by Norrey Ford
"It wasn't kind," he said, "to trouble you so soon after such a bad night. I assure you I wouldn't have come if it could have been avoided, but I feel we ought to get these statements in as soon as possible."
So after all he had not come because he could not stay away, but because he wanted to get rid of an unpleasant job as soon as he could. She preceded him gravely to the car, and sat stiffly by his side, absurdly and unjustly angry with him because she had made such a shaming mistake.
Talking to the police was not such an ordeal after all, and if the kindly sergeant glanced pointedly once or twice at Paul's bruised face, no one mentioned it.
Afterwards, Paul decreed tea, so they went to the Copper Kettle, a quiet tearoom run by maiden ladies in flowered overalls, which was furnished in wood stained to look like old oak, and horse-brasses which had never seen a horse.
Paul was quiet, so Sally poured tea and handed buttered toast in sympathetic silence. It hardly seemed a moment for light chatter, which in any case was apt to irritate the man.
At last he looked at her with a faint smile. "Well, Miss Sally March! What are your plans for the future? Something less adventurous than a dull legal office, I trust? No unreliable safes and handsome crooks? You ought to have a holiday—there are times when you've looked a bit peaked. Your parents were going abroad, weren't they? Are you going too?"
He was visualising a future for her which did not include himself. There was no special warmth in his eyes, his voice had lost the amused, teasing lilt he was apt to use for her. Something indefinable and precious had gone from their relationship. It was all very well for one's mother to say "fight for him," but what could one do? Perhaps, she thought dismally, I'm too inexperienced or something; there were girls who could turn this chilly tea-party into something intimate and cosy, but Sally's whirling brain offered no suggestions, so she continued to sit neatly at table like a polite, well-brought-up little girl, but her breath slipped away from her in a long sigh.
"We cancelled the tour. Daddy thought Simon's defence would cost a lot."
"I'm sorry about that. You need a holiday."
"I've been having one at home. Time I found another job. I need some new clothes, for one thing —and I consider I've sponged on Daddy long enough."
He seemed to retreat into himself, not saying anything but looking at her with a long, speculative gaze.
"If you really feel that way, I know the ideal job for you, if you're ready to start almost at once." "I can start at once."
Again a slight hesitation. "Three days from now, I think. You'll have to go to Edinburgh. It'll be a sort of holiday for you."
For a brief, exciting moment she thought he wanted her to go to Edinburgh with him, but her face revealed nothing. Inwardly, her thoughts raced.
"But what about the trial?"
"Three weeks at the earliest. You'll be back before that. This is only a temporary job, and I thought of you because you'll do it on your head—and love it. You deserve a little treat."
"Thank you for the thought. Tell me more."
He tilted back his windsor chair. "It's a friend of the family. A professor—nice old boy. He has written an obscure and learned book, and is going to lecture to an obscure and learned society. He needs a kind girl to remind him when to eat and wind up his watch, and get him to the lectures on the right day. I may say he is not at all vague where his work is concerned; he'll want to dictate a bit and so forth. You'd like him, he's a dear old chap." He stared into his cup fiercely, then added huskily, "I thought you'd like the trip, but it doesn't matter at all."
Sally was touched. "I'd love it. The Professor sounds delicious. Thank you very much for thinking of me. When shall I see him about it?"
"Eh?" For some reason, he seemed startled. "Oh, I see. Leave it to me. I'll telephone you."
She took a deep breath, and silence seeped round them. In the background, teacups rattled and there was a faint, high-pitched buzz of feminine talk, but it didn't count.
So it is over, Sally thought sadly. It was inevitable. You can't mix the castle and the cottage, the knight and the beggar-maid. He comes riding, high and handsome, kills the dragon—any number of dragons—and rides away. It happens in all the best
stories; that is to say, the truest. But it's a little hard on the beggar-maid.
She squared her shoulders. "I've never seen Edinburgh. I shall love it."
"No Scottish grandmother?"
"Nary a one."
