by Betty Neels
Eugenia paused in her unpacking to lean her elbows on the sill and gaze around her. The garden was delightful, a glorious mixture of fruit trees, shrubs, a mown lawn there, the glimpse of a vegetable patch behind a screen of beech, and flower beds round and about, all of them stuffed with spring flowers in full bloom. ‘What a waste,’ declared Eugenia, to no one in particular, ‘to have such a lovely corner to live in and almost never come to it.’ Of course, she reflected, carefully folding Mrs Pringle’s voluminous nighties into a drawer, if Miriam didn’t like it…
They ate their lunch without hurry, and then, mindful of Mr Grenfell’s words, Eugenia popped Mrs Pringle on to her bed for a nap and went downstairs to give Mrs Cobb a hand with the washing up.
‘Well, miss, I must say it’s kind of you,’ said that lady. ‘You a Sister and all and on holiday, so I hear. I’ll put the tea all ready for you before I go home and there’s everything ready for your supper in the fridge. I’ll be here at half past eight in the morning; breakfast at nine o’clock, and no need for you to do anything—dear knows I have little to do most of the time. I thought a nice bit of fish for tomorrow?’
‘That sounds nice,’ agreed Eugenia, hanging up her tea-towel. ‘Lunch was lovely.’
Mrs Cobb visibly glowed. ‘There’s a nice bit of fruit cake for your tea,’ she said. ‘Mr Grenfell, he always likes a fruit cake—home-made, of course.’
‘Of course. The shepherd’s pie was delicious, Mrs Cobb.’
When the good lady had gone, Eugenia went into the garden. It was very quiet; just the sounds of the country she had known all her life before they had moved to London, and it was warm in the sheltered corners. She found a garden seat tucked away in a sunny place and sat down, more content than she had been for ages. She hadn’t felt like that for a long time. No, not so long; she had felt exactly the same in the little bluebell wood in Mr Grenfell’s garden.
She went back into the cottage presently and got tea ready, and Mrs Pringle, nicely rested, joined her in the comfortable sitting room.
‘It’s very kind of you, my dear,’ said Mrs Pringle for the tenth time, ‘spending your holiday with an old woman when you could be gadding about in foreign parts, and you so very pretty too. I daresay you’ve got a young man?’ Her eyes slid to Eugenia’s left hand.
‘Yes—I’ve been engaged for a year or two. I—we—hope to get married as soon as it’s possible.’
Mrs Pringle looked at her quite severely. ‘And that’ll be never, miss, if I might say so without giving offence. There’s always something crops up… But there, I daresay it’s different with you. Me and Pringle, we married on next to nothing, but we managed. We’ve a daughter, you know—got a good job as a nanny—trained, she is.’ She picked up her knitting and began clicking needles furiously. ‘There’s a clever pair you’ve got for brother and sister, miss. I daresay they do well at school?’
The evening passed pleasantly and they went to bed early, and the days which followed were just as pleasant. Mrs Pringle recovered rapidly. There was little to do for her other than reminding her to take her pills, and Eugenia spent blissful hours in the garden or wandering down to the village for odds and ends. She had given Humphrey her phone number, but he didn’t ring her; she told herself that he was busy, and after all, he knew where she was and that she would be away for only a week. And she had half expected to hear from Mr Grenfell—after all, it was his housekeeper who was recovering from bronchitis, wasn’t it? But the telephone remained silent, and she told herself that it was heavenly not to have the thing ringing all day long as it did on the Ward.
There were books in the sitting room. She read voraciously when she wasn’t listening to Mrs Pringle’s gentle chatter, winding wool, or giving Mrs Cobb a hand around the place, and almost without knowing it, she lost her London pallor. After the first day or two she walked each day, and what with pottering in the garden and doing the odd bit of shopping, she was tired enough to sleep all night. But it was the right kind of tiredness, not the exhaustion of a long hard day on the Ward. By Saturday she looked a different girl, and felt different too; even Mrs Parsons no longer seemed the stumbling block to the future that she had imagined.
