An Apple from Eve

Without giving any reason as to why he was there, he pushed her gently back into the hall and came in and shut the door. ‘This is still your home. I’ve only borrowed it for a time.’ He smiled so kindly at her that she could only gape at him, astonished that he had hit the nail on the head so unerringly. He went on matter-of-factly: ‘Is everything locked up and put away, or can we have a cup of coffee? I was on my way back from a patient of mine in Guildford and it seemed an idea to come this way. I didn’t expect to find anyone here.’ His eyes had taken in the bowl of roses on the side table. ‘Flowers,’ he observed, ‘and a wonderful smell of polish and lavender bags. Thank you, specially as you had no need to do it.’

Euphemia sniffed. ‘I wasn’t going to hand it over all dusty and—and lonely.’ She got out a hanky and blew her nose vigorously and wiped her eyes. ‘I’ll get some coffee.’

They went into the kitchen together and she made coffee for them both while he carried on a rather one-sided conversation about nothing in particular. They left the house together presently, and he gave her no chance to linger but ushered her through the door with a brisk: ‘Of course, you will be coming back, probably sooner than you think.’

Euphemia had murmured something, intent on being sensible and unsentimental about it all, then got into the Morris and driven away after bidding him goodbye in answer to his own still brisk farewell. He had been kind, she acknowledged, as she started on the drive back to the hospital, but she still didn’t like him. And why had he been there, anyway? He hadn’t told her that. She shrugged the thought aside; it didn’t matter now, in a few hours he would be living there. She wanted to cry again because she was lonely and missed her father, and picking up the threads of life and changing its pattern wouldn’t be easy.

She flung herself into her work with an energy which left her nurses breathless, and even Sir Richard, pausing at the end of his round to bid her a courteous farewell, remarked that her devotion to duty exceeded even his high standards. ‘But I daresay you are glad to be occupied,’ he observed, ‘although it must be a great relief to you to know that Dr van Diederijk is your tenant at Hampton-cum-Spyway and not some stranger.’

Euphemia clenched her teeth on the observation that he was, at any rate to her, a complete stranger. She agreed politely and sped the great man on his way to the Women’s Medical. But it was a relief all the same when the cheque for the handsome sum Dr van Diederijk was paying every month arrived by the next day’s post. She paid it into the bank with instructions that the mortgage was to be paid each month. There was still a little money over: holidays, she decided, clothes for the boys, and perhaps it would pay for some sort of training for Ellen, only she wasn’t sure what. Of course, Ellen might marry. She had had a number of boyfriends, although Euphemia didn’t think that she was serious about any of them; all the same it was a very likely possibility.

Euphemia stopped thinking about Ellen for a moment and thought about herself. Matthew Patterson, whose parents lived on the other side of the green, had asked her to marry him several times, but she had refused him on each occasion; his eyes were too close together, she considered, and he had a nasty temper. And there was Terry Walker too, Senior Medical Registrar, who had proposed, rather lightheartedly, she had to admit—besides, she had the lowering feeling that when he discovered her father had left them all without a penny, he wouldn’t be as keen as he made out. Miss Blackstock, with a highly respected colonel for a father and a supposedly comfortable portion of his worldly goods to come her way sooner or later, was a rather different kettle of fish from Miss Blackstock with nothing at all. But it was hardly fair to think about herself; it was the boys who mattered. The house would have gone to Nicky and she must at all costs try and save it for him. The sums she had scribbled on the backs of envelopes and scraps of paper weren’t encouraging; the mortgage would take fifteen years to pay off, which would be about right for Nicky but would leave her, at the ripe age of forty-two, exactly where she was now…

It was almost a week later when she received a brief note from Dr van Diederijk inviting her to join himself and a few friends for drinks at her old home. In four days’ time, he had written in a rather sprawling hand, and underlined the date and the time. She read it several times and then put it down on her desk as Terry Walker walked in.