"You will have, by the time you've been there a week. Those tartans are too tempting. By next Tuesday tea-time, you'll be reading a list of clans in the window of a tartan-shop as eagerly as any American."
"Travel broadens the mind. I'm prepared to adopt a Scottish grandmother. What if the Professor won't have me?"
"He will," said Paul confidently.
When Sally went to Edinburgh with Professor Dryden, her family went to see her off. The Professor had someone to see him off, too. A delicate little figure like a Dresden shepherdess dressed by a top-grade fashion magazine. She smiled and nodded to Sally.
"I don't think you remember me, Miss March. I was in bed last time you saw me, and a hat does make a difference! I gave you my horrid germs, so my godson tells me. Is it too late to apologise for such a nasty thing?"
"Lady Braine. Yes, of course I remember, though you puzzled me for a moment. May I introduce my mother and father, and my brother Simon. Mummy, this is Paul's godmother. I told you about her."
"You filled our house with daffodils," said Mrs. March.
"How is Miss Winn?" said Simon.
Lady Braine gave him a brilliant smile. "Very unhappy, poor child. Part of her unhappiness is because she treated you so unkindly, Sally. I'm afraid I scolded her for that—and Paul, too. Big as he is, he's not too big for me to scold. Caro liked you both so much, and now she's dreadfully repentant.
It would be a kindness if you would come and see her. Both of you."
"Me?" said Simon, blushing lobster-red in his astonishment. "Doesn't she think I'm the real villain of the piece?"
"Certainly not. You made a good impression. She thinks you are young and innocent and foolish."
Simon blushed even brighter. "In some ways I'd rather be the villain. But we'll gladly go and see her, if that will give her any pleasure. Won't we, Sally?"
"But I'm going to Scotland."
"Simon is not going, is he?" Lady Braine asked, blandly innocent. "Caro is at my house, Simon—if you care to drop in on Saturday. We have a good tennis court. The truth is, that girl is too much with older people and really needs some young life about her. I'm to blame, I suppose. I left her too much to her poor father. From now on, I intend to take a hand. Is it settled, Simon? Can you come?"
"I'll be there. Thank you very much."
"Good. We'll have a small party. I must find a partner for Paul. He won't want to play, but I shall make him. What a pity " Her bright eyes flickered from Sally's slim figure to meet Mrs. March's glance, and a warm look of understanding passed between them.
Here was another, thought Mrs. March with a feeling of quick affection for the doll-like, dainty creature, who felt the curtain should not come down after the dragon had been slain and the maiden rescued. Here was a wise woman who would give an eye to Paul's happiness and Sally's, too. Young people, foolish and proud, sometimes needed an older woman to pull the strings and shift the scenery a little, unbeknown to the actors.
"Sally must come another time," Lady Braine said. "When our darling little Professor has finished with her."
"I'd love to. But I must find another job afterwards, you know. Simon and I are out of work, and
we can't sponge on our long-suffering parents any longer. We must work."
"Like blazes," added Simon. "I'm starting with Culligan and Watkins, the estate agents. Dad has fixed it for me, and I'm lucky, because C. and W. are the people and just happened to have a vacancy at the present time. Mr. Culligan mentioned it to my father in passing and—well,
bob's your uncle! I have to start at the bottom, naturally. Gosh, I wish I'd started like this after my National Service, instead of wasting time with " He looked round at their smiling faces, and grinned awkwardly. "Oh well, I guess I don't wish it more than you do."
"You'll like Richard Culligan," said Lady Braine. "He's a martinet and will make you toe the line, but he's a good man. One of the old-fashioned kind."
"You know him?"
Lady Braine glanced quickly at Simon's father, raising her delicate eyebrows. Then she looked down at her fine French gloves, smoothing them over her wrists demurely. "I've met him."
"Will passengers for the Edinburgh train," boomed a too-refined feminine voice from the loud-speakers, "please take their seats. The train is about to depart."
