by Betty Neels
Sadie said calmly, ‘The children adore you, and you’ve discovered what fun they are and love them too. I think that’s the most important thing you’ve told me. I’m truly sorry about your wife—you’ve been lonely for years, haven’t you? I know you’ve had your work and you’re famous and I expect you’ve got quite a lot of money, but none of these are all that important, are they?’ She stopped frowning. ‘I expect I sound like a prig, but I don’t mean to. Mr Trentham, I think you must marry again.’ It cost her a lot to say that cheerfully. ‘The children were talking about the lady you took them to have tea with—they seemed to think you might…’
His laugh was genuinely amused. ‘Oh, my dear little Sadie, you mustn’t believe all you hear. Pamela’s the last woman on earth I would marry. No, I’ve ideas of my own.’
‘I’m sorry—it’s none of my business, but you did ask me…’
‘So I did. What are we going to do about this in the morning?’
‘I think it might be best if we forgot everything we’ve said, Mr Trentham.’ She glanced at the clock: it was well after two now and one of the waiters was stifling a yawn, which made her want to yawn too. ‘And thank you for bringing me out to supper; the food was lovely and it’s a heavenly restaurant.’
‘And the company, Sadie?’ he was half smiling.
‘There’s been nothing wrong with your company, Mr Trentham.’ She looked at him with her pretty dark eyes. ‘You have been very kind giving me such a splendid treat.’
He lifted a hand and the waiter came with the bill, and presently they were in the car again, going back to Highgate. Neither of them said anything. Sadie wondered if Mr Trentham was regretting his evening. She hoped not. For her part, she would remember it for always; at least he liked her enough to talk to her as a person; she had always suspected that for most of the time he had thought of her as someone in the background who produced bacon and eggs when he wanted his breakfast and ironed his shirts.
The house was quiet as they went in, with only one lamp burning on the console table in the hall. Sadie went straight to the staircase with a quiet, ‘Goodnight, Mr Trentham,’ and was already half way up when he stopped her. She turned at the sound of her name and he came to the foot of the stairs and stood looking up at her. But after a moment he muttered: ‘No, not now—go to bed,’ and turned away and went into his study.
He was already at the breakfast table, deep in the Sunday papers, when she went down to breakfast with the children. He wished them all good morning, cautioned them to be ready by ten o’clock to go out and resumed his reading, but when the children had eaten most of their breakfast he put the papers down. ‘Sadie and I decided last night that we might all go and choose a dog this morning,’ he announced, and in the ensuing excitement, any awkwardness Sadie had been feeling went by the board.
It was a grey day but dry, and once at Pine Ridge, they spent an hour or so inspecting every dog there was. In the end they all agreed on Gladstone, no longer a puppy, who had been found wandering and half starved by the side of a motorway. He was rather on the large side and though mostly black labrador, his appearance hinted at a variety of ancestors. But he was liked by them all and, as Mr Trentham pointed out, would be less trouble for them to train than a puppy. He paid the sum asked of him, added a donation of a generous size and shepherded his party back to the car, with the little girls both holding Gladstone’s lead.
In the car, driving back, he caught Sadie’s eye as she turned round to look at the two children with the dog between them, on the back seat.
‘I seem to have been missing a lot,’ he said quietly, ‘although probably I shall go berserk if that animal disturbs me while I’m working.’
She saw happily that he didn’t mean a word of it.
Gladstone, after an initial inspection of his new home with the little girls as guides, settled down with a commendable aplomb, accepting the old travelling rug Mrs Woodley produced as his own, eating his meals tidily in the kitchen and returning to his rug after tea when he discovered that his new family were going out. ‘And he’ll still be here when we get back,’ Sadie pointed out matter-of-factly when the children argued that they wanted to stay at home with him, ‘but you don’t often get the chance of going to church with your father.’
‘And you?’ asked Julie anxiously.
‘And me,’ Sadie smiled, and bent to kiss her.
The Cathedral was surprisingly full, and Sadie, used to the small church with its enthusiastic untrained choir, was a bit overawed. But the singing was sheer heaven and at the end of Evensong she got up and started to go reluctantly. While they were at Highgate she would contrive to come at least once more. They went out into the cold dark evening and bundled into the car and drove back through the almost empty streets to Gladstone, waiting patiently for them on his rug.
There was a slight contretemps when it was time for the children to go to bed. They wanted Gladstone to go to bed too, although Sadie pointed out that it was a little early for him: ‘Besides, he’ll have to go out for a quick walk later on.’
‘But if he’s with us, he’ll look after us,’ said Anna anxiously.
Sadie looked at Mr Trentham, pouring himself a drink and, she suspected, on his way to his study. They were his children and Gladstone was his dog; let him decide.
‘Let’s compromise. Let him stay downstairs until I’ve taken him for his walk, then he shall come upstairs and sleep in your room. That’s a promise.’
And this they accepted without demur. Sadie saw them to bed, tucked them up and kissed them and hesitated about going downstairs again. Suppose Mr Trentham wanted to unburden himself again? Suppose, which was worse, he regretted the previous evening? On the other hand, if she didn’t go down exactly as she always did, he might think that she had attached more importance to their talk than he would wish. She went downstairs, very slowly.
