A Good Wife

by Betty Neels

  She ate at the kitchen table, with Puss at her feet enjoying a treat from a tin of sardines. And she drank two glasses of claret. She supposed that she would have been feeling unhappy and worried, but she was pleased to discover that all she felt was relief. She had five hundred pounds and the world before her in which to find the man of her dreams. She tossed back the last of the claret in her glass.

  There was no need to look for him. She had already found him, although she wasn’t sure if a brief acquaintance with Dr van Doelen was sufficient to clinch the matter. She thought not. Indeed, it was unlikely that their paths would cross in the future. She would do better to get herself a job and hope to meet a man as like him as possible.

  Nicely buoyed up, she by the claret and Puss by an excess of sardines, they went upstairs to bed and slept dreamlessly.

  Henry came in the morning, telling her importantly that he had taken a few hours off in order to look round the house and claim anything to which he was entitled. Which turned out to be quite a lot: the table silver, a claret jug and three spirit bottles in a metal frame, and the best part of a Spoke tea service which had belonged to their mother, that Matthew would have no use for nor would Serena, Henry pointed out.

  ‘But I have no doubt that Matthew will be glad to have the dinner service. Father bought it from Selfridges, I believe, so anything which may break can be replaced. There’s the new coffee percolator, too; I’ll leave that for him. Where is the Wedgwood biscuit barrel, Serena?’

  ‘In the cupboard in the dining room, Henry. Shouldn’t you wait and see what Matthew wants—and what I might want?’

  ‘My dear girl, Matthew will want useful things which he can use in his home. Remember that he is, after all, living in a very small house, and has no social life worth mentioning.’

  ‘But he will have when he gets a parish of his own…’

  Henry ignored that. ‘And you—you won’t want to be lumbered with a number of useless things.’

  ‘I don’t know why you say that, Henry. You have no idea what I am going to do or where I’m going. You don’t want to know, do you? Do you know that Gregory has jilted me? Or perhaps I should say he jilted my five hundred pounds.’ She added bleakly, ‘I thought he wanted to marry me, but all he wanted was this house and the money he thought Father would be sure to leave me.’

  Henry looked uncomfortable. ‘You must understand, Serena, that Gregory has his way to make in the world.’

  ‘And what about me?’

  ‘You’re quite able to find a good job and do very well. You might even marry.’

  Serena picked up a fairing from the side-table in the drawing room, where Henry was inspecting the contents of a china cabinet. The fairing was small, a man and woman holding hands, crudely done, yet charming. The kind of thing Henry and Matthew would find worthless. She would keep it for herself, a reminder of her home in happier days when her mother had been alive.

  Henry bore away what he considered to be his; he had written a list of various other things, too. Serena hoped that Matthew wouldn’t wait too long before making his own choice. Henry was obviously going to exert his rights as elder son.

  Matthew came the next day, bringing his wife with him. The dinner service was packed up, as was an early-morning teaset which hadn’t been used since their mother died. To these were added two bedspreads, a quantity of bedlinen, the cushions from the drawing room and, at the last moment, the rather ugly clock on the mantelpiece.

  ‘We shall probably be back,’ said Matthew’s wife as they left.

  ‘My turn,’ said Serena to Puss, and went slowly from room to room. She would take only small things that would go in her case or the trunk: her mother’s workbox, family photographs, two china figurines to keep the fairing company, a little watercolour of the house her mother had painted. She tried to be sensible and think of things which would be of use to her in the future. The silver-framed travelling clock which had stood on the table by her father’s bed, writing paper and pens, the cat basket from the attic—for of course Puss would go with her.

  But where would she go? Mr Perkins had told her that she would be able to stay at the house for two or three weeks. Tomorrow, she decided, she would go to Yeovil and go to as many employment agencies as possible.

  Without much success, as it turned out. She had no qualifications, and she couldn’t type, the computer was a mystery to her, and the salesladies asked for had to be experienced. She was told, kindly enough, to leave her phone number, and that if anything suitable turned up she would be notified.