Sally would have fallen in love with the Professor if he had not been seventy-eight, with a rusty-white beard and bunches of wiry hair growing out of his ears. He was kind, considerate, with the manners of more gracious times, which accorded well with the leisurely tempo and dignity of Scotland's capital city.
He made few demands on her, and slept every afternoon from two till four, when he woke up and expected a prodigious afternoon tea with four kinds of scone and a plate of petticoat-tails, a form of shortbread which he greedily adored, explaining at great length every afternoon that the name was a corruption of the French petites gatelles. He warned her solemnly against the theory that they were so called because of their shape, but as Sally had no strong feelings about the name either way, she
merely enjoyed them and sent a big box home to her mother.
For two hours every afternoon, Sally explored Edinburgh, breathing the fine salty air and delving deep into history. She explored the Royal Mile from the Castle to Holyrood Palace, clambered up twisting stairs and ducked into romantic, if smelly, wynds; in the evenings, Professor Dryden liked her to read aloud about Dr. Johnson's Scottish journey, and chuckled over the enthusiasm she brought to the Edinburgh pages.
" 'I smell you in the dark!' I can understand that, Professor. Those wynds smell pretty strong now, but in Boswell's time—good gracious, I hate to think of it! What do you think I found to-day? The Heart of Midlothian. Not the book, a real heart in cobble-stones outside St. Giles' Cathedral. Do come up with me in the morning, and see it."
So next morning the Professor good-naturedly took a creaking tram "up the Mound," and ambled gently round the Cathedral, the Thistle Chapel, and even up the hill to the castle and the exquisite war memorial, which brought tears to Sally's eyes even on her third visit, which this was. Then arm in arm they trundled down the hill again, chatting cosily, and stopping from time to time to stare into small dark windows of small dark shops selling clan badges and cairngorms, grouse claws and bagpipes. She bought a tiny horn beaker mounted in silver, which she intended for Paul, if ever she had the opportunity of giving it to him.
"And I must—I really must—buy a tartan tie for Simon. They're all so pretty."
The Professor snorted. "My good child, you don't buy a tartan because it's pretty. You must buy your own clan tartan. Now, let me see. March—that's a good Scottish name, surely. We must study the list outside the next shop."
He put on his reading spectacles and studied the framed list carefully, muttering, "March—Marchlet me see."
Suddenly, achingly, she remembered Paul's smiling prophecy. The sense of his physical presence at her side was so vivid that she put out her hand, half expecting him to grasp it.
After a week of Edinburgh, she knew Paul had been right to make her come. The brisk air had done her good, blown the cobwebs away. She felt full of energy. The Professor's sparkling conversation and humour had made work a delight. She had eaten with a hearty appetite—luscious kippers, herrings grilled with oatmeal, venison and haggis and the incomparable Finnan haddie; not to mention good salty porridge, cream and mounds of golden butter. If only her heart had not ached so much for Paul, she would have been supremely happy. But a dozen times a day she needed him, to share her delight in the view of the silver Firth across the clean lines of the new town to the distant purple hills; to explore antique shops or another bookshop; she wanted to share with him the fun of riding in the jangly trams or climbing to the fine, blowy summit of the Corstorphine Zoo.
The Professor had now found what he wanted, and dragged her after him into the shop. The two of them filled it entirely.
"Paul Winn prophesied I'd do this," she told him, as the trays of ties were brought out from a dim back room.
"Aye, Paul's a wise laddie, in some ways," the old man conceded. Then he added, quite fiercely, "And a fool in others."
It was sweet to speak Paul's name casually and to
hear Professor Dryden talk about him. It gave her a
warm glow round the heart which was delicious for a
time, until it faded into cold ashes and made the
aching emptiness more hollow and lonely than ever.
They took a tram back to their hotel in a high,
windy eighteenth-century terrace, and found a pile
of letters. Sally took hers upstairs, but before she
reached her room the gong sounded imperiously and
she had to decide between rushing her letters, being
late for lunch, or waiting till afterwards to read them. She decided to wait—for after lunch the Professor would sleep and she could have a long luxurious gloat over the home news. She tidied herself quickly, and hurried downstairs.