‘I’ve put on three pounds,’ she told Mrs Pringle, ‘and Humphrey—my fiancé—says I’m too fat as it is.’
‘You’re just right as you are,’ Mrs Pringle assured her. ‘Don’t you lose an ounce, miss. Nice pink cheeks you’ve got too. I declare you never looked prettier. As for me, I never felt so ready to get back. Pringle’s a good man, but he misses things—men do, you know.’
It was Friday night before Eugenia asked: ‘Do you know what time we’re leaving tomorrow, Mrs Pringle? I’ve not heard…’
‘Bless you, Mr Grenfell telephoned this morning while you were out. After lunch, he said, and will we be sure to have some of Mrs Cobb’s cake for his tea.’
So Eugenia packed their bags after breakfast the next morning, did her face very carefully without knowing why, and went into the garden for a final prowl. Time enough to change out of her cotton sweater and elderly skirt when they had had lunch. There was a great deal of rhubarb down at the bottom, behind the potting shed, and Mrs Pringle had declared herself anxious to make rhubarb jam. Forgetful of her careful make-up, Eugenia set about pulling vast quantities of it and sat down happily to trim the stalks of their leaves. She was piling them neatly in the trug she had brought with her when a small sound behind her made her look up. Mr Grenfell was leaning against an apple tree, watching her.
She was scarcely aware of the surge of feeling as she caught sight of him. She brushed back a lock of hair with an earthy hand and said in a calm way: ‘Good morning, Mr Grenfell.’
‘Gerard.’
She smiled. ‘Gerard.’ She lopped off another leaf or two. ‘I don’t think Mrs Pringle expected you until this afternoon.’
‘I found I could get away earlier.’
Eugenia picked up the trug and got to her feet. ‘Do you want to leave earlier? I’ll get the…’
He interrupted her impatiently. ‘Good heavens, girl, I’ve only just got here, intent on a couple of hours’ peace and quiet!’
‘Oh. Well, in that case I’ve got time to pull some more rhubarb. Have you had a busy week?’
‘Yes.’ He sounded quite testy. ‘I—we all missed you. Hatty is an excellent nurse, but of course being in the throes of first love, she’s the smallest bit distraite.’
Eugenia sat up. ‘Hatty—in love? How absolutely splendid! Not with that nice young houseman who’s just joined your firm?’
‘The very same.’ Mr Grenfell left the tree and folded his bulk tidily beside her. ‘Love at first sight, from the look of it.’
‘Oh, how simply marvellous! Hatty’s such a dear and just right for him. I shall do all I can to encourage, them.’
Mr Grenfell closed his eyes. ‘Has Humphrey been down to see you?’
Eugenia bent down and pulled a radish from the neat row in the bed at her feet. She dusted it off rather perfunctorily and popped it into her mouth.
‘No,’ she said between crunches.
‘Telephoned?’
‘Why do you ask such questions?’ asked Eugenia tartly. ‘I don’t ask you questions.’
‘Very wise of you, Eugenia. What’s for lunch?’
She turned to look at him. His eyes were still closed; he looked remarkably handsome, but also very tired.
‘Roast chicken, bread sauce, stuffing, baked potatoes, baby carrots, spring greens, and apple tart and cream for afters.’ She added: ‘Have you been up all night?’
He opened one eye. ‘More or less.’
‘You could have a nap before lunch, it’s only just eleven o’clock.’
‘Mrs Cobb’s making coffee. Are you looking forward to coming back to St Clare’s?’
‘No, not in the least. I’ve loved every minute of being here—I can’t thank you enough. Mrs Pringle’s quite recovered—you’ve seen her?’
‘Yes. My thanks
for bearing her company—we’re both grateful.’ He turned his head to smile at Mrs Cobb, carrying a tray.
‘There’s two cups,’ she pointed out unnecessarily. ‘You could do with another cup, Miss Eugenia? All that rhubarb too! We’ll have to have you back when the strawberries are ripe.’
‘What a good idea.’ Mr Grenfell gave her a bland look. ‘Another week’s holiday some time in June?’
