“I cannot think why you persist in annoying me, Professor van Rakesma.” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE Copyright

“I cannot think why you persist in annoying me, Professor van Rakesma.”

“I am not sure myself,” he told Mary mildly. “You are a perpetual thorn in my otherwise disciplined life.” He turned to look at her. “To mix my metaphors, you are like a sore tooth that I’m unable to leave alone.”

Her brown eyes flashed with temper “Well, a thorn, indeed, a sore tooth—whatever next. I should like to know?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself. Do you suppose we might cry quits and become friends?”

Friends, thought Mary wildly Who wants to be friends? And he’s almost a married man.

“Certainly not.”

“You don’t like me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Good, in that case let us at least assume an armed neutrality.”

About the Author

BETTY NEELS spent her childhood and youth in Devonshire, England before training as a nurse and midwife. She was an army nursing sister during the war, married a Dutchman and subsequently lived in Holland for fourteen years. She lives with her husband in Dorset, and has a daughter and grandson. Her hobbies are reading, animals, old buildings and writing. Betty started to write on retirement from nursing, incited by a lady in a library bemoaning the lack of romantic novels.

Marrying Mary

Betty Neels

MILLS & BOON

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CHAPTER ONE

MARY PAGETT, stripping a bed with energy, was singing at the top of her voice. Not because she was happy, but to quell the frustration within. For her father—that charming but absent-minded man—to invite Great Aunt Thirza to spend her convalescence at his home had been a misplaced kindness, bringing with it a string of inconveniences which would have to be overcome.

For a start Mrs Blackett, who came daily to oblige and suffered from a persistent ill temper, was going to object to peeling more potatoes and scraping more carrots, not to mention the extra work vacuuming the guest bedroom. And Mr Archer, the village butcher, was going to express hurt feelings at the lack of orders for sausages and braising steak, since Great Aunt Thirza was a vegetarian, and for reasons of economy the rest of the household would have to be vegetarian too.

There was her mother too—Mary’s voice rose a few decibels—a lovable, whimsical lady, whose talent for designing Christmas cards had earned her a hut in the garden to which she retired after breakfast each day, only appearing at meals. Lastly there was Polly, her young sister, who was a keen and not very accurate player of the recorder; her loving family bore with the noise but Great Aunt Thirza was going to object ...

Mary finished making the bed, cast an eye over the rather heavy furniture in the high-ceilinged room, with its old-fashioned wallpaper and wooden floor, sparsely covered by elderly rugs, and hoped that the draughts from the big sash windows opposite wouldn’t be too much for her elderly relation.

The house—a mid-Victorian rectory built for an incumbent with a large family—wasn’t all that old. After standing empty for some years it had been bought by her father, since it had been a bargain at its low price. But he, an unworldly man, had not taken notice of the size of its rooms, which made heating the place almost hopeless, or the lack of maids, or the fact that coal for the enormous grates was a constant drain on the household purse—nor had he considered the amount of gas and electricity which was needed.

He had his study, where he worked on his book, and Mary’s pleas for someone to clear the drains, paint the doors and put tiles back on the elaborate roof fell on deaf ears.

Her father was a dear man, she reflected, but unworldly. He was devoted to his wife and children, but that had never prevented him from delegating the mundane responsibilities of a married man to someone else and, since Mary was so conveniently there, they had fallen to her.

It had happened very gradually; she had left school with hopes of going on to university, but her mother had been ill and her two brothers had been home, and someone had had to feed and look after them—besides which Polly had still been a little girl. Her mother had got better, the boys had gone to Cambridge, but no one had suggested that Mary might like to do anything but stay home and look after them all. She had stayed quite willingly since, despite its drawbacks, she loved the shabby old house, she liked cooking, and she even liked a certain amount of housework.

So the years had slipped quietly by, and here she was, twenty-four years old, a tall, splendidly built girl with a lovely face, enormous brown eyes and an abundance of chestnut hair, her face rendered even more interesting by reason of her nose, which was short and tip-tilted. It went without saying that the men of her acquaintance liked her, admired her and in two cases had wished to marry her. She had refused them kindly and remained firm friends, acting as bridesmaid at their weddings and godmother to their children.

There was Arthur, of course, whom she had known for years—a worthy young man who rather took it for granted that one day she would marry him, and indeed from time to time she had considered that possibility. He would be a splendid husband—faithful and kind even if a bit bossy. He was also a shade pompous and she had doubts as to what he would be like in ten years’ time.

