by Betty Neels
‘I expect he’s waiting for me.’
‘Sweet on you, is he? Can’t say I blame him.’ And Mr Drew chuckled.
She spun out the order for as long as she could, but finally she had to leave the shop. Colin was strolling down the street some way from her and she crossed over and started on her way back home, to find him within seconds beside her again. There was no one about, so she stopped and faced him.
‘Look, Colin, you’re wasting your time. I have no intention of marrying you, and you would do better to find another job instead of hanging around here.’
He laughed. ‘Come off it, darling. You were sweet on me and you can’t deny it—led me on, you did, letting me think that your father would give me a partnership, or at least put up the money for us to settle down somewhere without money worries.’
‘I did not lead you on.’ Her voice rose indignantly, ‘You’re talking nonsense.’
He caught her by the arm and began walking down the street. ‘We’re going to have a talk, Beatrice, darling…’
She tried to pull away from him, but he was gripping her hard and just for a moment she felt scared; to make a scene wouldn’t do at all… She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them it was to see Oliver driving slowly up the street towards them. Her voice came out in a whisper and then a healthy shout, not that it had been necessary; she saw that he had seen them and was already pulling into the kerb, and a moment afterwards was standing before them, smiling a little.
‘Oliver,’ she was quite uncaring of the effect of her words, ‘Oliver, do explain to Colin that we are engaged; I can’t make him understand that I won’t marry him.’
The doctor’s smile didn’t alter at all. ‘My dear girl, until everyone reads of it in the Telegraph, no one knows.’ He turned an almost benevolent face upon Colin. ‘I dare say Beatrice had no chance to tell you, had she?’
He tucked a large hand under her arm, and she had never been so glad to feel its firm pressure. Colin looked from one to the other of them.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he demanded of Beatrice.
‘You didn’t give me the chance, but now you know, Colin, so please leave me alone.’
‘I’ve been wasting my time,’ he said furiously. ‘Well, I wish you the best of luck, the pair of you.’
He turned on his heel and walked away, back up the street, and Beatrice watched him go in silence. Presently she said, ‘I’m sorry—I panicked. And I had to stop him— I mean, right in the middle of the village, and you know how people look out of their windows—and he was holding me rather tightly—I didn’t want to make a scene.’
The doctor listened patiently to this. ‘You acted most sensibly,’ he observed, at his most placid. ‘And I have no doubt that we shall shortly see the last of young Wood.’
He bent a thoughtful gaze upon her worried face. ‘There’s really nothing that he can do, you know.’
‘No. But what about—that is, I said that we were engaged.’
‘Very wise. I’ll see that a notice goes into the Telegraph tomorrow morning.’
‘But we’re not.’
‘Ah, you know that and I know that, but no one else needs to know. Tell your family by all means, but let everyone else believe what they read. Once Wood is safely away, we can review the situation.’
‘Yes, but…’
‘Shall we get into the car? I was on my way to see you—we will go the long way round and discuss the matter in comfort.’
So she got into the car beside him, aware now that several interested faces were peering round cottage curtains.
‘We seem to have created a good deal of interest,’ remarked the doctor calmly. He tooled the car gently up the street, turned past the pub and took a narrow lane just beyond it. ‘Now, what is worrying you?’
‘Us—you. You said you would put a notice in the Telegraph, but if you’re going to get married, won’t she mind? The girl you’re going to marry?’
‘She is a most sensible young woman; I foresee no difficulties. Besides, I intend to marry her and no one else. No one else really matters.’
He spoke quietly, and Beatrice felt a pang of envy for the girl who could be so sure of him whatever he did. He must love her very much. ‘She must be awfully nice.’
‘She is everything I could wish for. Do you intend to tell your mother?’
‘Well, yes, I think so, but not Father, because then I’d have to explain about Colin and he might get upset and angry.’ She thought for a bit. ‘But I’d better tell Ella.’
The doctor laughed. ‘A good idea—she’s an observant child.’
