The Most Marvelous Summer

by Betty Neels

  `You won't tell Aunt Maud?' begged Roseanne.

  'Roseanne, you're twenty-two, old enough to decide whom you want to know. Of course I shan't breathe a word.'

  All the same she played discreet gooseberry the next morning, and again on the following afternoon, only now it was the Tate Gallery. She had been reassured to hear him mention the names of several people whom Roseanne's godmother had talked of from time to time and he appeared well dressed and had good manners; she was no snob, but just supposing the gentle little flirtation turned into something more serious-she would have to answer to Lady Fox.

  They were to go to the theatre on the next evening, quite a small party and Matilda found herself paired off with an elderly man, a widower who told her at great length about his late wife's ill health, and during the interval, when she had hoped to escape him for a short while, he led her firmly to the bar where he fetched her a tonic and lemon without asking her what she would like. `I don't approve of pretty young ladies drinking alcohol,' he told her and, because she had a kind heart, she accepted it nicely and sipped at it. She really needed something strong. Vodka? She had never tasted it. Brandy and soda? She looked around her-everyone there appeared to be drinking gin and tonic or champagne.

  She took another sip and while appearing attentive to her companion's remarks-still about his wife too-glanced around her. There were some lovely dresses, and the grey crepe was drowned in a sea of silks and satins. There was

  a vivid scarlet gown worn by someone with her back to Matilda and standing beside it, looking over the silk shoulder, was Mr Scott-Thurlow, watching her.

  She went pale with the strength of her feelings at the sight of him and then blushed. It seemed impossible for her to look away but she managed it and she hadn't smiled because he had looked unsmilingly at her.

  She tossed off the tonic and lent a sympathetic ear to her companion's description of his late wife's asthma, murmuring in all the right places and not really hearing a word.

  She went to bed later, feeling unhappy, longing for a scarlet gown in which she might dazzle Mr Scott-Thurlow and at the same time wanting to go home then and there. She even wept a little and then her common sense came to the rescue; scarlet would look hideous with her hair and no way could she go home and leave Roseanne just as the girl was beginning to find her feet-perhaps she would find romance too.

  And it seemed likely; two days later, attending a preview of an up-and-coming portrait painter and this time with their hostess, Matilda was intrigued and delighted to see Bernard Stevens. He was with a friend of Mrs Venables and naturally enough was introduced, and presently he bore Roseanne off to make a tour of the rooms while Matilda stood between the two older ladies and listened with interest while Mrs Venables asked endless questions about Mr Stevens. The answers seemed to satisfy her and Matilda reflected that their month in London would make one of them happy, at least. That night after they had gone to bed Roseanne came along to her room, brimming over with excitement. She should get excited more often, thought Matilda, sitting up in bed, lending a sympathetic ear; it added a sparkle to Roseanne's plain face; even the unfortunate nose seemed less prominent and her mouth had taken on a softer curve.

  Bernard, Roseanne told her, now that he had made the acquaintance of her godmother, was going to find a way to meet her parents; her godmother was one of the few people her mother listened to, and Mrs Venables liked him. `Isn't it wonderful?' breathed Roseanne. `Our meeting like that? He thinks I'm pretty, only my clothes are wrong-you always said that too, didn't you? He's going to meet me one day and go with me to choose an outfit. I wish we were staying here forever.'

  `Well, if you want a super wedding you'll have to go home to get ready for it, and the sooner you do that the sooner you can get married. Big weddings take an awful lot of organising.'

  Which started Roseanne off again until she gave a final yawn and said goodnight, but on her way to the door she stopped. 'I'm ever so glad it's happened to me-I wish it could happen to you too.'

  `Nothing,' declared Matilda in a falsely cheerful voice, `ever happens to me.'

  She was wrong; fate had a testy ear tuned in to that kind of remark.

  They had been for a morning walk and now they were hurrying home as rain, threatening to be heavy, began to fall. There was a short cut to the house through narrow streets lined with small, rather shabby shops and used a great deal by drivers avoiding the main roads. They were turning into it when they saw half a dozen people standing on the edge of the pavement looking down at something.

  'I'm going to see what it is,' said Matilda and despite Roseanne's peevish reluctance went to look. A small dog was lying in the gutter, wet, pitifully thin, and also obviously injured.

  No one was doing anything; Matilda bent down and put out a gentle hand. `Leave it alone, miss,' said a large untidy man roughly. "Ell bite yer-'it by a car, 'e'll be dead in no time.'

  Matilda flashed a glance at him and got on to her knees, the better to look at the little beast. It cowered and showed its teeth and then put out a tongue and licked her hand.

  `How long has it been here?' she demanded.

  "Arf an hour...'

  `Then not one of you has done anything to help it?' She turned to look at them. `Why, you're nothing but a bunch of heartless brutes.'

  "Ere, that won't do, lady it's only a stray, ' arf starved too.'

  No one had noticed the car which drew up on the other side of the street; Mr Scott-Thurlow was beside her, bending his great height, lifting her to her feet before anyone had spoken again.

  `Oh, dear, oh, dear,' he said softly, `Miss ffinch helping lame dogs...'