The Professor was late. No doubt he had stayed in his room to read his post and would probably forget about lunch altogether if his letters were from some learned friend of his, pages full of scientific jargon in thin spidery writing almost undecipherable. She decided to give him ten minutes' grace, then she would go and fetch him.
In less than that time Professor Dryden toddled into the dining-room, spectacles pushed up above his nose. He looked worried.
"Is anything wrong?" Sally asked anxiously.
The Professor stabbed peevishly at his grapefruit. "If there is, it will wait till after lunch. Never mix trouble and food, child."
"Then there is something!" Sally cried.
"Tut!" said her elderly employer sternly. "I'll take the shepherd's pie. Now, in England I wouldn't dream of it, but a Scottish shepherd's pie is worth eating."
Clearly he was not prepared to discuss anything but food. Sally chose cold roast beef and salad, butterscotch flan and black coffee, and prepared to wait the old man's time.
As soon as they had finished, he led the way to a writing-room, usually deserted at this hour.
He dropped into a deep, shabby chair with a grunt. "Read your letters, Miss Sally?"
"Not yet. We were so late for lunch. I saved them, to enjoy them properly."
"I see." He studied her, under bushy white eyebrows. "Young lady, are you in love with Paul Winn?"
This direct question, from so unexpected a source, surprised her. "I like him," she said firmly. She felt her colour rising. "What makes you think I'd be in love with him?"
"My experience leads me to believe that these feelings tend to be reciprocated. And I've had some experience, you know. I don't live entirely in the world of electrons and neutrons." He smoothed his white beard with a hint of complacency. "Mine was talked of as a great romance, in its time. So you see, I know about love. I knew Paul loved you when he talked me into bringing you here."
"You mean you didn't really want me?"
He laughed, a deep ha-ha-ha! "Of course I didn't. Mind you, Paul was right. You've been worth your weight in gold. Made me feel almost young again, and taken many little worries off my shoulders. But the idea never entered my head until he told me I needed a secretary and he knew just the girl."
She laughed, too, rather shakily. "Then, you see, the idea that he loves me is quite absurd, as he went to such pains to get rid of me."
"As he went to such pains to take care of you. He wanted you away from the district, I gathered, because you are a witness
in a certain not-too-happy case, and he wanted a holiday for you because you needed one. You would have none of him, I gathered, so he cast me for the role of rescuer." He chuckled. "I suppose he thought I was harmless as a rival, at my age."
"If you were just a bit younger, or I just a bit older, you'd be far from harmless. I'd be in love with you like a shot."
"Thank you, my dear. We were born in different generations, more's the pity."
A horrid thought struck her. "Professor—tell me honestly. Who is paying my salary?"
He waved that aside. "Set your mind at rest, child. I am. As I say, you've been useful, and charming company. I was dreading this trip."
"Bu but she searched his face, wanting a clue to the conversation. "Why tell me this now?"
"Because you haven't read your letters. And because I see through your pretence of not loving
Paul. Bless me, you're head over heels in love with the boy, though you're too good for him."
"All right," she declared recklessly. "So I'm in love. What about it?"
"Well, now we've cleared the air on that point . . ." He tugged his beard gently, as if not knowing how to continue.
She felt impatient, longing to be done with his beating about the bush. "Professor, is anything wrong at home? With my parents? With Paul?"
"Paul is in hospital. The hall porter tells me there is a train at ten o'clock. He's an obliging young fellow, and has undertaken to book a sleeper and call a cab at the proper time." Obviously pleased with himself, he leant back and pressed the tips of his bony fingers together. "A telegram is on its way to your brother, telling him to meet you."
She did not know whether to laugh or cry. "And you are supposed to be unpractical! I came to Edinburgh to look after you. But—but you made all these arrangements without consulting me!"
"That nice young porter did everything. I must remember to give him sixpence to-morrow. You want to go?"
"Yes, but—oh, Professor, is he badly hurt?"
