Dearest Mary Jane
Mary Jane went back to Miss Potter’s cubicle and found that lady was lying in bed, looking pale although she mustered a smile.
‘Sister’s coming to see you in a minute,’ said Mary Jane. ‘I’ll take your clothes back with me, shall I, and bring them again when you’re getting up?’ She cocked an ear at the sound of feet coming down the ward. ‘Here’s Sister.’
It was Sir Thomas Latimer as well, in a long white coat, his hands in his trouser pockets. He wished Miss Potter a cheerful good afternoon, gave Mary Jane a cool stare and addressed himself to his patient.
He had a lovely bedside manner, Mary Jane reflected, soothing and friendly and yet conveying the firm impression that whatever he said or did would be right. Mary Jane watched Miss Potter relax, even smile a little, and edged towards the curtains; if he was going to examine his patient he wouldn’t want her there.
‘Stay,’ he told her without turning his head.
She very much wanted to say ‘I shan’t,’ but Miss Potter’s precarious calm must not be disturbed. She gave the back of his head a look to pierce his skull and stayed where she was.
She had had a busy day and she was a little tired. She eased herself from one foot to the other and wished she could be like Sister, standing on the other side of the bed. A handsome woman, still young and obviously highly efficient. She and Sir Thomas exchanged brief remarks from time to time, none of which made sense to her, not that they were meant to. She stifled a yawn, smiled at Miss Potter and eased a foot out of a shoe.
Sister might be efficient, she was kind too; Miss Potter was getting more and more cheerful by the minute, and when Sir Thomas finally finished and sat down on her side of the bed she smiled, properly this time, and took the hand he offered her, listening to his reassuring voice. It was when he said, ‘Now I think we might let Miss...?’ that he turned to look at Mary Jane.
‘Seymour,’ she told him frostily, cramming her foot back into its shoe.
His eyes went from her face to her feet, his face expressionless.
‘Miss Potter may be visited the day after tomorrow. Her sister is free to telephone whenever she wishes to. I shall operate tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. Miss Potter should be back in her bed well before noon.’ He added, ‘You are on the telephone?’
‘Me? No. We use the post office and Miss Kemble at the rectory will take a message. Everyone knows the Misses Potter. I’ve given the ward clerk several numbers she can ring. But someone will phone at noon tomorrow.’
He nodded, smiled very kindly at his patient and went away with Sister as a young nurse took their place. The promise of a cup of tea made Mary Jane’s departure easier. She kissed the elderly cheek. ‘We’ll all be in to see you,’ she promised, and took herself off to find the taxi and its patient driver.
By the time they were back in the village and she had explained everything to Miss Emily it was far too late to open the tea-room. She made herself a pot of tea, fed Brimble, and padded around in her stockinged feet getting everything ready for the batch of scones she still had to make ready for the next day. While she did it she thought about Sir Thomas.
The operation was a success; the entire village knew about it and, since they foregathered in Mary Jane’s tea-room to discuss it, she was kept busy with pots of tea and coffee. Miss Kemble, being the rector’s sister, offered to drive to the hospital on the following day. ‘The car will take four—you will come of course, Miss Emily, and Mrs Stokes, how fortunate that she is back—and of course my brother.’
Miss Emily put down her cup. ‘It would be nice if Mary Jane could come too....’
‘Another day,’ said Miss Kemble bossily. ‘Besides, who is to look after Didums? You know she is good with Mary Jane.’
So it was agreed and the next day, encouraged by Sister’s report that Miss Mabel had had a good night, they set off. Mary Jane watched them go holding a peevish Didums under one arm. She took the dog up to the sitting-room presently and closed the door, thankful that Brimble was taking a nap on her bed and hadn’t noticed anything. She would have liked to have visited Miss Mabel and now she would have to wait until she could find someone who would give her a lift into Cheltenham.
As it turned out, she didn’t have to wait long; Mrs Fellowes popped in for a cup of tea and wanted to know why Mary Jane hadn’t gone with the others. ‘That’s too bad,’ she declared, ‘but not to worry. I’m driving the doctor to Cheltenham on Sunday—about three o’clock, we’ll give you a lift in, only we shan’t be coming back. Do you suppose you can get back here? There’s a bus leaves Cheltenham for Stratford-upon-Avon, so you could get to Broadway...’ She frowned. ‘It’s a long way round, but I’m sure there’s an evening bus to Stow-on-the-Wold from there.’