Besides, she had no intention of marrying anyone at the moment; the boys were away from home but Polly was thirteen—too young to be left to the care of a fond but unworldly mother and a forgetful father. Right at the back of her head was the half-formed wish that something exciting would happen—something so exciting and urgent that her prosaic plans would be dashed to pieces...

The only thing that was going to happen was Great Aunt Thirza, who was neither of these things, but a cantankerous old lady who liked her own way.

Mary went down to the kitchen and broke the news to Mrs Blackett, who paused long enough in her. cleaning of the kitchen floor with far too wet a mop to scowl at her and grumble with such venom that her dentures got dislodged.

‘As though we ’aven’t got enough on our ‘ands. And it’s no good you expecting me to do more for you than what I do now.’ She gave a snort of ill humour and sloshed more water over the floor.

Mary, side-stepping the puddles, made soothing noises. ‘When you’ve finished the floor,’ she said cheerfully, ‘we’ll have a cup of tea. I wouldn’t expect you to do more than you do already, Mrs Blackett, and I dare say that Great Aunt Thirza will spend a good deal of time resting.’

Knowing that lady, she thought it unlikely, but Mrs Blackett wasn’t to know that, and the latter, calmed with a strong cup of tea and a large slice of cake, relating the latest misdemeanour of Horace, her youngest, became sufficiently mollified to suggest doing a bit extra around the house. ‘I’d stay for me dinner and do a couple of hours in an afternoon—it’d ’ave to be a Tuesday or a Wednesday, mind.’

Mary accepted her offer gratefully. ‘It will only be for a week or two, Mrs Blackett.’

‘Where’s she coming from, then?’

‘She’s in St Justin’s. Her housekeeper will take whatever clothes she needs to the hospital and an ambulance will bring her here.’ Mary gave a very small sigh. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘You’ll want more spuds,’ said Mrs Blackett. ‘Going ter get a nice bit of ’am?’

‘Well, I’m afraid that Mrs Winton is a vegetarian...’

‘I don’t ’old with them,’ said Mrs Blackett darkly.

Nor did Mary, although she sympathised with their views.

She took a basket from the hook behind the kitchen door and went down the garden to pick beans, pull new carrots and cut spinach. Thank heaven it was early summer and her small kitchen garden was flourishing, although she would have to go to the greengrocer presently and get more vegetables, as well as beans and lentils and spaghetti. She hoped that Great Aunt Thirza would like that, though she was doubtful if anyone else would.

Before going back into the house she stopped to look around her. The house was on the edge of Hampstead Heath, with Golders Green not far away, and the garden offered a pleasant view and she stood admiring it. It would be nice to spend a day in the country, she reflected, and thought of her childhood, spent in a rambling cottage in Gloucestershire.

They might still be there but for the fact that her father had needed to be nearer the British Museum so that he could do his research and her mother had wanted a closer contact with the agent who sold her cards. Polly hadn’t been born then, and although it hadn’t mattered much to the boys, who had been at boarding-school anyway, Mary had taken some time to settle down at her new school and make new friends.

She went back indoors and presently out to the butcher, where, since it was likely to be the last meat they would have for a while, she bought steak and kidney in a generous amount and bore it home. It was a warm day for steak and kidney pudding but she was rewarded that evening by the pleasure with which it was received.

‘Everything all right, dear?’ asked her mother, and before she could reply added, ‘I’ve had a letter from Mr Thorne—the agent—he’s got me a splendid commission. I shall have to work at it, though—you’ll be quite happy with Great Aunt Thirza?’

Mary assured her that she would. She wasn’t surprised to hear from her father that he would be away all day at the British Museum. ‘But I’ll be home in time to welcome Thirza,’ he said. ‘Make her comfortable, won’t you, my dear?’

‘I’ll play her “Greensleeves”,’ offered Polly.

‘That’ll be lovely, darling,’ said Mrs Pagett. ‘It’s so nice that you’re musical.’

Mrs Winton arrived the next day in nice time for tea. She was tall and thin with a high-bridged nose, upon which rested her pince-nez, and she wore a beautifully cut coat and skirt of the style fashionable in the early decades of the century, and crowned this with a wide-brimmed straw hat. She had the same kind of hat, only in felt, during the winter months.

Mary had gone to the door to meet her and watched while the ambulancemen settled her into a chair and trundled her over.

‘That will do, thank you,’ said Great Aunt Thirza. ‘My niece will help me into the sitting-room.’ She turned to look at her. ‘Well, Mary, here I am.’

