Hilltop Tryst
‘My appointment is for half-past eleven,’ pointed out Aunt Sybil, ‘and it is exactly that hour.’ She drew an indignant breath so that her corsets creaked.
‘That’s right, Miss Browning.’ The receptionist spoke smoothly. ‘But the doctor is engaged for the moment.’
‘I do not expect to be kept waiting.’
The receptionist smiled politely, picked up the telephone and became immersed in conversation. She was putting it down again when a door at the end of the room opened and a woman came out. Beatrice could hear her saying goodbye to someone on the other side of the door and sighed thankfully; any minute now and her aunt would be whisked away by the nurse who had come into the room.
‘You will accompany me,’ decreed her aunt. ‘I may need your support.’ She sailed in the wake of the nurse and was ushered through the door, and Beatrice, walking reluctantly behind her, came to a sudden halt. The eminent doctor, a cardiologist of the first rank, according to her aunt, coming forward to shake her aunt’s hand, was Mr Latimer.
A rather different Mr Latimer, though; this elegant man in his sober grey suit and spotless linen was a far cry from the casual walker in his old trousers and shirt. He showed no surprise at the sight of her, but greeted her aunt quietly and then waited with a slightly lifted eyebrow until Great-Aunt Sybil said testily, ‘Oh, this is a great-niece of mine. I have a delicate constitution and may require her support.’
Mr Latimer said ‘How do you do?’ to Beatrice with a blandness which led her to suppose that he had forgotten her completely, observed that he had an excellent nurse in attendance and asked in what way could he advise his patient?
‘You are a very young man,’ observed Miss Browning in a suspicious voice. ‘I trust that you are adequately trained to diagnose illness?’
Beatrice blushed and looked at her feet; her aunt was going to be awful.
‘If I might know the nature of your illness?’ asked Mr Latimer with just the right amount of professional dignity. He glanced at the folder on his desk, containing letters from various colleagues on the subject of Miss Browning.
Miss Browning fixed him with a cold stare. ‘I suffer great pain in my chest. It is at times unendurable, but I do not wish to bother those around me with complaints: I have learnt to conceal my suffering. I think I may say that I have more than my share of courage and patience. The pain is here,’ she patted her massive bosom gently, ‘and I will explain exactly…’
Which she did at great length, while Dr Latimer sat quietly watching her, though now and again he took a quick look at Beatrice, still examining her feet and wishing the ground would open beneath her.
Presently he interrupted her aunt’s flow of talk. ‘Yes. Well, Miss Browning, I think the best thing is for me to examine you. If you will go with Nurse, she will prepare you.’
Miss Browning swept out, pausing by Beatrice to beg her in ringing tones to come to her aid of she were to fall faint. ‘For this will be an ordeal.’
Beatrice mumbled and peeped across the room to where Dr Latimer sat behind his desk. He was looking at her and smiling, and after a moment she smiled back.
‘Don’t you miss your green fields and hills?’ he asked.
She nodded. After a moment she said, ‘I didn’t expect to see you again.’
‘No? I rather feel it was inevitable that somehow we should meet.’
He got up in response to the buzzer on his desk and went to the examination-room, leaving her to wonder what on earth he meant.
She had plenty of time to ponder his words, for it was quite fifteen minutes before he came back, and there was nothing in his face to tell her what his examination had revealed. He sat down and began to write until after another five minutes his patient came back.
Miss Browning swept in on a tide of ill temper, sat herself down and addressed herself in quelling tones to the impassive man sitting behind his desk.
‘I very much doubt,’ began Great-Aunt Sybil, ‘if you are qualified to diagnose my particular illness. It seems to me that you have failed to appreciate my suffering.’
Dr Latimer appeared unworried. He said smoothly, ‘Miss Browning, you have a sound heart; your pain is caused by indigestion. I will give you a diet which, if you choose to follow it, will dispel the pain. From what you have told me, your diet is too rich. I will write to your doctor and inform him of my diagnosis.’
He stood up and went to her chair. ‘What a relief it must be to you that you are so splendidly healthy.’ He offered a hand, and she had perforce to take it. ‘Nurse will give you the diet sheet.’
He accompanied her to the door, and Beatrice was relieved to see that for once her aunt had met her match: Dr Latimer’s silky manners screened a steely intention to be in command of the situation. They were ushered out without Miss Browning having the time to utter any of the telling replies she might have had in mind.