There was no sign of him. She went to the small sitting room and got out the knitting she had started—gloves for the children—and it was all of half an hour before Woodley, coming to make sure that the fire was burning well, informed her that Mr Trentham had gone out. ‘Some party or other, miss—the master is much in demand socially.’ He sounded faintly disapproving.
‘I expect so,’ said Sadie in a disinterested way. ‘And there’s no need to make the fire up for me, Woodley, I think I’ll go to bed; it’s been quite a full day.’ She looked at the dozing Gladstone. ‘I’ll take him round the square and settle him with the children as their father promised. I’d better leave a note, hadn’t I?’
Woodley agreed gravely. ‘A nice quiet dog, Miss Sadie, and very good for the children. There’s paper and pen in the little desk under the window.’
She wrote her note, got her coat and attached Gladstone to his lead. It was a clear frosty night now and she marched briskly up one side and down the other side with the obedient Gladstone trotting beside her. Back inside, Woodley was waiting to open the door and wordlessly proffered a towel for the dog’s paws. Sadie, taking it gratefully, pondered the fact that it took no time at all to get into the habit of being waited on, and with pleasantness too. In a week or two she’d be back at the cottage, peeling potatoes and scrubbing the sink.
It was the very next day, when Mr Trentham appeared suddenly in the middle of lunch, he informed them that he was going away for a brief holiday. ‘A week—ten days, I’m not sure. The Greek Islands, I think. I’ve some thinking to do.’ He glanced briefly at Sadie. ‘You’ll be all right? No point in leaving an address—I’ll probaby ring you anyway.’
Sadie nodded just as she had done on the other occasions when he had asked her the same question.
‘Are you going by yourself, Daddy?’ asked Anna, and when he said yes, Sadie felt a surge of relief. It didn’t last long, though; probably he was joining someone on some idyllic island where they would laze in the sun all day and dance half the night…
Mr Trentham asked curtly: ‘You don’t look very happy about it, Sadie?’
She came back to reality with a bump. She said primly: ‘On the contrary, Mr Trentham, I’m perfectly happy, thank you.’
‘May we have a party, a teeny-weeny one, while you’re away, Daddy?’ asked Julie. She smiled enchantingly at him and he smiled back.
‘I don’t see why not, if Sadie doesn’t mind.’ He lifted an eyebrow at Sadie, who said promptly:
‘What a lovely idea—we’ll write the invitations today and ask Mrs Woodley to make some cakes.’
‘And have games and make a noise?’ asked Julie hopefully.
‘Well, as it’s a party I daresay we shall do that too,’ said Sadie. ‘When shall we have it?’
The discussion became lively and Sadie, peeping at Mr Trentham, thought that he looked a little forlorn. She wanted to comfort him, tell him that they would miss him, and did he really have to go? but she squashed all that. After all, he was able to make his own decisions and do exactly what he liked, and if he chose to go away and leave his children while he wallowed on some magical beach that was his own business. She said cheerfully: ‘Well, let’s go and make that list and then go and see Mrs Woodley. Perhaps she’ll let us go shopping for her.’
It was Julie who asked: ‘When are you going away, Daddy?’
‘This afternoon, love.’
‘Oh, then we’ll say goodbye now, shall we? We’re going to be busy.’
By the time they had got back from the shops with Mrs Woodley’s list of jellies and almonds and icing sugar and extra eggs, he had gone. It was silly to feel sorry for him, Sadie told herself. If she could see him now, boarding a plane with a host of friends, exchanging clever small talk with not a care in the world, she would see how wasted her feelings for him were and what a waste of time it was loving him, only surely that was never a waste. She sighed deeply and then, because it was no good crying for the moon, she fetched the invitations she had written at the children’s dictation, put Gladstone’s lead on, and went along to the post.
The party was for three days’ time and since the children hadn’t many friends and they all lived close by, there was no reason for any of them to refuse. Sadie, in the kitchen helping Mrs Woodley decorate the trifles, was glad to have something to do; she was missing Mr Trentham very much indeed; it was like walking round with an empty space inside you, and no amount of common sense could make it feel any different. Presently she went along to help the little girls into their party dresses and then got into her blue dress; the first little guests would be arriving at any minute.
The party was a success, although it wasn’t the sort of party Sadie would have had for her own children. She didn’t consider that the row of nannies sitting round the drawing room wall made any contribution to its success, nor did she think that the children had enough friends—indeed, she wasn’t at all sure that they were real friends, and they certainly didn’t enjoy themselves like the children at the Christmas party at Chelcombe. All the same, the little girls were delighted with the whole affair, talking about it endlessly while they had their supper and she got them ready for bed.
‘That silly Lucy Price,’ said Anna, ‘she kept saying that she didn’t feel well, she sicked up her trifle and her nanny was furious!’ She added smugly: ‘I’m always well, aren’t I, Sadie?’
But she didn’t want her breakfast in the morning and when Sadie took her temperature, it was over a hundred. ‘I don’t feel well,’ said poor Anna, and burst into tears against Sadie’s comforting shoulder.
