Once for All Time

by Betty Neels

  Perhaps it was the sight of her mother’s work basket, standing on her little table, a piece of tapestry hanging from it, or the row of silver cups her father had won at various sports in his youth, which melted the ice inside her. Suddenly she was in floods of tears, her head resting on Dr Thackery’s enormous chest, his arms holding her close. She cried for a long time. Rosie came in with the tray of tea and sat down quietly at a look from him, and only the phone ringing stopped her. Dr Thackery made no haste to answer it. He mopped Clotilde’s eyes for her, sat her down in an easy chair and went into the hall to answer it.

  ‘The police, wanting to know who will take care of things,’ he told her, and handed her a cup and saucer. ‘Drink up, there’s a good girl.’ He sat down near her, smiled at Rosie and started on his own tea. ‘This has to be talked about,’ he said gently, ‘and you will feel better when you do. Have you a brother, uncle or anyone else in the family who can deal with the formalities?’And at Clotilde’s blank look: ‘Someone who can go over to France, identify your parents and arrange for them to be brought back here?’

  Clotilde said in a tear-sodden voice: ‘I’ve an older sister; she’s married and lives in Canada and she’s expecting another baby in two weeks’ time. I’ve no uncles or cousins, and my god-father died last year.’

  ‘What about young Johnson? I imagine the authorities would allow him to cope with the necessary arrangements.’

  She remembered Bruce’s voice—sympathetic but anxious not to be involved in anything which might spoil his chances with Sir Oswald. ‘He’s—he’s got his job, I don’t suppose he could get leave. Besides, he’s assisting Sir Oswald all next week while the Senior Registrar’s away.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Dr Thackery’s voice was dry, ‘that makes it impossible for him to get away, doesn’t it? I wonder if I would do. I didn’t know your parents, but I imagine that your solicitor or even the local parson would come with me. I could make all the arrangements necessary for their return while you attend to matters at this end.’

  He didn’t wait for her to answer but went on in the same matter-of-fact voice: ‘Now, there are several people to inform, aren’t there? Your solicitor, the parson, your sister—perhaps it would be best to tell her husband and he could decide if she is to be told? I’ll arrange for you to have leave from the hospital, and if you feel you can, write to Sally Wood and give her any instructions which might help her.’

  He looked across the room at Rosie. ‘I’m sorry I shall have to leave you quite soon. Eat something, the pair of you, and then lie down for an hour or so. Before I go I’ll do some phoning, if I may. I’ll need some phone numbers.’

  It was Clotilde who got up and fetched the telephone book for him. She felt curiously empty and tired. The shock was beginning to wear off now and she was aware of the sharp edge of pain. She said: ‘Do you have to go?’

  ‘Yes, but I shall be back this evening. Can you put me up for the night? I’ll be fairly late, I’m afraid.’

  Rosie said eagerly: ‘You’ll want your supper, doctor. I’ll see and cook you something.’

  ‘That would be kind, but don’t stay up for me. Something kept hot on the stove will suit me very well.’ His blue eyes studied Clotilde from under their lids. ‘If I might suggest that you both go to bed? I expect you leave the key under the mat?’

  Clotilde nodded. ‘Everyone does. But you don’t need to come back, really you don’t. You’ve been so kind and helpful—you’ve done too much already. We’ll be quite all right.’

  He only smiled gently, got up and went away to the telephone. Presently he came back. ‘Your vicar will be round very shortly and your solicitor will be down to see you in the morning. Remember what I said and have a rest after lunch.’ He bent and kissed Rosie’s cheek, and at the door turned to kiss Clotilde too. ‘Look after each other,’ he said gravely. ‘I’ll see you, and I can let myself out.’

  ‘What a nice gentleman,’ said Rosie, ‘doing all that for us too—and him no more than someone at the hospital. What happened to Mr Johnson?’

  ‘He couldn’t get away.’ Clotilde busied herself putting the cups and saucers back on the tray. ‘Rosie, I can’t believe it, but we’ve got to go on as usual, haven’t we? I’ll go and make up a bed for Dr Thackery while you do something for lunch, I’m not hungry and I don’t suppose you are either, but he said we must have something.’