The nurse had gone ahead to open the waiting-room door, and for a moment Beatrice and Dr Latimer were alone.
He held out a large, firm hand. ‘Goodbye for the present,’ he said.
‘Oh, do you intend to see my aunt again?’
‘Er—no—but we shall meet again.’ He gave her a charming smile. ‘You don’t live with your aunt?’
‘Heavens, no! Her companion left and I’m staying with her until we can find another one.’ She paused. ‘I did tell you.’
Aunt Sybil had turned at the doorway and was looking back at them. ‘Come at once, Beatrice. I am exhausted.’
‘Dear, oh, dear,’ murmured Dr Latimer at his most soothing, ‘we must see about that companion, mustn’t we?’
She thought that he was merely being comforting, but then, she didn’t know him well.
Lunch was a stormy meal, taken at her aunt’s favourite restaurant. Naturally it consisted of all the things Miss Browning had been advised not to eat, and while they ate she gave her opinion of doctors in general and Dr Latimer in particular. ‘He should be struck off,’ she declared.
‘Whatever for?’ asked Beatrice. ‘I thought he had beautiful manners.’
‘Pooh—any silly woman could have her head turned by the professional civility these men employ—I am able to see through such tricks.’
Beatrice poured the coffee. ‘Aunt Sybil, I think you might at least give his advice an airing…’
‘I shall do just as I see fit. We will go now to that agency I have written to; there must be any number of women needing work. Just look at the unemployment…’
But there was no one suitable, nor was there at the other two agencies they visited. Beatrice, a cheerful girl by nature, allowed herself to get despondent at the prospect of weeks of Great-Aunt Sybil’s irascible company.
Only it wasn’t to be weeks, after all. Three days after her aunt’s visit to Dr Latimer, a letter came. The writer, having seen Miss Browning’s advertisement, begged to apply for the post of companion, and was willing to present herself at an interview whenever it was convenient.
‘Let her come this afternoon,’ said Great-Aunt Sybil grandly. ‘She sounds a sensible woman.’
‘Well, she could hardly get here and back again today,’ Beatrice pointed out. ‘It’s a London address—besides, there’s the fare, she might not have it.’
‘I cannot think what these people do with their money.’
‘They don’t have any—or not much to do anything with.’
Her aunt frowned. ‘You have this habit of answering back, Beatrice—most unbecoming. Write a letter and tell her to come the day after tomorrow in the early afternoon. You had better take some money from my desk and enclose it.’
Beatrice, addressing the envelope to Miss Jane Moore, hoped fervently that she would be suitable.
It was obvious from the moment that she faced Great-Aunt Sybil in the drawing-room that she was not only suitable but quite capable of holding her own with the old lady. Polite but firm, she allowed Miss Browning to see that she had no intention of being a doormat—indeed, she stipulated that she should have regular hours of freedom and a day off each week—but she sweetened this by pointing out that she was able to undertake all secretarial duties, keep accounts, drive the car, and read aloud. ‘I also have some nursing skills,’ she added composedly.
Beatrice thought she looked exactly the right person to live with her aunt. Middle-aged, small and wiry, with her pepper and salt hair and a severe bun, Miss Moore exuded competence, good nature and firmness.
Whether she would be able to stand up to her great-aunt’s peevish ill humours was another matter. At the moment, at any rate, her aunt seemed more than satisfied. Miss Moore was engaged with the option of a month’s notice on either side, and agreed to come in two days’ time, Miss Browning’s good humour lasting long enough for her to arrange for Miss Moore to be collected with her luggage at the station.
‘So now you can go home,’ said Miss Browning ungratefully as she and Beatrice sat at dinner that evening. If Beatrice expected thanks, she got none, but that didn’t worry her; she telephoned her mother, packed her bag, and at the end of the next day returned home.
It was lovely to be back in her own room again, to unpack and then go down to the kitchen and help her mother get the supper.
‘Do you think she’ll last, this Miss Moore?’ asked her mother.
‘I think she might. I mean, Great-Aunt Sybil’s other companions have always been so timid, but not Miss Moore—one could think of her as a ward sister used to geriatrics—you know—quite unflustered, but very firm and kind.’
She paused in the enjoyable task of hulling strawberries. ‘I shall get up early tomorrow and take Knotty for a long walk before breakfast.’