‘Were you coming to see Father?’
‘Partly, and partly to see how you were getting on with Wood; I rather thought he would be a nuisance. Now you will be able to settle down to your usual quiet life again.’
Perversely, Beatrice found no pleasure in the prospect. She was thankful that Colin would be gone, but a quiet life, stretching ahead for years and years, held no appeal. There was always James, but she suspected that he had transferred his affections to the rector’s eldest daughter, a friend of hers and most suitable for him. Without a tinge of regret, she hoped that they would be very happy.
‘Perhaps it might be a good idea if you were to go away for a week or two. No need to say where you are going to anyone but your family. Colin—if he hasn’t already gone—might possibly get the idea that you were staying with me, which might speed his departure.’
‘Oh, does he know where you live?’
‘No, but he knows that I work mostly in London; even if he wanted to find you, he might not find it worthwhile.’
‘Why should he persist? I thought he would go away now.’
‘It is to be hoped that he will, but you must remember that you are the key to everything he wants: a partnership, the prospect of taking over the practice in the future, and a wife who is by no means penniless.’
‘And I thought it was just me,’ she said ruefully.
Her father was over at the clinic, helping Mr Sharpe with an unexpectedly busy morning surgery; her mother was sitting outside the kitchen door, shelling peas.
‘Your father won’t be long now. Go and make the coffee, will you, darling? Oliver, can you spare the time to have a cup with us? You’ve come to see your patient, I expect?’
He sat down on the grass beside her, and when Beatrice had gone to the house she added, ‘He’s so much better now Colin has gone; he didn’t like him, you know, and he was so afraid that Beatrice would fall in love with him.’ She glanced sideways at the doctor’s impassive face. ‘I think she was beginning to, but now he’s gone…’ She heaved a sigh of relief.
‘He hasn’t gone, Mrs Browning. He’s in the village, and he’s been pestering Beatrice every time she pokes that pretty nose of hers outside this house.’
Mrs Browning stopped shelling peas and stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘Pestering her? She has never said a word.’
‘She doesn’t want to upset Mr Browning. It was quite by chance that I found out about it.’
‘And?’
Beatrice came through the door with the tray, and he got up and took it from her. ‘I think Beatrice may want to tell you herself.’
‘But not her father?’ Mrs Browning began to pour the coffee. ‘He’ll be another ten minutes or so, dear. Oliver has just told me that Colin has been bothering you—has he gone or do we send you away? Is it upsetting you?’ She handed the doctor a mug of coffee and then a plate of biscuits. ‘Of course, you don’t have to say anything if you don’t feel like it.’
‘Well, Mother—’ began Beatrice, and gave her an admirably brief account of Colin’s activities. ‘And then this morning I couldn’t get rid of him and—and I saw Oliver and I shouted to him, and he came and I told Colin that we were engaged…’ She heard her mother’s sharp intake of breath. ‘Yes, I know, I must have been a little mad, but I couldn’t think of anything else, and Oliver very kindly told a lot of fibs about the notice bei
ng in the Telegraph tomorrow…’
She hadn’t looked at Oliver once as she talked, but now she looked across at him. ‘I am very grateful, I really am, and I hope you didn’t think I was imposing on your good nature.’
‘Think nothing of it.’ His voice was nicely casual. ‘I have hopes that your quick thinking may have the right effect. All the same, I think that you should go away for a week or so; it will save answering awkward questions in the village, and give Wood no opportunity of cross-questioning you. Another thing, perhaps it might be a good idea to mention our engagement to your father. There is no need to say anything about Wood, and we can be vague about the future. After a suitable interval, Beatrice, you can change your mind and we can all go back to our normal way of living.’
A sensible speech which left both Beatrice and her mother with feelings of regret, but for different reasons.
‘And what about you, Oliver?’ asked Mrs Browning worriedly. ‘Won’t it interfere with your life—your private life?’