Mary Jane said recklessly, ‘Thank you very much, I’d like a lift. I’m sure I can get a bus home. I’ll have a look at the timetable in the post office.’
It was going to be an awkward, roundabout journey home and it would depend on her getting on to the bus in Cheltenham. She would have to keep a sharp eye on the time; the bus depot was some way from the hospital. All the same she would go. She wrote a postcard telling Miss Mabel that she would see her on Sunday afternoon and put it in the letterbox before she could have second, more prudent thoughts.
Miss Emily, coming to collect Didums, had a great deal to say. Her sister was doing well, Sister had said, and she was to get out of bed on the following day. ‘Modern surgery,’ observed Miss Potter with a shake of the head. ‘In my youth we stayed in bed for weeks. That nice man—he operated; Sir someone—came to see her while I was there and told me that the operation had been most successful and that dear Mabel would greatly benefit from it. Nice manners, too.’
Mary Jane muttered under her breath and offered Miss Potter a cup of tea.
She was quite busy for the rest of that week, so that she felt justified on Sunday in taking enough money from the till to cover her journey back home. If the worst came to the worst she could have a taxi; it would mean going without new winter boots, but she liked Miss Mabel.
She usually stayed open for part of Sunday, for that was when motorists tended to stop for tea, but she locked up after lunch, made sure that Brimble was safely indoors and walked through the village to the doctor’s house.
Miss Mabel was delighted to see her; she seemed to have taken on a new lease of life since her operation and she insisted on telling Mary Jane every single detail of the treatment. She had got to the momentous moment when she had been out of bed when there was a slight stir in the ward. Sir Thomas Latimer was coming towards them, indeed, he appeared to be about to pass them when he stopped at Miss Mabel’s bed.
On his bi-weekly round he had seen Mary Jane’s postcard on Miss Mabel’s locker and, without quite knowing why, he had decided to be on the ward on Sunday afternoon. It had been easy enough to give a reason — he had operated the day before on an emergency case and what could be more normal than a visit from him to see how his patient progressed? His casual, ‘Good afternoon,’ was a masterpiece of surprise.
Mary Jane’s polite response was quite drowned by Miss Mabel’s voice. ‘Is it not delightful?’ she enquired of him. ‘Mary Jane has come to visit me — Dr Fellowes gave her a lift here. She will have to return by bus, though. I’m not sure how she will manage that, it being a Sunday, but she tells me that she has everything arranged.’ She beamed at Mary Jane, who wasn’t looking. ‘I have been telling her how excellent is the treatment here. I shall recommend it to my friends.’
Just as though it were an hotel, thought Mary Jane, carefully not looking at Sir Thomas.
He stayed only a few minutes, bidding them both goodbye with casual politeness, and Mary Jane settled down to hear the rest of Miss Mabel’s experiences, until a glance at the clock told her that she would have to go at once if she were to catch the bus. Not easily done, however, for Miss Mabel suddenly thought of numerous messages for her sister so that Mary Jane fairly galloped out of the hospital to pause at the entrance to get her bearings. She wasn’t quite sure where the bus depot was and Mrs Fellowes’ kindly directions had been vague.
The Rolls-Royce whispered to a halt beside her and its door opened.
‘Get in,’ said Sir Thomas. ‘I’m going through your village.’
‘I’m catching a bus.’
‘Very unlikely. The Sunday service leaves half an hour earlier—I have that from the head porter, who is never wrong about anything.’ He added gently, ‘Get in, Miss Seymour, before we are had up for loitering.’
‘But I’m not...’ she began, and caught his eye. ‘All right.’ She sounded ungracious. ‘Thank you.’
She fastened the seatbelt and sat back in luxury and he drove off without saying anything. Indeed, he didn’t speak at all for some time, and then only to observe that Miss Mabel would be returning home very shortly. Mary Jane replied suitably and lapsed into silence once more for the simple reason that she had no idea what to talk about, but as they neared the village she made an effort. ‘Do you live near here?’
‘No, in London. I have to live near my work.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘I visit various hospitals whenever it is found necessary.’
A most unsatisfactory answer. She didn’t say anything more until he drew up before the tea-room.
He got out before she could open her door and opened it for her, took the old-fashioned key from her and opened the cottage door.