Sadie put her back to bed, gave Julie her painting book and paints in the playroom and went to consult with Mrs Woodley. ‘There was a little girl who was ill at the party, Anna mentioned it last night—Lucy Price. I wondered if I telephoned to see if she’s started something. And it would be kind, if it’s not an awful nuisance, if someone could take Gladstone for a quick walk?’
Woodley obliged with his usual dignity and Sadie went off to phone. Lucy had ’flu, said Nanny at the other end, and they’d had the doctor and Sadie had better get him too. There was a lot of ’flu about, went on the voice, as though that helped the matter.
Sadie phoned the doctor, consulted with Mrs Woodley again and when that gentleman came accompanied him upstairs to Anna’s bed. Doctor Rogers was tall and thin and inclined to be pompous, and he quite evidently didn’t think much of Sadie. ‘The housekeeper, are you?’ he commented, ‘Well, I suppose you can cope with some simple nursing. The child’s poorly, but she’ll pick up once the antibiotic starts working. Keep her in bed and give her a light diet.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘Where is Mr Trentham?’
‘Abroad.’
‘Ah, well, there’s no need to bother him at the moment.’ He bade her a rather distant good day and went downstairs where Woodley was waiting to let him out.
He had said that the antibiotics would take a little time to work, and in the meantime Anna got worse. Sadie thanked heaven for the kind Woodleys, and Teresa took over Julie and Gladstone and left her free to nurse the child, who became more restless as the day wore on and by nightfall had a high fever. Julie was moved to another bedroom close by with Gladstone for company and Sadie prepared for a long night. Round about four o’clock in the morning, Anna fell asleep, and Sadie, still sitting in the chair she had drawn up near the bed, went to sleep too.
She woke when Anna did, gave her a drink, washed her hot face and hands and put her into a clean nightie, then gave her another drink and her medicine. Her temperature was lower, perhaps the antibiotic was already doing its good work.
But as the day wore on, Sadie saw that although Anna was a little better, she was by no means on the mend yet. There would be another bad night, possibly two. She had had her meals on a tray in the playroom and Julie had eaten in the kitchen with the Woodleys and Teresa in the hope that she wouldn’t get ’flu as well. Sadie, trying to make Anna comfortable for the night, wished with all her heart that Mr Trentham would phone. He didn’t, of course. She spent another almost sleepless night again, although in the morning it was obvious that Anna was better.
With a child’s resilience she demanded food, and when she wasn’t eating she was sleeping. Sadie thanked heaven silently and caught up with her own sleep as best she could, taking catnaps whenever Anna did. Julie was still being looked after by the Woodleys, and it was during the afternoon that Woodley came upstairs to see Sadie. He had just been out with Gladstone and came to tell her that Mrs Woodley wasn’t quite happy about Julie. She was looking hot and flushed and was off her food.
Sadie pushed back the hair she had been longing to wash for two days now. ‘Oh, Woodley, has she got ’flu now, do you suppose? I’ll get Doctor Rogers again…’
He came within the hour, pronounced in a pompous what-can-you expect voice that Julie had ’flu, handed over another lot of antibiotics, assured Sadie that Anna was progressing nicely, and took himself off.
He had looked at Sadie’s tired white face as she accompanied him down to the hall, and thought what a very plain girl she was. Which was true enough. She hardly looked her best with the prospect of another broken night which depressed her very much.
She had put Julie to bed in her own shared room with Anna and once she had settled her, she fetched Teresa to sit with the two of them while she showered and got into her nightie and dressing gown, had a hurried meal and took over again. Julie was querulous and Sadie had a nasty feeling that she was going to be a bad patient. And she was right. The child refused to lie down, to drink the barley water she was offered, to stop crying… Sadie, fortified by the hot coffee and sandwiches Mrs Woodley had provided, read one story after another, the words dancing hazily before her heavy eyes, her tongue tying itself into knots. The one blessing was that Anna, with all the resilience of youth, was sleeping peacefully.
About two o’clock, Julie at last fell asleep, and Sadie seized the chance to go to the kitchen and fetch more cold drinks. One light had been left on in the hall; she crept down in the dimness, jug in hand, and was half way across the hall when a sound at the front door
made her stop dead.
It was a very small sound, but at that hour of the night it scared her stiff. She gripped the jug tightly in both hands and watched the door.
It opened and Mr Trentham walked in.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE WAVE OF relief and delight which swept over Sadie at the sight of him took all the colour, and that wasn’t much, from her face and made her dizzy. It was instantly replaced by quite irrational fury.
‘Where have you been?’ she hissed at him. ‘You’re never home when you’re wanted!’
Mr Trentham had shut the door and was leaning against it, watching her. His brows rose and he half smiled. ‘Well, well,’ he said gently, ‘what a welcome home! You sound like a loving wife and you look…’ he stopped and stared hard at her. ‘You look frightful. What’s happened?’
To be told she was looking frightful, however true it was, was the last straw on the camel’s back; two large tears rolled down Sadie’s cheeks. But crying got you nowhere; she wiped them away with the back of her hand, steadied her voice and said: ‘Julie and Anna have got ’flu. Anna’s getting better, but Julie is feverish and not very well.’