  Rosie was crying again, and she went and put her arms round the dear soul. ‘Rosie, don’t, please don’t! The next few days are going to be awful and we’ve got to get through them somehow.’ She kissed her and Rosie said between sobs:

  ‘He kissed me too—so natural like, just as though he was a friend and really minded.’

  ‘I think he does mind. He’s always kind to his patients, and calm and quiet.’ Clotilde added thoughtfully: ‘But I don’t know what he’s really like.’

  She made herself busy until the vicar came—an old man, and very shaken by the news. She gave him a glass of sherry because he looked as though he needed it, then poured one for Rosie and another for herself.

  ‘Your friend has everything in hand,’ observed the vicar. ‘You are most fortunate to have someone so helpful at such a sad time.’ He added inevitably: ‘Is Mr Johnson not with you?’

  ‘He’s unable to leave the hospital.’ Clotilde was filled with fresh unhappiness. The one person who could have consoled her wasn’t there. And he couldn’t help it, she reminded herself—an important engagement with Sir Oswald just couldn’t be missed; his future depended upon pleasing the great man. It wasn’t as if Bruce had known her parents well. They had met on countless occasions, but in all fairness there was only a mild affection between them. A tiny voice reminded her that Dr Thackery hadn’t known them at all, yet he was prepared to go to France for her.

  She listened politely to the vicar making tentative arrangements and offering help. ‘The village will be shocked,’ he told her. ‘Your parents were well liked. You will stay on here, of course? We would not like to see you go.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it,’ said Clotilde, ‘but I expect Rosie and I will go on living here, at least until I marry. We’ll have to think about that later.’

  He went away presently and she and Rosie had their lunch, sitting at the kitchen table, not talking much and not eating much either. They washed up together and then, obedient to the Doctor’s instructions, went and lay down, and surprisingly, slept.

  They had tea, then Rosie busied herself making soup to keep hot on the stove and a caramel custard to follow it. ‘Because I’ll be bound he’ll be hungry when he gets here.’ She asked hesitantly: ‘When will he go to France, Miss Tilly?’

  ‘I don’t know, he’ll tell us, though.’ Clotilde went to answer the phone yet again; the news had got around and people were ringing up all the time.

  They had their supper quite early and then because they couldn’t bear to talk anymore, said goodnight and went to their rooms. Clotilde didn’t undress at once but sat at her window, looking out on to the dark evening, not even thinking. It was much later when she got to her feet, cold now, and went to run a bath. She could hear Rosie snoring and uttered a thankful sigh; the poor dear had had a shock and she must be worn out with grief. She would have to go to bed herself, she supposed, and she took as long as possible undressing and bathing, brushing her long hair for ten minutes or more before at last getting into bed. It surprised her to see that it was already almost eleven o’clock. She was still making up her mind to put out the light when she heard the Bentley surge almost silently up to the front door. She had been dreading the moment when she must lie in the dark and try and sleep, now she seized on the chance to put that moment off till later. She got up, put on a dressing gown and slippers, and went silently downstairs.

  Dr Thackery was in the kitchen, a saucepan lid in one hand, eyeing the soup. He looked up as she went in, said ‘Hullo’ in an unsurprised voice and then: ‘How about sharing some of this soup with me? I dislike eating alone.’ />
  Clotilde came slowly into the kitchen, her face puffy with weeping, her hair hanging in a curtain down her back, her nose pink. All the same, she still looked quite lovely.

  ‘You didn’t eat your supper.’ He wasn’t asking, just stating a fact, and she said quickly: ‘We did try, really we did.’

  He turned and fetched two bowls from the dresser and added them to the neatly laid tray Rosie had left ready, while Clotilde went to the bread bin and got out a loaf and sliced some bread.

  ‘Have you been busy?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I saw Sally, and she sent a great many kind messages and you’re not to worry about a thing; she’s been sent extra help until you get back and all the patients are okay. She won’t bother you with phoning, but if you want to ring her, she’d like that very much.’

  They ate in silence for a minute or two and presently he went on: ‘I’m going over to France tomorrow. I should be back in a couple of days at the latest. I’ve arranged things with the undertakers.’ He mentioned the name of a firm in the nearest town. ‘That’s all you need to know at present, I think. As soon as you feel that you can and you want to, you can take over.’