He was joking, of course, but she chose to answer him seriously. ‘No more holidays until September. I believe Humphrey wants to go to Torquay.’
‘à trois?’ asked Mr Grenfell gently.
‘Well, yes! Mrs Parsons has a friend there who keeps a boarding house. I couldn’t go last year because Becky was ill with ‘flu, but this year I shall go.’
Mr Grenfell drank his coffee and said nothing, staring at his garden with an inscrutable expression.
‘Torquay’s a very nice place,’ said Eugenia edgily.
‘I have no doubt it is. Better than this, Eugenia?’ His voice was very soft.
‘Don’t be absurd,’ she said roundly. ‘You can’t compare this place with Torquay. This is heaven—like your bluebell wood.’ She took his cup from him. ‘You’ve had your coffee, now you can have a sleep.’
He opened his eyes wide and she was, as always, surprised at their vivid blue. ‘You’re very solicitous, presumably making sure I shall be able to put in a good day’s work on Monday.’
She laughed then. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, only you look tired.’
‘And old?’
‘No, not in the least. You don’t feel old, do you?’
He grinned and the tired lines disappeared. ‘No, I feel like a man who has found something he’s been searching for all his life and knows that he’ll get it.’
Eugenia frowned, not at all sure what he was talking about. Miriam perhaps? But he’d known about her months ago, when they had got engaged. Something rare he intended to buy? An award of some sort? He did a great deal of lecturing in his own field, perhaps he was to receive some award. She said rather primly: ‘That’s nice for you. I’m going to take this rhubarb indoors. Mrs Cobb’s got a basket I can borrow.’
He picked up the trug and carried it to the kitchen for her and then wandered off. Eugenia could hear him talking to Mrs Pringle in the sitting room. She went upstairs and did her face again, then changed into the blue suit and rearranged her hair after which she sat down by the window with a book. There was still an hour until lunch and she didn’t want to intrude.
Lunch was a leisurely meal, with Mrs Cobb popping in and out, pressing them to eat more of everything and stopping to drink a glass of wine when she brought in the apple pie. And when they had finished, Mrs Pringle went for what she called her little lay-down, Mr Grenfell stretched his length in an armchair in the sitting room and Eugenia slipped into the kitchen to give Mrs Cobb a hand. They were to leave directly after tea, but Mrs Cobb would go home when the kitchen was clean and tidy again, leaving Eugenia to make the tea and cut the cake. ‘And just you leave the dishes,’ she begged Eugenia. ‘I’ll be in on Monday to give the place a good do, it’s little enough I have to keep me busy here.’ She brightened. ‘Though Mr Grenfell did say I could expect him some time in June, bringing someone with him, he said.’
Miriam, thought Eugenia, and why not? The cottage in June would be irresistible even to the most hardened of town-dwellers.
They left after tea. Eugenia, sitting beside Mrs Pringle on the back seat, watched Mr Grenfell turn the key in the door and wished with all her heart that she could live the whole of the week again. London and St Clare’s didn’t bear thinking about.
It gave her quite a nasty shock to realise that she hadn’t thought about Humphrey. She felt so guilty that the moment she had been dropped off at the hospital she had darted to the porter’s lodge and asked the man to ring Humphrey. She was suddenly so obsessed with the wish to see him that she had hardly listened to Mr Grenfell’s brief thanks and Mrs Pringle’s rather more protracted ones. If Humphrey was free on Sunday they could go out for the evening. She was on duty, but only until five o’clock.
The porter handed her the phone and Humphrey’s voice, rather sharp, sounded in her ear. ‘Eugenia—so you’re back! I’m very busy…’
She said tartly: ‘Yes, I’m back, and I feel a lot better, thank you. I’m off at five o’clock tomorrow—perhaps we could go out for an hour?’
‘After seven o’clock—I shall be very tired, but we might have a drink, I suppose.’
Eugenia reminded herself that he might have had a gruelling week. ‘That will be nice. I’ll meet you at the entrance about seven-thirty.’ She rang off before he could reply.