Mary kissed the offered cheek. ‘We are delighted to have you to stay, Aunt.’ She stopped as the men turned away. ‘If you’d like to go to the kitchen—the door over there—there’s tea and sandwiches. Thank you both so much.’

She had a lovely smile and they beamed back at her. ‘If that’s not troubling you, miss, we could do with a cuppa.’

‘Would you like tea, Aunt Thirza? It’s all ready in the sitting-room.’ She gave the old lady an arm and settled her in an armchair by the small tea-table. ‘Father’s at the British Museum; he’ll be back at any moment. Mother’s very busy; she’s just had an order for Christmas cards.’

‘Ridiculous,’ said Mrs Winton. ‘Christmas cards, indeed—child’s play.’

‘Actually they need a great deal of skill, and Mother’s very good at them.’

Her aunt sipped her tea. ‘Why aren’t you married, Mary?’

‘Well, I don’t think I’ve met anyone I want to marry yet. There’s Arthur, of course...’

‘A girl should marry.’ She pronounced it ‘gel’. ‘I don’t hold with this independence. My generation had more sense; we married and settled down to be good wives and mothers.’

Aunt Thirza was in her eighties. Mary wondered what it had been like to be young then—corsets and hats and gloves, not just on Sundays and occasions but even to go shopping, and not to be able to drive a car or wear trousers...

On the other hand there had been no television and there had been dances—not the leaping around that was the fashion now, but foxtrotting and waltzing. Waltzing with a man you loved or even liked must have been delightful. The clothes had been pretty awful, but they were pretty awful nowadays among the young. Mary, who sometimes felt older than her years, sighed.

Great Aunt Thirza was quite a handful. She had brought a good deal of luggage with her which had to be unpacked and disposed around the house according to her fancy. She poked her nose into the kitchen and made scathing remarks about Mrs Blackett’s terrible old slippers with the nicks cut out for the comfort of her bunions; she inspected the fridge, lectured Polly on her untidiness, interrupted her nephew in his study and swept down to the hut to see her niece-in-law, where she passed so many critical remarks that that lady was unable to pick up her brush for the rest of the day.

It didn’t matter how ingenious Mary was with the lentils, dried peas and beans, her elderly relation always found something wrong with them.

At the end of a week, having escorted her to her room, shut the windows, refreshed the water jug, gone downstairs again for warm milk, found another blanket, run a bath and listened to her aunt giving her opinion of the drawbacks of the house, Mary went downstairs to where her mother and father were sitting in the drawing-room—a room seldom used since it was large, draughty and, despite Mary’s polishing, shabby.

‘When is Great Aunt Thirza going home?’ she asked her father, sounding cross.

He looked up from the book he was reading, peered over his glasses at her and said mildly, ‘I really don’t know, my dear. She’s no trouble, is she?’

Mary sat down. ‘Yes, Father, she is. She has made Mrs Blackett even more bad-tempered than usual—she’s threatened to leave—and Polly is rebellious and I can’t blame her. I haven’t cooked a square meal for more than a week; I don’t expect that you’ve noticed but there’s not been an ounce of meat in the house for days and I, for one, am sick of spinach and lettuce leaves.’

Her mother looked up from the sketches she was making. ‘A nice steak with mushrooms, and those French fries you do so well, darling.’ She added hopefully, ‘Could we go out for a meal?’

‘It would cost too much,’ said Mary, who knew more about the housekeeping money than her mother. ‘We need a miracle...’

It came with the postman in the morning. Great Aunt Thirza was bidden to attend at St Justin’s in Central London where she had been treated for a heart condition—nine o’clock on the following morning. Should her examination prove satisfactory she could make arrangements to return to her home and resume a normal life.

‘I shall, of course, abide by the specialist’s advice,’ said Great Aunt Thirza. ‘He may consider it more beneficial to my health for me to return here for a further few weeks.’ She poured herself another cup of tea—the special herbal one that she preferred. ‘You can drive me there, Mary. It will save the expense of a taxi.’

Mary didn’t answer. Mrs Winton was comfortably off, well able to afford as many taxis as she could want; she could afford to pay for the peas and beans too, thought Mary peevishly.

To waste most of a day, certainly a whole morning, taking her aunt to the hospital was tiresome when there was a stack of ironing waiting to be done, besides which she needed to thumb through the cookery book she had borrowed from the library and find another way to cook kidney beans...