‘Yes, dear. Your father will be glad to have you back to give a hand. Carol’s back in Salisbury and Kathy’s staying with the in-laws. Ella will be glad, too. You always help her so nicely with her Latin.’
Beatrice woke as the sun, not yet visible, began to lighten the cloudless sky. She was out of bed, had washed her face, got into an old cotton dress she kept for cleaning out the chicken house, tied back her hair and was in the kitchen within minutes. Knotty was waiting, and together they left the house and started to climb the hill. Knotty had bounded on ahead, and Beatrice, almost at the top, looked up to see why he was barking.
She wasn’t alone on the hill; Dr Latimer was there too, waiting for her.
CHAPTER TWO
BEATRICE gaped, half a dozen questions rushing to her tongue.
‘Later,’ said Dr Latimer. ‘Let us watch the sunrise first.’
They sat side by side with Knotty panting between them, while the sky in the east turned pink and gold, and the sun rose slowly between the distant hills. Only when the whole of its shining splendour was visible did Beatrice speak. ‘You don’t live here…?’ And then, ‘But it’s only just gone five o’clock.’
‘Miss Moore told me that you had returned home, and I knew that you would be here.’
How did he know? She let that pass for the moment. ‘Miss Moore—do you know her? She’s gone as companion to Great-Aunt Sybil.’
She turned her head to look at him, sweeping her hair over her shoulders out of the way. ‘Did you tell her about the job?’
He said placidly, ‘Yes. She is a retired ward sister who worked for me for several years. Not quite ready to sit back and do nothing much—it suits her to live with your aunt for the time being. She will be able to save every penny of the salary she gets—and I must admit that I found it remarkably poor. She intends to share a small house with a widowed sister, but it won’t be vacant for some months.’
‘She seemed awfully capable.’
‘Oh, indeed she is.’
He sat back with nothing more to say, and presently she asked, ‘Have you a day off?’
‘No, but no patients until noon. Do you suppose your mother would give me breakfast?’
‘I’m sure she will. There’s only Ella home, and unless Father’s been called out he hasn’t a surgery until half-past eight.’
‘You’re glad to be home?’
She nodded. ‘Oh, yes. I don’t think I’m cut out to be a companion…’
‘You have no ambition to take up a career?’
She shook her head. ‘I suppose that years ago, when I was eighteen and full of ideas, I would have liked to train as a vet, but Father taught me a great deal and I like helping him. Ella’s too young, and anyway she’s not made up her mind what she wants to do, and Carol—she’s the brainy one and works in an office, and Kathy will be getting married in a month.’ She was silent for a moment, then, ‘I’m almost twenty-seven, a bit old to start on a career.’
‘But not too old to marry?’ He paused. ‘I feel sure that you must have had several opportunities. Dr Forbes did mention that his son and you…’
‘People make things up to suit themselves,’ declared Beatrice crossly. ‘James and I have known each other forever, but I have no wish to marry him. I keep saying so, too.’
‘Very tiresome for you,’ agreed her companion, and gave her a kindly smile, so that her ill humour went as quickly as it had come. ‘We had better go if we want breakfast…’
They went unhurriedly down the hill with Knotty cavorting around them, and so to the village and her home, carrying on a desultory conversation and on the best of terms with each other.
Early though it was, the village was stirring; Beatrice called cheerful good mornings as they went, not noticing the smiling, knowing looks exchanged behind her back. She was liked in the village, and although no one had actually said so it was generally thought that she was far too good for Dr Forbes’s son. Her companion, aware of the glances, gave no hint of having seen them, although his eyes danced with amusement.
Mrs Browning was breaking eggs into a large frying pan on the Aga, and bacon sizzled under the grill. She looked up as they went into the kitchen, added two more eggs and said happily, ‘Good morning. I do hope you’ve come to breakfast—such a satisfying meal. A lovely day again, isn’t it? Beatrice, make the toast, will you? Ella’s finishing her maths, and your father will be here directly.’ She dished the eggs expertly and put them to keep warm. ‘Are you on holiday, Dr Latimer?’
‘I only wish I were. I must be back in town by noon…’
‘Good heavens! All that way.’
‘I had a fancy to watch the sunrise.’