Her room, after the pastel-tinted comfort of the cottage bedroom, looked bleak. She put her case down and without unpacking it, went back again out of the hospital and caught a bus out to her home.
They were all there; her father deep in a book, the twins worrying away at their homework like two puppies at a bone. They greeted her with delight, bombarded her with questions, observed plaintively that they were famished, and made her a pot of tea. Eugenia drank it curled up in one of the easy chairs in the sitting room and feeling much better because their welcome had been so warm, then went into the kitchen, where she made omelettes, french fries, a magnificent salad and a great pot of coffee.
Sitting round the table presently, she answered their questions all over again, and when her father asked: ‘Did Humphrey go to see you, my dear?’ she was able to say lightly:
‘He’s been so busy—we’re going out tomorrow evening.’
‘Oh, yes. Good.’ Her father sounded vague. ‘You look much better for your week’s rest, anyway.’
Hatty said the same thing when she saw her in the morning, and indeed she did feel better; relaxed and full of sunshine and fresh air and Mrs Cobb’s good food. Only the shabby streets round St Clare’s looked even shabbier, and there wasn’t a tree in sight…
The ward was busy, but not too much so. She was occupied all day, catching up on the new patients, reading notes, checking charts, mapping out the off-duty for the next couple of weeks. The hours slid past, five o’clock came and Eugenia handed over to Hatty and left the ward.
That young lady, reflected Eugenia, had changed overnight, as it were, from a chrysalis into a butterfly. Her plain face had taken on a glow, she had done her hair in a most fetching way, and unless Eugenia was very much mistaken, its mousiness had been discreetly tinted. Young love, mused Eugenia, feeling as old as Methuselah’s wife.
It was a warm evening. Eugenia, intent on pleasing Humphrey, got into a jersey dress she had had for two years, found a cardigan to go with it, and went down to meet him.
She had to admit, a few hours later as she got ready for bed, that the evening hadn’t been entirely successful. Humphrey had been edgy, ready to pick a quarrel if she but gave him the chance, so that she had to mind every word she said. He didn’t want to hear about the cottage, or what she had done with her days; he was full of the inadequacies of the newest medical houseman, the problematic symptoms of a patient who had been admitted that day, and the annoying fact that the building society in which he had money had lowered its interest rates.
Eugenia had listened, at first with sympathy and then with a guilty feeling of boredom. She longed to tell him about the garden at the cottage, the lovely early morning freshness of the country, the long lazy afternoons…but each time she tried, he swept her words away. ‘Oh yes, I’m sure you had a lovely time, Eugenia. I only hope it’s done you some good; you’ve been getting very unsettled—Mother noticed it too.’ He had frowned a little. ‘She needs a holiday,’ he added. ‘A pity Mr Grenfell doesn’t extend his generosity to the elderly and the hard-working.’
Such an unfair remark that Eugenia hadn’t been able to think of anything to say. Perhaps it was a good thing, she decided, getting into bed, that she wouldn’t see Humphrey for a couple of days.
Monday was uneventful, so that she had tim
e to catch up on her paperwork, familiarise herself with the newer patients, and skim through their notes. Mr Grenfell would be doing his round on the following morning and whether she had been away or not, he would expect her to know the answers to his questions.
It was a good thing she had done her homework, for he kept her on her toes for the entire round, remote and courteous and waiting politely while she sought for the right answers. And drinking coffee presently in her office, he had, discussed his patients, made a few remarks about the weather, thanked her gravely at the ward door, and walked away without another word.
It wouldn’t have hurt him to have said something—anything about her week’s holiday. After all, she had spent it as his guest at the cottage, hadn’t she? She gulped down the rest of her cooling coffee and bent her mind to the task of arranging the duty list so that Hatty could spend her days off with her admirer.
She had seen Humphrey for a few minutes that evening; he had a weekend, and so had she at the end of the following week. Without asking her how she felt about it, he told her that they would spend it with his mother.
There was no reason why the prospect should depress her so much. True, she never enjoyed being with Mrs Parsons, but until now she had accepted her as part of the future. She felt vaguely unhappy and slept so badly that she had a headache when she got up.