‘I don’t believe so. I’m going on a lecture tour in a few days’ time, so I shall see very few of my friends for several weeks, and I shall have a backlog of work to get through on my return, so I’m not likely to go out a great deal.’
‘You make it sound very easy.’
He passed his mug for more coffee. ‘My tour takes in Utrecht, Cologne, Copenhagen, Brussels and finally Edinburgh; it will take a fortnight, or perhaps a day or two more than that. In fact, I can see no reason why Beatrice shouldn’t come with me. Lecturers usually take wives with them, and it is by no means unusual for fiancées to go along.’ He had spoken in his usual calm fashion; now he looked at Beatrice and smiled. ‘A good idea? No hurry to decide. I shall be at Salisbury for the next day or so. I’ll give you a ring before I go back.’
He got to his feet as Mr Browning joined them, remarking that he looked fit and well. ‘I’ll take a look if I may before I go, although I’m sure that I shall find everything satisfactory.’
Mr Browning sat down. ‘You all look very pleased with yourselves,’ he observed.
It was Beatrice who answered. ‘Father, Oliver and I—we’ve got engaged. It was rather sudden and we haven’t any plans at present; Oliver’s busy.’
‘My dear, what splendid news! Oliver, I am delighted. And here have I been worrying about young Wood. I quite thought that you were beginning to like him, Beatrice, and all the time it was Oliver. Well, well!’ He beamed around him. ‘Now I shall have to find someone to take your place.’
‘Not yet, Father,’ said Beatrice quickly. ‘Oliver has an awful lot of work to get through.’ And, when he looked doubtful, she added hastily, ‘You know who is longing to step into my shoes? Ella—she might even train as a vet. She’s been pestering me to let her work at the clinic during her holidays, and they begin next week.’
She succeeded in her efforts to divert his thoughts. ‘You’re quite right, Beatrice—she is a natural with animals. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t help out with exercising and feeding and learning something of the surgical work.’ He put down his mug. ‘I dare say you’re busy, Oliver. Shall we go indoors? I never felt better in my life, especially now that I’ve heard your news. Beatrice will make a splendid wife, you know—a very level-headed girl and an excellent cook.’
He led the way indoors and Beatrice said softly, ‘Oh, Mother, I don’t think it will work—what have I started?’
Her mother gave her an untroubled look. ‘Well, darling, it struck me that Oliver didn’t seem all that surprised—I mean, one would have thought that he had thought of it himself.’
There was the faintest question in her remark.
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Beatrice carefully, ‘he did—not then, but before Colin left he was being tiresome one morning—’ Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to tell her mother about Colin’s telephone conversation which she had overheard. ‘And Oliver happened to come along, and we had a talk afterwards and he suggested that it might be an idea, but I said no.’
‘Things have a way of sorting themselves out,’ observed Mrs Browning. She sounded quite pleased.
The two men came back presently, and after a few minutes’ reassuring talk from the doctor he drove away with nothing more than a casual remark to Beatrice that he would see her in a day or two.
True to his word, the announcement of their engagement appeared in the Telegraph on the following day, and Beatrice spent the day answering phone calls from friends and people she knew in the village. There was a phone call from Great-Aunt Sybil too, with guarded approval of the match. ‘A well-mannered young man,’ she observed weightily, ‘and Miss Moore, whom he recommended to me, has proved to be a treasure. He is one of the few members of the medical profession who has an inkling of my needs.’
A recommendation which Beatrice stored away to pass on to Oliver when next she saw him.
There was a letter from Colin the following morning, and she saw with misgiving that she was right in thinking he was still in the village. It was an impassioned missive, and if she hadn’t had the clear memory of his phone conversation she might have been swayed by it. She read it carefully, tore it up and put the pieces tidily in the wastepaper basket. If she ignored it, he would surely go.