It was dusk now and he found the switch and turned on the lights before standing aside to let her pass him.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Mary Jane once again, and bent to pick up Brimble who had rushed to meet her.
Sir Thomas leaned against the half-open door in no hurry to go. ‘Your cat?’
‘Yes, Brimble. He’s—he’s company.’
‘You live alone?’
‘Yes.’ She peered up at him. ‘You’d better go, Sir Thomas, if you’re going all the way to London.’
Sir Thomas agreed meekly. He had never, he reflected, been told to go by a girl. On the contrary, they made a point of asking him to stay. He wasn’t a conceited man but now he was intrigued. He had wanted to meet her again, going deliberately to the hospital when he knew that she would be there, wanting to know more about her. The drive had hardly been successful. He bade her a pleasantly impersonal goodbye. They were unlikely to meet again. He dismissed her from his thoughts and drove back to London.
CHAPTER TWO
SEPTEMBER was almost over and the weather was changing. Fewer and fewer tourists stopped for coffee or tea although Mary Jane still did a steady trade with the village dwellers—just enough to keep the bills paid. Miss Mabel made steady progress and Mary Jane, graciously offered a lift in the rectory car, visited her again. Sir Thomas had been again, she was told, and Miss Mabel was to return home in a week’s time and see him when he came to the hospital in six weeks’ time. ‘Such a nice man,’ sighed Miss Mabel, ‘a true gentleman, if you know what I mean.’
Mary Jane wasn’t too sure about that but she murmured obligingly.
Miss Mabel’s homecoming was something of an event in a village where one day was very like another. The ambulance brought her, deposited her gently in her home, drained Mary Jane’s teapots and ate almost all the scones, and departed to be replaced by Miss Kemble, Mrs Stokes and after an interval Dr Fellowes, who tactfully sent them all away and made sure that the Misses Potter were allowed peace and quiet. Mary Jane, slipping through the village with a plate of teacakes as a welcome home gift, was prevailed upon to stay for a few minutes while Miss Mabel reiterated her experiences. ‘I am to walk each day,’ she said proudly, ‘but lead a quiet life.’ She laughed and Miss Emily laughed too. ‘Not that we do anything else, do we, Mary Jane?’
Mary Jane smilingly agreed; that she had dreams of lovely clothes, candlelit dinners for two, dancing night after night and always with someone who adored her, was something she kept strictly to herself. Even Felicity, on the rare occasions when she saw her, took it for granted that she was content.
The mornings were frosty now and the evenings drawing in. The village, after the excitement of Miss Mabel’s operation, did settle down. Mary Jane baked fewer scones and some days customers were so few it was hardly worth keeping the tea-room open.
She was preparing to close after an unprofitable Monday when the door was thrust open and a man came in. Mary Jane, wiping down the already clean tables, looked up hopefully, saw who it was and said in a neutral voice, ‘Good evening, Oliver.’
Her cousin, Uncle Matthew’s heir.
She had known him since her schooldays and had disliked him from the start, just as he had disliked her. She had been given short shrift when her uncle had died and for her part she hadn’t been able to leave fast enough, for not only did Oliver dislike her, his wife, a cold woman, pushing her way up the social ladder, disliked her too. She stood, the cloth in her hand, waiting for him to speak.
‘Business pretty bad?’ he asked.
‘It’s a quiet time of the year. I’m making a living, thank you, Oliver.’
She was surprised to see that he was trying to be friendly, but not for long.
‘Hope you’ll do something for me,’ he went on. ‘Margaret has to go to London to see some specialist or other about her back. I have to go to America on business and someone will have to drive her up and stay with her.’ He didn’t quite meet her eyes. ‘I wondered if you’d do that?’ He laughed. ‘Blood’s thicker than water and all that...’
‘I hadn’t noticed,’ said Mary Jane coldly. ‘Margaret has family of her own, hasn’t she? Surely there is someone with nothing better to do who could go with her?’
‘We did ask around,’ said Oliver airily, ‘but you know how it is, they lead busy social lives, they simply can’t spare the time.’
‘And I can?’ asked Mary Jane crisply.
‘Well, you can’t be making a fortune at this time of year. It won’t cost you a penny. Margaret will have to stay the night in town—tests and so forth. She can’t drive herself because of this wretched back, and besides she’s very nervous.’ He added, ‘She is in pain, too.’