  Clotilde got up and fetched the coffee from the stove and put the soup bowls into the sink. There was one of Rosie’s bacon and cheese flans on the table and she pushed it towards him. ‘Please have some, you must be hungry. I can’t thank you enough for all you’re doing…’

  He smiled at her. ‘You would have done the same, I fancy. I’ve been high-handed, haven’t I, but the matter is urgent. Authority doesn’t like to be left hanging around.’

  ‘No. I— I wouldn’t have known what to do anyway.’ She drank her coffee and some of the burden of sadness seemed to have been lifted from her shoulders. ‘I still can’t believe it.’

  ‘That’s natural, and it’s nature’s way of protecting you until you can cope again.’ He finished his flan. ‘Now go to bed, Clotilde, and go to sleep. I’ll clear away these things. If you can’t sleep, come and say so and I’ll give you something. Where am I sleeping?’

  He was as calm and matter-of-fact as a brother. ‘The first door on the left at the head of the stairs.’ Suddenly bed seemed a nice place to be; shock and grief had numbed her to a standstill and all she wanted to do was sleep. She said goodnight and went upstairs, and slept the moment her head touched the pillow.

  Dr Thackery left soon after breakfast, but not before he had written a list of things to be done and which would keep her, and Rosie, for that matter, busy until his return. ‘I’ll phone you before we leave France,’ he told her. ‘Two or three days’ time, I expect—if there’s a delay, I’ll let you know.’ He went out to the car and Clotilde went with him, reluctant to see him go. ‘I’m going to St Alma’s first, and I’ll be in touch with your solicitor.’ He looked away from her, across the garden. ‘Perhaps Johnson could manage to come down and be here when I get back?’

  ‘I expect he’ll ring.’ Clotilde put out a hand and had it engulfed and held. ‘I’ll never be able to thank you enough. Oh, dear, I suppose I’ll say that whenever I see you!’

  He smiled. ‘I daresay someone will do the same for me one day.’

  She nodded. ‘I quite forgot to ask you; about money— I mean, it must be costing a great deal, I can…’

  ‘I’ll settle with your solicitor later.’ He bent and kissed her cheek. ‘Get Johnson down here as soon as he can manage it—someone can take over for him for a few days.’

  He drove off with a casual wave, and she stood watching him go, suddenly engulfed in unhappiness again. But there was no use in standing there feeling sorry for herself: there was that list to work her way through, friends to write to, to telephone, the vicar to see, as well as the house to run. Rosie had been given a list too, and Clotilde went back to the house to find her and read it. Dr Thackery seemed to have thought of everything. ‘We’d better tick things off as we see to them,’ said Clotilde.

  And so the next two days went by somehow. She ate and drank and slept and worked her way faithfully through her list. Soon after Dr Thackery had left she rang the hospital and asked for Bruce, but he wasn’t available. ‘But I’ll get him to ring you as soon as he’s free,’ the sympathetic receptionist told her.

  Which wasn’t till the evening. Worth waiting for, Clotilde told herself, just to hear Bruce’s voice asking how she was, telling her that he’d been up to his eyes all day. ‘But I’ll see you some time tomorrow,’ he promised.

  It was only when she had hung up that she realised that he hadn’t asked her how she was managing. Perhaps he thought there was an uncle or cousin or old family friend. But tomorrow he would be with her, she told herself as she got ready for bed that evening. She needed him badly. She had no tears left, but there was a hard lump of misery in her chest which she had to conquer, and she didn’t think she could manage it by herself.

  Bruce didn’t come. Rosie had cooked a proper meal that evening; they waited and waited, and it wasn’t until almost ten o’clock that he phoned—an emergency which Sir Oswald had asked him to deal with, and Clotilde, keeping her temper with an effort, longing to scream and rail at him, asked: ‘Aren’t I an emergency?’

  ‘Of course you are, darling, you must know how I long to be with you; but this poor chap…well, never mind that now. At least he’s going to recover.’

  Clotilde felt mean and petty and ill-used at the same time. She was fighting to keep her voice normal when the operator broke in to say that there was an urgent call from France, and would she take it. She hung up without saying goodbye to Bruce and a moment later Dr Thackery was on the line.