  But nothing turned up. The charity, anxious to take possession, were kind enough to let her stay for an extra week, and at the end of that week, still with no job in sight, Serena, Puss, her trunk and a large case, moved unwillingly into Henry’s house.

  Just as unwillingly she was welcomed there. There was room enough for her, for Henry lived in a large house on the outskirts of the town, but, while he wasn’t slow to confide his generosity towards his sister to his colleagues, his wife made no bones in letting Serena see that she was a necessary evil. It was bad enough having her, her sister-in-law pointed out in the privacy of their bedroom, but to have to give house room to a cat as well…

  As for Serena, she redoubled her efforts to find some sort of job. Housekeepers were in demand, and that was something she could do, but she wasn’t going to part with Puss, and no one, it seemed, was prepared to accept a cat, especially when the applicant had no references from previous employers.

  Between fruitless visits to Yeovil, she was given no chance to be idle. Her sister-in-law, a social climber by nature, quickly saw her opportunity to widen her social life, since Serena was so conveniently on hand to do the shopping and prepare meals. And when the children came home from school there was no reason, since she had nothing better to do, why she shouldn’t give them their tea and keep an eye on them while they did their homework.

  Serena, gritting her splendid teeth, accepted the role of unpaid domestic and put up with the childish rudeness of her nephew and niece and her brother’s pompous charity. His wife’s ill-concealed contempt was harder to bear, but since she was out a good deal Serena was almost able to ignore it.

  She had been living with her brother for more than a week when one morning, as she was washing the breakfast dishes, alone in the house, there was a ring on the doorbell. She didn’t stop to dry her hands; it was possibly the postman—probably with the answer to two more jobs she had applied for. Perhaps her luck had changed at last…

  It wasn’t the postman. It was Dr Bowring on the doorstep.

  ‘I had to come to Yeovil,’ he told her smilingly. ‘I thought I’d just see how you were getting on.’ He glanced at her wet hands and pinny. ‘Is Mrs Lightfoot at home?’

  ‘No, just me. Do come in. How nice to see you. If you don’t mind coming into the kitchen, I’m sure no one will mind if I make coffee.’

  He looked at her enquiringly. ‘No job yet?’

  ‘Well, no. You see, I must have Puss with me, and so far no one will have her…’

  He followed her into the kitchen. ‘What kind of job?’

  ‘Housekeeper or companion. I can’t do anything else.’ She spoke lightly, but he noted her rather pale face and the shadows under her eyes.

  He said bluntly, ‘You’re not happy here?’

  She put the instant coffee into two mugs. ‘Well, it’s not really convenient for Henry to have me here, and they don’t like Puss.’ She smiled. ‘But something will turn up.’

  He stayed for a little while, vaguely troubled about her, deciding silently that he would keep an eye open for a job which would suit her. It was obvious that she was unhappy, although she had made light of it.

  He told his wife about her when he got back home.

  ‘All we can do is keep our eyes open for a job for her,’ said Mrs Bowring, ‘and we shall have to go carefully; Serena is proud in the best sense, and she would hate to be pitied.’

  Mr van Doelen had spent
a busy day at one of the London hospitals; he was an orthopaedic surgeon of some repute and had come to assist at a complicated operation on a boy’s shattered legs. It had been successful, and he was free to return to Holland that evening, but, leaving the hospital early that lovely summer evening, he decided against driving up to Harwich and instead picked up the car phone and dialled Dr Bowring.

  Of course he was to come and spend the night—as many nights as he could spare. ‘We’ll wait dinner for you,’ said Mrs Bowring. ‘It’s only four o’clock; you’ll be with us in a couple of hours.’

  Once free of the London suburbs, the traffic thinned and he sent the Bentley powering ahead. The countryside was bathed in sunshine, green and pleasant and exactly what he needed after hours in an operating theatre. And he need not return until the evening ferry on the following day; he had expected to be away for two days, but the operation had gone better than they had expected.