Mary Jane had a tender heart. Very much against her inclination she agreed, reluctantly, to go with Margaret. It would mean leaving Brimble alone for two days but Mrs Adams next door would feed him and make sure that he was safe. It would mean shutting the tea-room too and, although Oliver made light of the paucity of customers at that time of year, all the same she would be short of two days’ takings, however sparse they might be.
Oliver, having got what he wanted, lost no time in going. ‘Next Tuesday,’ he told her. ‘I’ll drive Margaret here in the car and you can take over. I leave in the afternoon.’
If he felt gratitude, he didn’t show it. Mary Jane watched him get into his car and pulled a face at his back as he drove away.
Oliver returned on the Tuesday morning and Mary Jane, having packed an overnight bag, got into her elderly tweed suit, consigned Brimble to Mrs Adams’s kindly hands, and opened the door to him.
He didn’t bother with a good morning, a nod seemed the best he could manage. ‘Margaret’s in the car. Drive carefully; you’ll have to fill up with petrol, there’s not enough to bring you back.’
Mary Jane gave him a limpid look. ‘Margaret has the money for that? I haven’t.’
‘Good God, girl, surely a small matter of a few gallons of petrol...’
‘Well, just as you like. I’m sure Jim at the garage will have a man who can drive Margaret—you pay by the mile I believe, and petrol extra.’
Oliver went a dangerous plum colour. ‘No one would think that we were cousins...’
‘Well, no, I don’t think that they would, I quite often forget that too.’ She smiled. ‘If you go now you’ll catch Jim—he’ll be open by now.’
Oliver gave her a look to kill, with no effect whatsoever, and took out his wallet.
‘I shall require a strict account of what you spend,’ he told her crossly, and handed her some notes. ‘Now come along, Margaret is nervous enough already.’
Margaret was tall and what she described to herself as elegantly thin. She had good features, marred by a down-turned mouth and a frown; moreover she had a complaining voice. She moaned now, ‘Oh, dear, whatever has kept you? Can’t you see how ill I am? All this waiting about...’
Mary Jane got into the car. She said, ‘Good morning, Margaret.’ She turned to look at her. ‘Before we go I must make it quite clear to you that I have no money with me—perhaps Oliver told you already?’
Margaret looked faintly surprised. ‘No, he didn’t, he said...well, I’ve enough with me for both of us.’ She added sourly, ‘It will be a nice treat for you, a couple of days in town, all expenses paid.’
Mary Jane let this pass and, since Oliver did no more than raise a careless hand to his wife, drove away. Margaret was going to sulk, which left Mary Jane free to indulge her thoughts. She toyed with the idea of sending Oliver a bill for two days’ average takings at the tea-rooms, plus the hourly wages she would earn as a waitress. He would probably choke himself to death on reading it but it was fun to think about.
‘You’re driving too fast,’ complained Margaret.
Oliver had booked them in at a quiet hotel, near enough to Wigmore Street for them to be able to walk there for Margaret’s appointment. He had thought of everything, thought Mary Jane, unpacking Margaret’s bag for her since that lady declared herself to be exhausted; a hotel so quiet and respectable that there was nothing to do and no one under fifty staying there. Her room was on the floor above Margaret’s, overlooking a blank wall, furnished with what she called Hotel Furniture. She unpacked her own bag and went back to escort Margaret to lunch.
The dining-room was solid Victorian, dimly lit, the tables laden with silverware and any number of wine glasses. She cheered up at the sight; breakfast had been a sketchy affair and she was hungry and the elaborate table settings augered well for a good meal.
Unfortunately, this didn’t turn out to be the case; lunch was elaborately presented but not very filling: something fishy on a lettuce leaf, lamb chops with a small side-dish of vegetables and one potato, and trifle to follow. They drank water and Mary Jane defiantly ate two rolls.
‘I cannot think,’ grumbled Margaret picking at her chop, ‘why Oliver booked us in at this place. When we come to town—the theatre, you know, or shopping—we always go to one of the best hotels.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Of course, I suppose he thought that, as you were coming with me, this would do.’
Mary Jane’s eyes glowed with purple fire. ‘Now, that was thoughtful of him. But you have no need to stay here, Margaret, you can get a room in any hotel, pay the bill here and I’ll drive myself back this afternoon and get someone from Jim’s garage to collect you tomorrow.’