  `Don't you start,' she warned him fiercely. `This poor creature's been here for half an hour and no one has lifted a finger.'

  Mr Scott-Thurlow wasted no time. `Get me a piece of cardboard,' he ordered the man nearest him, `flat, mind you, and please be quick about it.'

  The people around suddenly became helpful; suggestions filled the air, even offers of help, unspecified. The cardboard was brought back and everyone stood aside watching; they weren't unkind deliberately, only indifferent if the big gent liked to get bitten by a dog that was going to die anyway, that was his look-out and they might as well be there to see it.

  He wasn't bitten; he slid the cardboard under the dog, lifted it with the animal trembling on it and carried it across the street to his car, closely followed by Matilda and Roseanne. Matilda turned back halfway across to address the untidy man.

  `Now you know what to do next time an animal gets hurt,' she told him, and added kindly, `I dare say you didn't think, did you'? Standing and looking at something that needs to be done is such a waste of time.'

  She smiled at him and he smiled back, mostly because he hadn't seen green eyes like hers before.

  Roseanne was already in the car, sitting in the back. `Get inside beside me,' ordered Mr ScottThurlow, `and I'll lay the cardboard on your lap.'

  `A vet?' asked Matilda. The little dog looked in a bad way.

  `Yes.'

  He had nothing more to say until he turned into a side-street and got out. `Stay there, I'll be back,' he told her and opened a side-door in a long brick wall. He came back almost at once with a burly, bearded man who nodded at Matilda and cast an eye over the dog.

  `Let's have him in,' he suggested, and lifted the cardboard neatly off her knees. `Coming too?'

  Matilda got out of the car, but Roseanne shook her head. `I'd rather stay here...'

  Mr Scott-Thurlow held the door open and they went in one after the other down a long passage with the surgery at its end. `You wait here,' the vet told her. `I'll do an X-ray first-you can give a hand, James.'

  Matilda sat in the waiting-room on a rather hard chair, cherishing the knowledge that his name was James. It suited him, though she doubted if anyone had ever called him Jimmy or even Jim. Time passed unheeded since her thoughts were entirely taken up with James Scott-Thurlow; when he joined her she looked at him mistily, shake
n out of her daydreams.

  `The little dog?'

  `A fractured pelvis, cracked ribs, starved and very, very dirty. He'll live.'

  `May he stay here? What will happen to him? Will it take long? If no one wants him I'm sure Father will let me have him...'

  'He'll stay here until he's fit and he'll be welI looked after. I should suppose he'll be fit, more or less, in a month or six weeks.' Mr Scott-Thurlow paused and then went on in a resigned voice, `I have a Labrador who will be delighted to have a companion.'

  He was rewarded by an emerald blaze of gratitude. `Oh, how good of you; I'm not sure what kind of a dog he is but I'm certain that when he's well again you'll be proud of him.'

  Mr Scott-Thurlow doubted this but forbore to mention it. `Were you on your way back to Kensington? I'll run you there; Mrs Venables may be getting anxious.'

  `Oh, I don't suppose so,' said Matilda airily. `We may do as we please during the day, you know, unless there is some suitable young man coming to lunch. Do you know Mrs Venables?'

  They had reached the door but he made no move to open it. `I have a slight acquaintance. Rhoda knows her quite well, I believe.'

  `Oh, then I expect you will be at the dinner party next week-a kind of farewell before we go back to Abner Magna.'

  He had categorically refused to accompany Rhoda when she had told him of the invitation. Now, on second thoughts, he decided that he would go with her after all.

  He opened the door. `Then we shall meet again,' he said as they reached the car. Before he drove off he reached for the phone and said into it, `I shall be half an hour late-warn everyone, will you?'

  He drove off without a word, leaving Matilda guessing. Was he a barrister, defending some important client, she wondered, or someone in the banking world, making decisions about another person's money? It would be a clerk at the other end, middle-aged, rather shabby probably with a large family of growing children and a mortgage. Her imagination ran riot until he stopped outside the Kensington house, bade them a polite goodbye and drove off.

  `He doesn't talk much, does he?' Roseanne wanted to know. `I think I'm a bit-well scared of him.'

  Matilda looked at her in astonishment. `Scared? Of him? Whatever for? I dare say he was wrapped up in some business transaction; of course he didn't want to talk. Anyway you'll change your mind next week-he's coming to your godmother's dinner party, so we shall see him then.'

  She saw him before then.

  The days had passed rapidly, too fast for Roseanne, not fast enough for Matilda; she wanted to go home-London, she felt, wasn't for her. True, while she was there there was always the chance that she would see Mr Scott-Thurlow, but what was the use of that when he was going to marry Rhoda? A girl who was undoubtedly beautiful, clever and wore all the right clothes regardless of expense. She and Roseanne had gone shopping, gone to more exhibitions than she could count, seen the latest films and plays and accompanied Mrs Venables on several occasions when that lady, an enthusiastic member of several committees, introduced them to their various other members, mostly middle-aged and not in the least interested in the two girls. Roseanne found them a waste of time when she might have spent it in the company of her Bernard.