  It would be good to see his friends again. He wondered idly how that girl whose father had died was getting on. She was probably married by now, to the man Mrs Bowring didn’t like… Mr van Doelen had thought about her frequently, due, he considered, to the unusual circumstances of their meeting. He must remember to ask about her…

  He was warmly welcomed, and Mrs Bowring went away to put the flowers he had brought into a vase while he and the doctor sat over a drink. They always found plenty to talk about and dinner was a leisurely meal. It wasn’t until the men had washed up and they were all sitting in the drawing room that Mr van Doelen asked about Serena.

  ‘You remember her?’ asked Mrs Bowring. ‘Such a dear girl; how that brother of hers could treat her so shabbily is beyond me.’

  ‘Did she not intend to marry? You mentioned that…’

  George Bowring explained. ‘Her father left the house and almost all his money to a charity. Serena had a few weeks of leave before they took over—it’s to be a home for the elderly and impoverished. He left the two sons quite adequate legacies, so I’m told, and five hundred pounds to Serena. With the observation that she was young enough and strong enough to look after herself.

  ‘And if that wasn’t bad enough, Gregory Pratt, who had let it be known that he intended to marry her, changed his mind as soon as he discovered that she hadn’t inherited the house and the money. She’s been trying to find work, but she refuses to abandon her cat and it’s hard to find employment with no references and no skills except that of a housewife. She’s living with Henry, her elder brother, at Yeovil. I went to see her and I must say that I’m not at all happy about her. She said very little but I fancy she’s having to work hard for her keep. Her sister-in-law doesn’t like her overmuch, and of course Henry is a pompous ass.’

  Mr van Doelen said slowly, ‘It just so happens that I know of someone who is anxious to find a companion-governess for her daughter. It’s the mother of the boy whom I operated on today. She plans to stay in London until the boy is fit to go home—six weeks or so. Her husband travels a good deal on business, and there is a daughter, thirteen or fourteen, living at home—Penn, near Beaconsfield, is it not? She goes to school there. There’s a housekeeper and daily help, but it seems the girl is difficult to control and jealous of her brother. Would you give Miss Lightfoot a reference if they are interested? Would you like me to talk to Mrs Webster about it and see what she says? And would Miss Lightfoot be prepared to take on the job?’

  ‘I’m sure she would, provided that she can have her cat…’

  ‘They are extremely anxious to get someone. I should imagine that Miss Lightfoot could take any animal with her provided that she was suitable. Anyway, I’ll see Mrs Webster about the boy tomorrow and let you know. It’s a temporary post, but it would give her time to find her feet.’

  He went back to London early the next day and, true to his promise, told Mrs Webster about Serena. ‘I have met her,’ he said. ‘She seems a very sensible and level-headed young lady. Her one stipulation is that she may have her cat with her.’

  Mrs Webster was profuse in her thanks. ‘I’ll drive down tomorrow and see her. She can come at once?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Before he left London he phoned George Bowring and then wrote a letter—Miss Lightfoot needed to be told, and George might not have the time…

  CHAPTER THREE

  HENRY, looking up briefly as Serena put a plate of bacon and eggs before him, said, ‘You’ll see to the children’s breakfast, will you, Serena? Alice will be down later.’ He sorted through the post by his plate. ‘There is a letter for you. Let us hope that it is an offer of work.’

  ‘Let’s hope it is,’ agreed Serena pleasantly. She put the letter in her pocket and presently, boiling eggs for the children’s breakfast, she had a look at it. The writing on the envelope was a firm and almost illegible scrawl, but there wasn’t time to read the letter. It wasn’t until Henry had gone and the children had been seen off to school that she sat down at the table, surrounded by breakfast debris, and opened the envelope.

  The letter was short and businesslike; she read it through and then read it again. Mr van Doelen clearly had no time for the niceties of correspondence, but the facts were clear enough, and the one fact that Mrs Webster would be coming to see her that very morning with a view to engaging her as a companion for her daughter stood out like a flaming beacon. At ten o’clock, too. Serena looked at the clock; it was just after nine.