Polly, back from school at teatime, gobbling bread spread with an imitation butter, heavily covered with peanut butter, voiced the opinion that Great Aunt Thirza was quite well enough to go home. ‘Let her housekeeper cook that rabbit food.’ She rolled her large blue eyes dramatically. ‘Mary, I’ll die if I don’t have some chips soon.’

‘Perhaps I could have a word with the specialist,’ mused Mary.

‘Yes, do. Wear something pretty and flutter your eyelashes at him. You’re quite pretty, you know.’

‘I don’t expect that kind of man—you know, wildly clever and always reading books like Father, only younger—notices if one is pretty or not. If I had a heart attack or fainted all over him he might, I suppose.’

She spent a moment imagining herself falling gracefully into the arms of some doddering old professor. It wouldn’t do; she wasn’t the right shape. Fainting was for small, ethereal girls with tiny waists and slender enough to be picked up easily. Whoever it was who caught her would need to be a giant with muscles to match. ‘But I will wear that green dress and those sandals I bought in the sales.’

St Justin’s Hospital wasn’t far as the crow flew, but driving there during the rush hour was a different matter. Great Aunt Thirza, roused from her bed at an early hour, was in a bad temper. She sat beside Mary, her lips firmly closed, wearing the air of someone who was being shabbily treated but refused to complain, which left Mary free to concentrate on getting to the hospital by nine o’clock.

The outpatients department was already full. They were told where to sit and warned that Mr van Rakesma had not yet arrived but was expected at any moment. ‘I am probably the first to be seen,’ said Great Aunt Thirza. She edged away from an elderly man beside her who was asleep and snoring gently. ‘Really, the people one meets; I find it distasteful.’

‘You could always be a private patient,’ suggested Mary.

‘My dear Mary, you talk as though I had a fortune. Besides, why should I pay for something I can obtain for nothing?’

Mary wondered if having money made one mean. She wasn’t interested in her aunt’s finances. She changed places with the old lady and found that the snoring man was watching her. ‘Morning, love,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Don’t tell me someone as pretty as you needs to come to this halfway house.’

‘Halfway house?’

He winked. ‘Take a look, love. We’re all getting a bit long in the tooth and needing a bit of make do and mend to help us on our way!’ He winked again and added, ‘Who’s the old biddy with you? Not your ma, that’s for sure.’

‘An aunt—a great aunt actually. Shall we have to wait for a long time?’

He waved a vague arm. ‘Starts at eight o’clock, does his nibs, but, seeing that he’s not here yet and it’s gone nine o‘clock, I’d say we’ll still be here for our dinner.’

‘You mean the first appointment is for eight o’clock?’ When he nodded she said, ’My aunt thought she would be the first patient.’

His loud laugh caused Great Aunt Thirza to bend forward and look around Mary so that she could give him an icy stare.

‘I cannot imagine why this man hasn’t come, Mary. Possibly he is still in his bed...’

He wasn’t, though. There was a wave of interest in the closely packed benches as he walked past them—a very tall, heavily built man, his gingery hair tinged with grey, his handsome face without expression, looking ahead of him just as though there was no one else there but himself and his registrar beside him. Mary had ample opportunity to study him. He was, she realised, the man she had been waiting for, and she fell instantly in love with him.

After that she didn’t mind the long wait, and sat between the now sleeping man and an irate great aunt. She had plenty to think about, and most of her thoughts were of a highly impractical nature, but just for the moment she allowed day-dreaming to override common sense. He would look at her and fall in love, just as she had done...

‘At last,’ hissed Great Aunt Thirza. ‘Come with me, Mary.’

The consulting-room was quite small and Mr van Rakesma seemed to take up most of it. He glanced up briefly as they went in, asked them to sit down in a pleasant, impersonal voice and finished his writing.

‘Mrs Winton? You have been referred to me by Dr Cymes and I am glad to see you looking so well.’ He glanced at the notes before him. ‘You wish to return home, I understand, and if I find you quite recovered I see no reason why you shouldn’t do so.’

‘Young man,’ said Great Aunt Thirza sternly, ‘I had an appointment for nine o’clock this morning. It is now ten minutes past twelve. I consider this a disgraceful state of affairs.’

Mary went pink and stared at her feet. Mr van Rakesma smiled; Sister, standing beside his desk, gave an indignant snort.

‘Circumstances occasionally arise which prevent our keeping to our original plans,’ he said mildly. ‘Would you be good enough to go with Sister to the examination-room so that I can take a look?’