  There were only a few days left now and prepirations for the dinner party that night were well ahead. They were finishing their breakfast, which they took alone since Mrs Venables had hers in bed, when the dining-room door was thrust open and the kitchen maid-who should have known better, as Roseanne was quick to point out-rushed up to the table.

  `It's Cook-cut herself something awful and the others down at the market getting the food for tonight. Whatever shall I do?"

  'My dear good girl,' began Roseanne, looking alarmingly like her mother, but she was not allowed to finish.

  'I'll come and look, shall I?' suggested Matilda calmly. `If it's very bad we can get her to the hospital, but perhaps it looks worse than it is.'

  Cook was sitting at the table, her hand wrapped in a tea towel. She was a nasty green colour and moaning faintly. Matilda opened the towel gently, making soothing noises the while. There was a lot of blood, but if it was a deep cut she could tie the hand up tightly and get a taxi to the nearest hospital. Since both of her companions were on the edge of hysteria she told them bracingly to close their eyes and turned back the last of the towel. She would have liked to have closed her eyes too; Cook's first and second fingers had been neatly severed just above the second joints. Matilda gulped and hoped her breakfast would stay down.

  'Milly-it is Milly?-please go and ring for a taxi. Be quick and say that it's very urgent. Then come back here.'

  `Is it a bad cut?' asked Roseanne from the door. `Should I tell Aunt Maud?"

  'Presently. I'll go with Cook to the nearest hospital and perhaps you'll tell her then.' She glanced at the girl. `Would you get a shawl or something to put round Cook?'

  `There's blood everywhere,' said Roseanne, and handed over a cape hanging behind the door, carefully looking the other way.

  Matilda hung on to her patience. `Thanks.

  Now find a table napkin or a scarf and look sharp about it...'

  `No one speaks to me like that,' declared Roseanne.

  `Don't be silly! I dare say you'll find a cloth of some sort in that cupboard.'

  Roseanne opened drawers in an aggrieved manner and came back with a small teacloth. It was fine linen and beautifully embroidered and Matilda fashioned it into some kind of a sling, draped the cloak round Cook's shaking shoulders and propelled her gently out of the kitchen across the hall and out to the waiting taxi. They left a trail of red spots across the floor and Matilda heard Milly's gasp of horror.

  `The nearest hospital,' urged Matilda, supporting a half-fainting and sturdily built Cook, `as quick as you can.'

  The cabby drove well, taking short cuts, cutting corners, beating the lights by a hair's breadth. At the Casualty entrance they got out and he got out too and between them they got poor Cook in to Casualty.

  There was a young man standing talking to a nurse near the door. Matilda paused by him. `Would you please pay the cabby? I'll let you have the money as soon as I can leave Cook.'

  He looked astonished, paid the man while Matilda offered hasty thanks, then took his place on the other side of Cook.

  `She's cut off her fingers-two of them they're there, inside the towel. Could someone get a doctor?"

  'That's me. Casualty officer on duty. Let's have her in here.'

  The place was half full, patients on chairs waiting to be seen, nurses going to and fro, several people on trolleys and a fierce-looking sister coming towards them.

  `Well, what's this?' she wanted to know and with a surprising gentleness turned back the towel. She lifted Cook's arm and pressed the bell beside the couch and, when a nurse came, gave her quick instructions and then glanced at the young man.

  `Shall I get her ready for Theatre? Nurse is taking a message-the quicker the better.' Matilda was holding the other hand and Cook was clinging to it as though she would never let it go. Her skirt and blouse were ruined and her hair was coming down but she didn't give them a thought. She felt sick.

  The shock of seeing Mr Scott-Thurlow in a long white coat over an excellently tailored grey suit dispelled the sickness. He was coming towards them with calm speed and fetched up beside the couch. He gave her a cool nod and she said in a wondering voice, `Oh. I've been wondering just what you did...' and blushed scarlet as he gave a faint smile as he bent over Cook. The casualty officer was doing things-a tourniquet?-some kind of pressure so that the bleeding wasn't so bad any more and Sister was handing swabs and instruments to Mr Scott-Thurlow. Matilda, feeling sick again, looked at the curtains around the couch.

  She heard him say, `Right, we'll have her up right away, please, before I start my list. Warn Theatre, will you?' He bent over Cook. `Don't worry too much, my dear, I'm going to stitch your fingers on again and you can stay here for a few days while they heal. Nurse is going to give you a little injection now
to help the pain.' He patted her shoulder. `You're very brave.'

  He spoke to Matilda then. `What did she have for breakfast?' he wanted to know.

  `I don't know, but she would have had it quite early-about seven o'clock. She was slicing bacon with one of those machines...'

  Matilda felt cold and looked green; the thought of the bacon had been too much. 'I'm going to be...'

  Mr Scott-Thurlow handed her a bowl with the manner of someone offering her a hanky she might have dropped or a glass of water she had asked for. He was just in time.

  There was someone beside her, a young nurse being sympathetic and helpful, and when Matilda lifted a shamed face everyone had gone.