  She got up, shut the door on the breakfast chaos, and went to her room, where she changed into a cotton dress, its blue rather faded but still a likely garment for a companion to wear. She powdered her nose, applied lipstick and brushed her hair into a neat coil, dusted off her sandals and went downstairs to put on the coffee pot and set a tray with cups and saucers. There had been no sound from Alice; hopefully she would sleep for another hour or two, though the doorbell might wake her.

  Serena went into the hall and stood patiently by the door until, a few minutes before ten o’clock, a car stopped in front of the house.

  Serena had the door open as Mrs Webster reached it. She was a tall, handsome woman, with a discontented face, expertly made up. She was well dressed, and looked as though she was used to having her own way. She paused on the porch. ‘Miss Lightfoot? I’m Mrs Webster. You have been told that I would be coming to see you?’

  ‘Yes, I had a letter. Please come in.’

  Mrs Webster sat down in the drawing room and looked around her. ‘I understand that you live with your brother? You have no ties? There would be no delay were I to engage you?’

  ‘None at all, Mrs Webster. Would you like coffee?’

  ‘Thank you. I left London quite early and I must return as soon as possible. Do you know that my son is in hospital?’

  ‘Yes. Mr van Doelen has given me the brief facts. I’ll fetch the coffee before we talk, shall I?’

  Mrs Webster wasted no time. She drank her coffee quickly while she explained what she wanted. ‘Heather is a wilful child, given to moods. My housekeeper is quite unable to cope with her, and I can’t have her with me in London—in any case, she mustn’t miss school. I shall want you to take complete charge of her until my son is able to come home. Six weeks or so, they say. My husband is away a great deal and I shall stay at a hotel so that I can visit Timothy each day. You won’t have a great deal of free time, but I don’t expect you to do any housework or cooking. Can you drive? Yes? There is a small car for you to use if you wish. I want you to come immediately—tomorrow, if possible. I’ll send a car for you and you can go straight to Penn from here. You will be paid weekly.’

  She mentioned a sum which sent Serena’s spirits soaring.

  ‘I’m offering you the post on trust; I have telephoned a Dr Bowring, who vouches for you, and, of course, Mr van Doelen’s recommendation is really sufficient…’

  But he hardly knows me, thought Serena, agreeing pleasantly to be ready to go to Penn on the following morning. She had no idea what the job would be like, but anything would be better than the
grudging hospitality Henry and Alice were offering. Besides, she would be paid, and she could save every penny…

  Mrs Webster, having got what she wanted, was disposed to be gracious. ‘I’m told that you have a cat. I have no objection to you having it at Penn. I understand that you wouldn’t consider going anywhere without it.’ She prepared to leave. ‘I shall probably see you from time to time.’

  She got into her car and drove away, and Serena carried the coffee tray into the kitchen, where Puss sat uneasily in her basket. She spent her days there, aware that she was as unwelcome as Serena.

  ‘Our luck’s changed,’ Serena told her. ‘We’re off tomorrow morning. I expect you’ll be able to go where you like in the house and garden, Puss. It won’t be for long, but if they like us, we’ll be able to stay…’

  She went upstairs to the box room, got her trunk and case and carried them into her bedroom. She hadn’t unpacked everything in the trunk, and now she put it on the bed and lifted the lid. She was opening the suitcase when Alice came in, still in her dressing gown and half awake.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded. ‘Go and make me a cup of tea; I can’t possibly get up until I’ve had something. I should have thought you would have come to see how I was…’

  ‘Henry told me not to disturb you. And I’m packing— I’m going to a job tomorrow morning. I’m being fetched at nine o’clock.’

  ‘A job? Where? Does Henry know, and why wasn’t I told?’

  ‘Henry doesn’t know, and I only knew myself this morning, after he’d gone.’

  ‘But who is to take your place? How can I manage on my own? You can’t go, Serena.’ She added angrily, ‘How ungrateful can you be? Living here without it costing you a penny, treated like one of the family…’

  ‘Well, I am one of the family,’ Serena reminded her. ‘But I can’t say that I’ve been treated as such. I haven’t much liked being a poor relation. I should have thought that you would have been glad to see the back of me.’