‘You wouldn’t—how dare you suggest it? Oliver would never forgive you.’
‘I don’t suppose he would. I don’t suppose he’d forgive you either for spending his money. I dare say it won’t be so bad; you’ll be home again tomorrow.’
‘Oliver won’t be back for at least a week.’ Margaret paused. ‘Why don’t you come and stay with me until he is back? I shall need looking after—all the worry of this examination is really too much for me. I’m alone.’
‘There’s a housekeeper, isn’t there? And two daily maids and the gardener?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Since we have to walk to this place we had better go and get ready.’
‘I feel quite ill at the very thought of being examined,’ observed Margaret as they set out. She had felt well enough to make up her face very nicely and put on a fetching hat. She pushed past Mary Jane in a cloud of L’Air du Temps and told her sharply to hurry up.
Wigmore Street was quiet and dignified in the early afternoon sun and the specialist’s rooms, according to the brass plate on the door, were in a tall red-brick house in the middle of a terrace of similar houses. Mary Jane rang the bell and they were ushered into a narrow hall.
‘First floor,’ the porter told them and went back to his cubbyhole, advising them that there was a lift if they preferred.
It was very quiet on the first-floor landing, doors on either side and one at the end. ‘Ring the bell,’ said Margaret and pointed to the door on the left.
It was as Mary Jane put her finger on it that she realised something. The little plate above it was inscribed Sir Thomas Latimer! She had seen it on the doorplate downstairs as well but it hadn’t registered. She felt a little thrill of excitement at seeing him again. Not that she liked him in the least, she told herself, as the door was opened and Margaret swept past her, announcing her arrival in a condescending way which Mary Jane could see didn’t go down well with the nurse.
They were a little early. The nurse offered chairs, made polite conversation for a few moments and went across to speak to the receptionist sitting at a desk in the corner of the room.
‘I didn’t expect to wait,’ complained Margaret, ‘I’ve come a long way and I’m in a good deal of pain.’
The nurse came back. ‘Sir Thomas has many patients, Mrs Seymour, and some need more time than others.’
Five minutes later the door opened and an elderly lady, walking with sticks, came out accompanied by Sir Thomas, who shook her hand and handed her over to the nurse.
He went back into his consulting-room and closed the door and Mary Jane decided that he hadn’t noticed her.
However, he had. He put the folder on his desk and went over to the window and looked out, surprised at the pleasure he had felt at the sight of her. He went back to his desk and opened the folder; this Mrs Seymour he was to see must be a sister-in-law—she and Mary Jane came from the same village.
He went and sat down and asked his nurse over the intercom to send in Mrs Seymour.
He could find nothing wrong with her at all; she described endless symptoms in a rather whining voice; none of which he could substantiate. Nevertheless, he sent her to the X-ray unit on the floor above and listened patiently to her renewed complaints when she returned.
‘If you will return in the morning,’ he told her, ‘when the X-ray results will be ready, I hope that I will be able to reassure you. I can find nothing wrong with you, Mrs Seymour, but we can discuss that tomorrow. Shall we say ten o’clock?’
‘He is no good,’ declared Margaret as they walked back. ‘I shall find another specialist...’
‘You could at least wait and see what the X-rays show,’ suggested Mary Jane sensibly. ‘Why not have a rest in your room and an early night after dinner?’
First, though, they had tea in the hotel lounge and since it was, rather surprisingly, quite a substantial one, Mary Jane made the most of it, a little surprised at Margaret, despite her pain, eating a great many sandwiches and cream cakes. Left on her own, she poured a last cup of tea and thought about Sir Thomas. She hadn’t expected him to recognise her and after all he had had but the barest glimpse as he had stood in the doorway. As he had ushered Margaret out of his consulting-room he hadn’t looked in her direction. All the same, it was interesting to have seen him again in his own environment, as it were. Very remote and professional, thought Mary Jane, eating a last sandwich, not a bit like the man who had pushed his way into her tea-room, demanding tea for his friend. She sighed for no reason at all, picked up a magazine and sat reading, a girl not worth a second glance, until it was time to go up to Margaret’s room and warn her that dinner would be in half an hour.
Getting Margaret there by ten o’clock was rather an effort but she managed it, to be told by the nurse that Sir Thomas had been at one of the hospitals since the early hours of the morning operating on an emergency case. He would be with them as soon as possible and in the meantime perhaps they would like coffee?