He was a good-looking youngish man, ambitious and good at his work but not over-liked by his colleagues. He smiled at her now in a rather guarded manner and asked: ‘What’s this I hear about you renting your house? Surely you’ll need to keep it open for the boys and your sister?’ And when she didn’t answer at once: ‘You didn’t have to rent it, did you?’ He gave her a sharp look and although she hadn’t meant to tell him anything she changed her mind now.

‘Yes, we did. The house is mortgaged.’

He looked so surprised that she felt quite sorry for him. ‘You mean you’ve no money?’ At her cold stare he added hastily: ‘What I mean is, how about the boys—their education?’

‘That’s safe enough.’ She saw the embarrassment on his face and felt sorry for him—after all, he had been home with her once or twice and he must have got the impression that her background was comfortable and solid. To lighten the atmosphere she picked up the letter. ‘I’ve had an invitation to have drinks in my own home, don’t you think that was nice of Dr van Diederijk?’

Terry read it quickly. ‘Good lord, you’re not going? Can’t you see he’s only being polite? I don’t imagine for one moment he expects you to go. He couldn’t do less than ask you, of course, knowing that you won’t accept.’

Euphemia kept her eyes on the desk, which was a good thing, because they glittered like topazes. She said softly: ‘No, of course not,’ a remark which could have meant a lot or nothing at all. As she got up to accompany Terry on his round, she was already planning what she should wear.

She took care to get to Hampton-cum-Spyway a little late. The last thing she wanted was a tête-à-tête with her host, and she had timed it well. There were a number of cars strung out around the green and lights in all the downstairs windows. As she rang the bell she could hear the discreet hum of conversation coming from the drawing-room.

Mrs Cross opened the door, wearing the blue overall and looking important. ‘Oh, it’s you, Miss Euphemia—you could have walked in—it’s your ’ouse.’ She smiled briefly. ‘I’m ever so busy.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ agreed Euphemia, ‘but I couldn’t really walk in, now could I?’ She went to the mirror above the wall table and tucked away a strand of hair. She had taken pains to make the most of herself and the dress she was wearing, while not new, was an expensive one her father had given her on her last birthday; finely pleated chiffon over a silk slip, very simply cut, its blues and greens and tawny shades making the most of her eyes.

‘And very nice, too,’ commented Dr van Diederijk from the drawing-room door. ‘I was beginning to think that you weren’t coming.’

She held out her hand. ‘There was a good deal of traffic…’ She gave him a social smile and was annoyed to see that he was looking amused, but he replied gravely enough: ‘It was good of you to come.’

They crossed the hall together. ‘Well, I was curious,’ she told him frankly, and was put out at his bland: ‘Yes, I thought you might be.’

The drawing-room was full. At first glance Euphemia was reassured to see a number of faces she already knew, but there were an equal number of people she had never seen before. Dr van Diederijk touched her arm lightly and introduced her to a small group of people, several of whom she knew slightly, waited long enough to see that she had a glass of sherry and then moved away. She exchanged small talk for ten minutes or so and then, catching sight of Dr Bell, excused herself and made her way over to him.

‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she told him. ‘I don’t know half these people.’ She took another sherry from a passing waiter and took an appreciative sip, quite forgetting that she’d missed her tea and supper was unlikely.

‘You’re all right, my dear?’ asked Dr Bell kindly.

Euphemia smiled a little tremulously because his sympathy was real and she had grown tired of presenting a calm face to so many people who had asked the same question without really wanting to know. ‘Yes, we’re managing. It’ll get better, won’t it? Just at first… Ellen’s settled down very well, I’m going down my next days off to see her. The boys are fine too. It’s such a relief that the house is let.’ She drank the rest of her sherry. ‘I’m not going to look too far ahead.’

‘Quite right, my dear. I see that van Diederijk hasn’t altered anything—even the carpet in the hall.’

She sniffed. ‘He told me I could have it mended…’ she stopped and touched her companion’s sleeve. ‘Who on earth is that?’ she asked.

Dr Bell followed her gaze. ‘Ah, that is Diana Sibley, van Diederijk’s fiancée.’ He coughed. ‘The daughter of a baronet.’