  ‘You sound as though you’re crying,’ were his first words after she had mumbled a greeting. ‘We’ll be back tomorrow around tea time. I’ll see you then.’And when she didn’t answer: ‘You don’t want to talk, do you? Eat your supper and go to bed. Goodnight, Clotilde.’

  She hardly slept that night, and nor, she suspected, had Rosie. They busied themselves around the house and Clotilde took Tinker for a long walk after their scratch lunch, leaving Rosie to have a rest and then make her preparations for a meal that evening. Dr Thackery and her father’s solicitor would be tired and hungry when they arrived.

  It was going on for four o’clock when Bruce arrived and Clotilde, just for a while, found comfort in his sympathy and concern. She had gone to the kitchen to help Rosie with tea when she heard the Bentley stop outside the door, but before she could get there, Bruce had gone out to meet the two men. As she reached the door she heard him talking to them, for all the world, she thought indignantly, as though he had been there all the time, arranging things and looking after her and Rosie. What was more, as she joined them he observed: ‘I’m here to cope with everything now, I’m sure you’ll be only too glad to let me take over.’

  Dr Thackery wasn’t looking at him, though, he was staring at Clotilde’s bewildered angry face. He said: ‘Hullo, Clotilde,’ and when he saw the tears sparkling in her eyes: ‘Everything’s all right, don’t worry.’ And then to Bruce: ‘I’m glad you managed to get here.’ His voice was dry and Bruce gave him an uncertain look.

  There was a little pause before Clotilde said: ‘Well, do come in, we’ve just got the tea ready, and Rosie’s been busy getting a meal prepared for you—we weren’t quite sure when you would get here.’

  They all went into the sitting room and Dr Thackery followed Clotilde to the kitchen. At the door he put a hand on her arm. ‘Just hang on for a bit longer,’ he urged her. ‘After tea we’ll have a talk, you and I and that will be the worst part over.’

  He opened the door, put a friendly arm around a tearful Rosie and carried in the tea tray. He carried, metaphorically speaking, Rosie in as well, ignoring Bruce’s raised eyebrows, and sustained a conversation, not one word of which Clotilde could remember afterwards.

  And after tea he carried Clotilde off to her father’s study, with the mild observation that the solicitor and Bruce could entertain each other for a short while, and
once there, he sat her down in one of the elderly armchairs and gave her a sensible, down-to-earth account of his journey. But his sympathy was real and he dealt gently with her. All the same, she wept a little, snivelling into his shoulder, and he made no effort to stop her. At length she dried her eyes, mumbled that she was sorry and sat up straight. ‘What happens next?’ she asked.

  He told her with a calm matter-of-factness which she had learned to expect, for it was his way. ‘You’ll come to the funeral?’ she asked finally.

  ‘Of course, if you would like me to. Have you any family at all?’

  She shook her head. ‘My brother-in-law phoned— Laura, my sister, hasn’t been told. There isn’t anyone else, except friends, of course.’

  He nodded. ‘There are some things I brought back with me. I’ll take them upstairs to your parents’ room, if I may—you can deal with those later.’ He pulled her gently to her feet. ‘Now we’d better go back, hadn’t we? Is Johnson staying the night?’

  ‘Oh, no. He’s got a list in the morning, but I’m sure he’ll come again.’ The doctor didn’t say anything, only opened the door and he ushered her out. Crossing the hall, he observed; ‘Mr Trent will want to go home, I expect, and since Johnson is here, I’ll not need to stay any longer.’

  His words were a disappointment to her. There wasn’t any more to be said, she knew that, but he was such a comfort to have around the house and he knew exactly what had to be done and did it with a quiet competence which he made no effort to advertise.

  ‘You won’t stay to supper?’ she asked.

  ‘No need, with Johnson to keep you company; you’ll have all the evening together.’

  Clotilde said ‘Yes,’ rather doubtfully and led the way back to the others.

  Almost the whole village turned out for the funeral, although only a few people, about a dozen or so, went back to the house afterwards. Bruce had been there, of course, solicitous in his care of her, very much in charge, and she was grateful for that. Dr Thackery had been there too, a quiet figure in the background who had made his excuses once they reached the house again and gone off, brushing aside her thanks. ‘Don’t come back until you feel that you can cope—on the other hand, don’t stay here and mope. Is there anyone to keep Rosie company while you’re at St Alma’s?’