He took the knife from Beatrice and began to slice the loaf, and Mrs Browning, bursting with curiosity, sliced mushrooms into the frying pan, reflecting that he couldn’t possibly have driven down from London in time to see the sunrise, in which case, he must have spent the night somewhere nearby. After breakfast, when everyone had gone, she would phone the Elliotts… Lorna would surely know something about him. But her curiosity wasn’t to be satisfied; when everyone was out of the way Mrs Browning phoned her friend, only to discover that she was on the point of going out and had to leave the house on the instant. Mrs Browning put down the receiver with something of a thump.
Beatrice, helping her father with his morning surgery, was wondering about Dr Latimer too; it was two hours’ hard driving to get to London, and he had said that he had patients to see at noon. There had been no sign of a car; he must have had one, though, parked somewhere nearby—or did he live close by?
She had to hold a large, very cross cat while her father gave it an injection, her thoughts far away so that her father asked mildly, ‘Will you take Shakespeare back, my dear? Mrs Thorpe will be waiting for him… I want to see him in two weeks, so make an appointment, will you?’
She bore Shakespeare away to his doting mistress, made an appointment in her neat hand and went back to the surgery where a small boy was standing, clutching a pet rat. She didn’t care for rats or mice, but years of helping her father had inured her to them. All the same, she shuddered slightly as she took the animal from its anxious owner. There was nothing much wrong; advice as to diet and a few words of encouragement, and the small boy went away happy to be replaced by Major Digby with his Labrador. Since he and her father were old friends, a good deal of time was spent in talking about the good fishing locally, the chances against Farmer Bates planting sugar beet instead of winter greens and the vagaries of the weather. Beatrice, aware that she was no longer needed, left the two gentlemen, tidied the waiting-room and went along to the kitchen, where her mother was putting a batch of loaves to rise.
‘I wonder where he lives?’ she asked as Beatrice walked in. ‘I have no idea, Mother. London, I would suppose, since that was where Great-Aunt Sybil went to see him. Probably he likes driving long distances.’
Beatrice spoke rather tartly, and Mrs Browning gave her a quick look.
‘Oh, well,’ she observed, ‘we aren’t likely to see him again.’
She was wrong. It was exactly a week later that Mr Browning had a heart attack—very early in the morning, on his way back from checking Lady Lamborne’s pet donkey. Beatrice, coming down to make early morning tea, found him lying at the kitchen door. He was conscious, but cold and clammy and a dreadful grey colour, and when she felt for his pulse it was fast and faint. She wasn’t a girl to lose her head in an emergency; she put a cushion under his head, covered him with the old rug which was draped over one of the Windsor chairs, told him bracingly that he was going to be all right and went to phone Dr Forbes, fetched her mother and then went back to crouch beside her father.
Dr Forbes was there within ten minutes, listened to Beatrice’s calm voice, examined his old friend and told her to ring for an ambulance. ‘We’ll have to go to Salisbury,’ he told Mrs Browning. ‘I’ll give him an injection and we’ll keep him on oxygen.’ He patted her arm. ‘I think he’ll do, but it’s hard to tell for the moment. Thank heaven that Beatrice found him when she did.’
‘You stay with him while I put some things in a bag for him,’ said Beatrice. Her voice was quite steady, but her hands shook. ‘You’ll go with him? I’ll stay and sort things out here.’
She was back with the bag within minutes, and urged her mother to get what she needed, ready to go in the ambulance. Her father was quiet now, but he looked so ill that she felt sick with fright, although nothing showed of that upon her pale face. She held one limp hand in hers, and stared down at her father, oblivious of everything else, so that she didn’t see Dr Latimer get out of his car at the same time as the ambulance drew up.
A large, gentle hand on her shoulder made her look up. ‘Tell me what has happened, Beatrice.’ His voice was calm and matter of fact, so that she answered him readily.
‘Father—I found him here—Dr Forbes says he’s had a coronary thrombosis.’ She saw the ambulance for the first time. ‘He’s to go to Salisbury. Mother’s going with him.’
Her voice had been steady enough, only it didn’t sound like hers.
Dr Forbes had been talking to the ambulancemen; now he came to his patient. He paused when he saw Dr Latimer. ‘We’ve met,’ he said at once. ‘You gave a talk at the seminar in Bristol last year… Latimer—Dr Latimer, isn’t it?’
He launched into a brief description of Mr Browning’s collapse, and Dr Latimer said, ‘Do you mind if I come to Salisbury and take a look? I know Dr Stevens, we were students together…’
‘I’ll be glad of your advice—I suppose Dr Stevens will be in charge of him?’