Only he didn’t; he was still there three days later, sending her a letter each day, not attempting to see her, only begging her to break off her engagement and marry him instead. ‘Your father won’t object,’ he had written, ‘once he realises it is what you want; he can offer me a partnership and we can have Sharpe’s house.’ Only someone as selfish as he could suggest turning a man and his family out of house and job, thought Beatrice, and tore up yet another letter.
The doctor came on the evening of the fourth day, quiet and self-assured, and when she had poured out all her worries he remarked placidly, ‘We can take care of that; you’ll come on the tour with me. I’ll have Miss Cross with me, so you won’t lack for company while I’m lecturing. I’m leaving the day after tomorrow. Can you be ready by then? You have a passport? Good. Bring clothes for a couple of weeks, and something to wear at the rather boring dinner parties we shall attend.’
He smiled at her rather in the manner of a medical man who had just reassured his patient that she would get better, even if she didn’t think so at that moment.
‘Are you sure? I mean, won’t your fiancée mind?’
He said evenly, ‘The girl I am going to marry will have no objection.’
‘Then she must be a saint,’ said Beatrice roundly.
‘Happily, no. Just flesh and blood, nicely put together.’
‘Do you want me to come up to London?’
‘No. I’ll fetch you some time in the morning, and I shall drive very slowly down the village street so that everyone will be able to see us go.’
‘You think of everything.’
‘I do my best.’ He sounded amused.
‘But what about when we get back?’
‘Let us cross our bridges when we get to them. The whole point of the exercise is to convince Wood that you are really unattainable. Let us deal with that first. What have you done with his letters?’
‘Torn them up. At least, one came this morning, but I haven’t read it yet.’
‘Then do so while I take a look at your father. His surgery will be over by now?’
‘Yes.’ He had stopped the car short of the house, and she had been the only one to see him drive up. ‘I’ll go and make the coffee. I’ll be in the kitchen.’
Her mother was there, stringing beans while Mrs Perry cleaned the kitchen. She had been with the family for too long for anyone to have qualms about minding their ‘p’s and ‘q’s in front of her.
‘Oliver’s here,’ said Beatrice. ‘He’s gone to see Father—he’s staying for coffee. He wants me to go on his lecture tour with him and his secretary the day after tomorrow.’
‘Now won’t that be a treat?’ remarked Mrs Perry. ‘All over the place, no doubt, and plenty of fine
folk to listen to him.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so. My passport’s all right for another year—it’s ten years, isn’t it? And I had it for that trip after I took my A levels.’
‘Clothes?’ enquired her mother, getting to the heart of the matter. ‘Will you go anywhere?’ She meant, would Beatrice go anywhere special where she would need to dress up?
‘Well, dinners and things. It’s for about a fortnight.’
‘Make the coffee, darling, will you? Ella’s home, luckily. You and I will go to Bath this afternoon and do some shopping. What’s that letter in your hand?’
Beatrice had forgotten Colin’s letter. She opened it while the coffee brewed and read it slowly. It was even more urgent than the others—he couldn’t understand why she hadn’t answered his letters; surely she must see what a splendid future they could have together? Once again he pointed out that her father was bound to see them on their feet and make sure that she continued to live comfortably as she had always done.
‘Well, really,’ declared Beatrice indignantly, just as the doctor came into the kitchen; he removed the letter from her hand and read it.
He tore it into pieces when he had done so, and put them into the kitchen bin, and said placidly, ‘Your father is remarkably fit—not to be worried, of course. Mr Sharpe seems to be just right for him—they get on well together.’ He took the tray from Beatrice. ‘In the garden?’
‘I’ll have mine here, young man,’ declared Mrs Perry, and remembered a bit late to add, ‘Doctor.’
Mrs Browning sliced the last bean. She was dying of curiosity to know what had been in the letter, but four daughters had taught her the value of a golden silence. This time, however, she was to have her reward.
With a glance at Beatrice, the doctor said casually, ‘His letters don’t vary, do they? The promise of a vague future, but no mention of how that will be achieved. A dish of herbs where love is is all very well, but nowadays one needs the money to buy the herbs.’
