ‘It doesn’t do to neglect a house, certainly not one as large as this one. I must say you’re very lucky to live so splendidly.’
Serena let that pass, allowing her sister-in-law’s voice to flow over her unlistening head while her brother went to see his father. It was while they were having tea that she said, ‘Henry came the other day. I told him I wanted a holiday.’
Matthew choked on his cake. ‘A holiday? Why, Serena?’
At least he sounded reasonably interested.
‘This is a large house, there are six bedrooms, attics, a drawing room, dining room, sitting room, kitchen and two bathrooms. I am expected to keep them all clean and polished with the help of an elderly woman from the village who has rheumatism and can’t bend. And there’s the garden. I had a birthday a week or so ago—I’m twenty-six—and I think I’m entitled to a holiday.’
Matthew looked thoughtful, but it was his wife who spoke. ‘My dear Serena, we would all like holidays, but one has one’s duty. After all, you have only yourself and your father to care for, and uninterrupted days in which to arrange your tasks to please yourself.’
‘But I don’t please myself,’ said Serena matter-of-factly. ‘I have to please Father.’
Matthew said, ‘Well, it does seem to me to be quite reasonable… You have spoken to Henry…?’
‘Yes, he thinks it’s a silly idea.’
Matthew was at heart a good man, but under his brother and his wife’s thumbs. He said, ‘Oh, well, in that case I don’t think you should think any more about it, Serena.’
When Serena said nothing, he added, ‘I dare say you see a good deal of Gregory?’ Then he said, ‘A steady young man. You could do worse, Serena.’
‘Well, I dare say I could do better,’ said Serena flippantly. ‘Only I never meet any other men.’
She had a sudden memory of the man on Barrow Hill.
Gregory came at the weekend. She hadn’t expected him and, since it was a wet, dreary day, had decided to turn out a kitchen cupboard. Her untidy appearance caused him to frown as he pecked her cheek.
‘Must you look like a drudge on a Saturday morning?’ he wanted to know. ‘Surely that woman who comes to clean could do the work in the kitchen?’
Serena tucked back a strand of hair behind an ear. ‘She comes twice times a week for two hours. In a house this size it barely gives her time to do the kitchen and bathrooms and Hoover. I didn’t expect you…’
‘Obviously. I have brought you some flowers.’
He handed her daffodils wrapped in Cellophane with the air of a man conferring a diamond necklace.
Serena thanked him nicely and forebore from mentioning that there were daffodils running riot in the garden. It’s the thought that counts, she reminded herself as she took off her pinny. ‘I’ll make some coffee. Father has had his.’
‘I’ll go and see him presently.’ Gregory added carefully, ‘Henry tells me that you want to go on holiday.’
She was filling the kettle. ‘Yes. Don’t you think I deserve one? Can you think of somewhere I might go? I might meet people and have fun?’
Gregory said severely, ‘You are being facetious, Serena. I cannot see why you should need to go away. You have a lovely home here, with every comfort, and you can please yourself as to how you organise your days.’
She turned to look at him. He was quite serious, she decided, and if she had expected him to back her up she was to be disappointed.
‘You make it sound as though I spend my days sitting in the drawing room doing nothing, but you must know that that isn’t true.’
‘My dear Serena, would you be happy doing that? You are a born housewife and a splendid housekeeper; you will make a good wife.’ He smiled at her. ‘And now how about that coffee?’
He went to see her father presently, and she began to get lunch ready. Her father had demanded devilled kidneys on toast and a glass of the claret he kept in the dining room sideboard under lock and key. If Gregory intended to stay for lunch, he would have to have scrambled eggs and soup. Perhaps he would take her out? Down to the pub in the village where one could get delicious pasties…
Wishful thinking. He came into the kitchen, saying importantly that he needed to go to the office.
‘But it’s Saturday…’
He gave her a tolerant look. ‘Serena, I take my job seriously; if it means a few hours’ extra work even on a Saturday, I do not begrudge it. I will do my best to see you next Saturday.’
‘Why not tomorrow?’
His hesitation was so slight that she didn’t notice it. ‘I promised mother that I would go and see her—sort out her affairs for her—she finds these things puzzling.’