‘Oh, yes, but Mr Browning is a friend…’
He bent down and plucked Beatrice on to her feet to make way for the ambulancemen with their stretcher. ‘Beatrice, find your mother, will you? I’ll drive her into Salisbury; we’ll get there ahead of the ambulance. Will you stay here?’
She said in a wispy voice, ‘I must let several people know—farmers, mostly. The small stuff I can manage on my own…Will—will you telephone me if you go to the hospital with Father? I expect Mother will want to stay there.’
‘As soon as we know what’s happening I’ll give you a ring, but stay here, Beatrice, until you hear from me.’
She nodded and went upstairs to find her mother. Mrs Browning, usually so matter of fact and competent, had gone to pieces for the moment. Beatrice took off the pinny she was wearing, got a jacket from the wardrobe, found her handbag and shoes and tidied her hair. ‘Dr Latimer is here, he’s driving you to the hospital so that you’ll be there when Father gets there. He knows the consultant there too, so Father is going to get the best possible care.’
Her mother gave her a blank look. ‘Your father’s never been ill in his life. It’s like a dream—a bad dream.’
Beatrice agreed silently and led her downstairs. The ambulance was just about ready to leave, and Dr Forbes was getting into it to be with his patient. Dr Latimer was waiting patiently at the door, and as they reached him Beatrice said urgently, ‘You will let me know?’
‘Yes. Come along, Mrs Browning.’ He put an arm round her shoulders as he smiled at Beatrice and walked to the dark grey Rolls-Royce parked to one side of the drive. He opened its door and urged Mrs Browning inside, got in himself and, with a wave of the hand, was gone.
Beatrice went slowly inside. There was a great deal to do, but just for a minute she was bewildered by the speed of it all, and the suddenness. It was a blessing that Ella had spent the night with a schoolfriend, but she would have to let Carol and Kathy know. As she went into the house, Mrs Perry, the elderly woman who came each morning to help in the house, caught up with her.
‘I saw an ambulance, Miss Beatrice. ‘as one of them dogs bitten your dad?’
‘Dogs?’ Beatrice gave her a blank look. ‘Dogs—oh, no, Mrs Perry, my father has had a heart attack. My mother has gone with him to the hospital.’
‘Oh, you poor love. I’ll make a cuppa, it’ll pull you together. And don’t you fret, he’ll be fine—them doctors are clever old fellows.’
She bustled into the kitchen and Beatrice went along to her father’s study and opened his appointments book. Miss Scott, who acted as his receptionist-cum-secretary, would be in presently, but in the meantime there were several people expecting him that morning—farmers mostly. They would just have to get hold of another vet.
She began to telephone, drank the tea Mrs Perry brought her, and went along to the surgery. Her father’s practice was mostly widespread among the estates and farms round the village, but there was always a handful of family pets needing pills or injections and occasionally a stitch. The small patients in the surgery now were easily dealt with, and she attended to them with her usual calm; she had helped her father for years and no one thought of disputing her skill. The last patient, old Miss Thom’s elderly cat with ear trouble, was borne away, and Beatrice put the surgery to rights, tidied the waiting-room and started off towards her father’s study. Miss Scott would be there by now and she would have to talk to her. The phone ringing stopped her, and she raced back to the waiting-room and snatched up the receiver.
The voice at the other end sounded reassuring and, at the same time, bracing. ‘Beatrice? Your father’s in intensive care and is holding his own nicely. Don’t leave the house, I’ll be with you in half an hour.’
He rang off before she could say a word. Just as well, as she found that she was crying.
She felt better after a good weep, and with a washed face, well made-up to cover her red nose and puffy eyelids, she went to find Miss Scott. That lady was sensible and middle-aged and could be relied upon to cope with any emergency, and she was sorting the post, bringing the books up to date and going through the appointments book. She looked up as Beatrice went in, and said with real sympathy, ‘I’m so sorry, Beatrice—what a dreadful shock for you all. Your father will be all right, of course; he’s very fit and he’ll have the best of care. Mrs Forbes told me that Dr Latimer has been called in for consultations—a splendid man, it seems. How fortunate that he happened to be here.’
For the first time Beatrice paused to wonder why he had been there, anyway. ‘He phoned a few minutes ago. Father’s holding his own. I waited to phone Carol and Kathy and Ella…’