‘You will stay here,’ she told Mary as she went. Mary didn’t look up, which was a pity for she would have found his eyes on her. He couldn’t see her face, but her glorious hair was enough to attract any man’s eye...

‘Is there something wrong with your shoe?’ he asked gently.

She looked at him then, still pink. ‘No—no.’ She went on rapidly, ‘My aunt’s tired; she didn’t mean what she said.’

He smiled and her heart danced against her ribs. ‘No? A disappointment; I rather liked being called “young man”.’ He got up and went into the examination-room, and when he came out again presently he didn’t so much as glance at her but sat down and began to write. When Mrs Winton reappeared he told her that for her age she was very fit and there was no reason why she shouldn’t resume a normal lifestyle.

‘You have someone to look after you? A housekeeper ? A daughter?’

‘A housekeeper and, of course, should I require extra help, my niece—’ she nodded at Mary‘—would come.’

He nodded. ‘Then everything seems most satisfactory, Mrs Winton.’ He stood up and shook hands with her and bade her a grave goodbye, gave Mary a brief, unsmiling nod, then sat down and took up his pen once more.

It was Sister who said, ‘You’ll need an appointment for six months’ time, Mrs Winton; go and see Reception as you go out. Professor van Rakesma will want to keep an eye on you.’

Great Aunt Thirza stopped short. ‘Professor? You mean to tell me that he’s a professor?’

‘Yes, and a very clever one too, Mrs Winton. We’re lucky to have him for a consultant.’

Over lunch at a nearby café, Great Aunt Thirza observed that for a foreigner his manners had been surprisingly good. Mary murmured a reply, busy with her own thoughts.

‘Presumably,’ went on Great Aunt Thirza, ‘he is reliable.’

‘Well, he’s a professor. I expect he had to take exams or something before he could be one.’

‘I trust the exams were taken here in England. Our standards are high.’

‘Wasn’t the seat of medical learning Leiden? I believe it is still considered one of the best medical schools...’ She added, ‘He is Dutch.’

‘That is as may be,’ observed the old lady ‘I shall check with Dr Cymes.’

Mary, who had been wondering how she could find out more about the professor, said casually, ‘What a good idea. You must let me know what he says. Probably he’s over here on some exchange scheme.’

It was a slender chance, she thought wistfully; it was unlikely that she would ever see him again. How silly she was to fall in love with a complete stranger. ‘We’d better start back,’ she said briskly. ‘You’ll want to ring your housekeeper and arrange things.’

‘Naturally. I intend to leave your father’s house in two days’ time; that will give us the opportunity to pack my things. You will, of course, drive me home.’

At the thought of eating sausages and the weekend joint again Mary sighed with relief; she would have driven her great aunt to the furthest corner of the land...

Her mother and father expressed pleasure at Mrs Wimton’s recovery, and pressed her to stay as long as she wished, unaware of Mary’s speaking glance. Mary could see her wavering. Something had to be done—and quickly. ‘Polly, fetch your recorder and play something for Great Aunt Thirza.’

A wobbly rendering of ‘Greensleeves’, followed by an unrecognisable piece full of wrong notes, which Polly assured them was ‘The Trout’ by Schubert, put an end to the old lady’s indecision; she would return home, as she had first intended, in two days’ time.

It fell to Mary’s lot, naturally enough, to pack for her aunt, and then unpack everything again because that lady suddenly remembered that she would need a particular cardigan to wear. She did it all cheerfully, quite unmoved by her aunt’s fault-finding and lack of thanks, and two days later she got the car out, loaded the cases and settled Mrs Winton on the back seat.

Her father had come out of his study to say goodbye and her mother, in her painting smock and holding a brush in her hand, had joined him on the doorstep. Polly wasn’t back from school but Mrs Blackett, obliging with an extra afternoon’s work, glowered from the kitchen window.

Great Aunt Thirza said her goodbyes graciously, omitting to thank anyone, giving the impression that she had honoured them greatly by her visit and pausing long enough in the hall to find fault with several things around the house. ‘I’m sure, though, that you did your best,’ she added, ‘and on the whole the meals were palatable.’

These remarks were met in silence. ‘I dare say I shall see improvements when I next visit you,’ she said and swept out to the car.

The Pagetts watched their daughter drive away. ‘Perhaps we should wait a little before we invite dear Aunt Thirza to stay again, my dear,’ observed Mr Pagett, and added, ‘I do hope Mary will cook something tasty for supper...’