His mother, reflected Serena, was one of the toughest old ladies she had ever encountered, perfectly capable of arranging her affairs to suit herself. But she said nothing; she was sure that Gregory was a good son.
On Sunday, with the half-hope that she might see the stranger again, she walked up to the top of Barrow Hill, but there was no one there. Moreover, the early-morning brightness had clouded over and it began to rain. She went back to roast the pheasant her father had fancied for his lunch, and then spent the afternoon with Puss, listening to the radio.
While she listened she thought about her future. She couldn’t alter it for the moment, for she had given her word to her mother, but there was no reason why she shouldn’t try and learn some skill, something she could do at home. She was handy with her needle, but she didn’t think there was much future in that; maybe she could learn how to use a computer—it seemed that was vital for any job. There were courses she could take at home, but how to get hold of a computer?
Even if she found something, where would she get the money to pay for it? She had to account for every penny of the housekeeping money her father gave her each month, and when she had asked him for an allowance so that she might buy anything she needed for herself, he had told her to buy what she needed and have the bill sent to him. But to buy toothpaste and soap and expect the shopkeeper to send a bill for such a trivial purchase really wasn’t possible, so she managed to add these items to the household bills from the village shop.
Since she hardly ever went out socially, she contrived to manage with her small wardrobe. She had on one occasion actually gone to Yeovil and bought a dress and had the bill sent to her father, but it had caused such an outcry that she had never done it since. She had never been sure if the heart attack he had assured her she had given him had been genuine or not, for he had refused to have the doctor. Instead he had lain in his bed, heaping reproaches on her head every time she had entered the room. By no means a meek girl, Serena had nonetheless felt forced to believe him.
Ten days later, on a bright May morning, Mr Perkins the family solicitor called. He was a nice old man, for when her mother had died, and he had been summoned by Mr Lightfoot, he had come upon Serena in the kitchen, crying her eyes out. He had patted her on the arm and told her not to be too unhappy.
‘At least your father has provided for your future,’ he had reassured her. ‘You need never have that worry. I should not be telling you this, but it may help a little.’
She had thanked him and thought little of it at the time, but over the years she had come to assume that at least her future was secure.
Now Mr Perkins, older and greyer, was back again, and was closeted for a long time with her father. When he came downstairs at length he looked upset, refused the coffee she offered him and drove away with no more than a brief goodbye. He had remonstrated against Mr Lightfoot’s new will, but to no avail.
Serena’s brothers had mentioned her wish to have a holiday to their father. They had been well meaning, but Mr Lightfoot, incensed by what he deemed to be gross ingratitude and flightiness on the part of Ser
ena, had, in a fit of quite uncalled for rage, altered his will.
Mr Perkins came with his clerk the next day and witnessed its signature, and on the following day Mr Lightfoot had a stroke.
CHAPTER TWO
MR LIGHTFOOT’S stroke was only to be expected; a petulant man, and a bully by nature, his intolerance had led him to believe that he was always right and everyone else either wrong or stupid. High blood pressure and an unhealthy lifestyle did nothing to help this, nor did his liking for rich food. He lay in his bed for long periods, imagining that he was suffering from some serious condition and being neglected by Serena, and now the last straw, as it were, was to be laid on the camel’s back: he had ordered sweetbreads for his lunch, with a rich sauce, asparagus, and baby new potatoes, to be followed by a trifle.
Serena pointed out in her usual sensible manner that the sweetbreads would be just as tasty without the sauce, and wouldn’t an egg custard be better than trifle? ‘And I shall have to go to the village—the butcher may not have sweetbreads. What else would you like?’
Mr Lightfoot sat up in bed, casting the newspaper from him. ‘I’ve told you what I wish to eat. Are you so stupid that you cannot understand me?’
‘Don’t get excited, Father,’ said Serena. ‘Mrs Pike will be here presently, and I’ll go to the village. She will bring your coffee…’
While she was in the village he refused the coffee, and then, when Mrs Pike was working in the kitchen, he went downstairs and unlocked the cupboard where he kept the whisky.