Euphemia took a good look without actually staring. ‘She looks very conscious of the fact,’ she said softly, disliking what she saw. Miss Sibley was tall and slender to the point of boniness, with no bosom worth mentioning and a long face and a straight nose above a thin-lipped mouth cleverly concealed by the masterly application of lipstick. Her eyes were dark, and as she came nearer Euphemia, still disliking her, decided that her dark hair owed more to a good hairdresser than to nature. She was beautifully dressed and she was smiling. Euphemia thought she was cold, as cold as Dr van Diederijk; if they had children, they would be a bunch of little icicles. She giggled into her sherry and earned a cold glance from her host, which emboldened her to grin at him and then turn her back. Dr Bell looked worried for a moment and then plunged into gentle conversation until she interrupted him with: ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, that was awful of me—I hope she didn’t see me, only I thought…’

She told him about the little icicles and went on feverishly: ‘I’m talking nonsense—I shouldn’t have come. I’ve not had anything to eat since midday and I thought it would be all right, but I can’t forget…it takes a little while, doesn’t it?’

The old man took her hand. ‘My dear child, you were brave to come, your father would have been proud of you.’ He patted her hand. ‘He wouldn’t want you to grieve, you know, he wasn’t that kind of man.’

‘No, I know, and I won’t, only being here…’ She glanced round the familiar room and caught the doctor’s eye fastened upon her. He said something to his fiancée and came across the room before Euphemia could move, and Dr Bell said at once: ‘Euphemia hasn’t had anything to eat all day.’

Dr van Diederijk looked down his nose at her. ‘That would explain it,’ he said suavely. ‘We will go to the kitchen and see what can be found.’

Euphemia went red. ‘There’s no need—I was going in a few minutes…’

‘All the more reason to eat first.’ He had ushered her to the door and out into the hall while he was speaking and she was in the kitchen before she could think of an answer.

Mrs Cross was standing at the table slicing ham, and she looked up and beamed at them both as they went in. ‘There ain’t no more of them canopies,’ she observed, ‘them waiters ‘as taken the lot, but there’s all them sausages.’ She went back to her slicing. ‘Nice ter see yer both together—both being owners of the ’ouse, like.’

Euphemia picked up a sausage. ‘Dr van Diederijk rents this house, Mrs Cross. I still own it.’ She bit into the sausage with something of a snap and added as an afterthought: ‘No offence, Doctor.’

‘Trivialities do not offend me, Miss Blackstock. Pray eat all you wish. You will excuse me if I go back to my guests.’

‘Not only will I excuse you, Doctor, I don’t really mind you going in the least.’ Euphemia picked up another sausage.

‘What an abominable girl you are!’ The doctor spoke softly in a steely voice as he went away.

‘You didn’t ought ter, Miss Euphemia,’ protested Mrs Cross. “E might say ’e didn’t want the ’ouse any more, and then where are yer?’

Euphemia selected a slice of ham, wrapped it round another sausage and gobbled it down. ‘He signed a contract for a year.’

‘Such a nice young man, too,’ said Mrs Cross.

‘He’s not young, and he’s certainly not nice.’ Euphemia wandered out of the kitchen, taking an apple from a bowl on the table as she went.

She was sitting on the stairs munching it when the drawing room door opened and the doctor came out. He paused when he saw her, closed the door behind him and stood leaning against it, watching her.

‘Eve and the apple,’ he observed blandly.

‘My name is Euphemia.’ She nibbled at the core with splendid teeth.

‘I was employing a figure of speech.’

‘Oh, so who am I tempting?’

He said silkily: ‘Not me, I do assure you, Euphemia. What an extraordinary name! Diana—my fiancée—would like to meet you.’

She got to her feet, the apple core still in her hand, very conscious of her bad manners earlier on. She said formally: ‘That’s very kind of her. Is she in the drawing-room?’

For answer he opened the door and she went past him. Diana Sibley was across the room, talking to Dr Bell, although her eyes were on the door. Half way there Euphemia remembered the apple core in her hand. She paused just long enough to hand it to the doctor before advancing, smiling nicely, to meet her.

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