Mrs Winton lived in Richmond in a red-brick terraced house, which was much too large for her and stuffed with mid-Victorian furniture, heavy plush curtains and a great many ornaments. Her housekeeper had been with her for a good number of years—a silent, austere woman who kept her distance, ran the house efficiently and never talked about herself, which wasn’t surprising really since Mrs Winton never asked.

She opened the door as Mary stopped the car, wished them good afternoon and took Mrs Winton’s luggage from the boot. ‘We’d like tea at once, Mrs Cox,’ said Great Aunt Thirza, and swept indoors with a brisk, ‘Come along, Mary; don’t dawdle!’

Mary wasn’t listening; she had gone back to the car to give Mrs Cox a hand with the luggage.

She hadn’t wanted to stay for tea but good manners made it necessary; she sat on an uncomfortable horsehair chair—a museum piece if ever there was one—and drank weak tea from a beautiful Minton cup and ate a dry Madeira cake which she suspected had been in the tin ever since Great Aunt Thirza’s illness.

While she ate she thought of the sausages and the mountains of chips she would cook when she got home. She had no doubt that her mother and father and Polly would enjoy them as much as she would.

Driving back presently, it wasn’t sausages and chips on her mind, it was love—the sheer excitement of it, the wonder of it, just to look at someone and know that he was the one... Her euphoria was short-lived. ‘Fool,’ said Mary. ‘You’ll never see him again—it was pure chance; besides, he didn’t even look at you.’

She edged past a slow-moving Ford Anglia, driven by an elderly man in a cloth cap. ‘He’ll be married to some gorgeous wisp of a girl who he’ll treat like fragile porcelain.’ She sighed; no one, however kindly disposed, could describe her as fragile. ‘All the same, it would be nice to find out about him.’

She was talking to herself again, waiting at traffic lights, and the driver of the car alongside hers gave her a startled look. She looked sane enough, but he couldn’t see anyone else in the car...

Professor van Rakesma, unlike Mary, wasn’t talking to himself—he was going through the notes of his patients.

‘Mrs Winton,’ he said at length in a satisfied voice, and made a note of her address. He had no doubt at all that he would discover more of the girl who had been with her—a niece, the old lady had said, and one in the habit of giving extra help and therefore to be tracked down at some future date.

He handed the notes back to the patient nurse waiting for them and left the hospital. He was dining out with friends and anticipating a pleasant evening as well as an excellent dinner.

Mary and her family had an excellent dinner too; the sausages and chips were greeted with whoops of joy from Polly, and even her mother, a dainty eater, welcomed them with pleasure. There was a wholesome roly-poly pudding for afters too, and a bottle of red wine, pronounced delicious by everyone.

Her father, of course, hardly noticed what he drank, and her mother was too kind to do more than remark on its good colour. The professor, had he been there, would have poured it down the sink.

Never mind that—it was a celebration; they were a family again without Great Aunt Thirza to meddle and complain. No one actually said that; only Polly remarked that she hoped that her great aunt wouldn’t pay them another visit for a very long time.

‘Well, she only comes when she wants something,’ said Polly, ‘and she’s well again now isn’t she?’

‘She saw a specialist the other day?’ asked her mother, who, always being in her but working at her cards, had missed the tale of Great Aunt Thirza’s hospital appointment.

Mary, to her great annoyance, blushed. ‘Yes—he said that she was able to resume normal life again and that she was very fit for her age.’

‘Was he nice?’

‘He seemed very nice,’ said Mary cautiously.

Polly asked, ‘What did he look like?’

Mary longed to describe him in every small detail but that would never have done. ‘Oh, well, quite young—he was Dutch...’

‘But what did he look like?’ persisted Polly.

‘Very tall and big with gingery hair, only it was grey too, and he had very blue eyes.’ She remembered something and smiled. ‘Great Aunt Thirza called him “young man”!’

Her father said, ‘Your aunt was always outspoken.’

‘Did he mind?’ asked her mother.

‘No, he said that he rather liked it.’

‘He doesn’t sound like a specialist. Do you suppose that if I’m ill he’d look after me?’ Polly looked hopeful.

‘Well, no—he looks after people with bad hearts.’

‘Supposing you broke your heart—would he look after you?’

Mary said in a level voice, ‘No, I don’t suppose that he’s got time to waste on broken hearts, only ill ones.’ She got up from the table. ’I’ll bring the coffee in here, shall I?’

Life settled down into its accustomed pattern once more. Mary’s days were full. Her father had dropped a pile of notes all over his study floor and it took hours of work to get them in order again; her mother floated in and out of the house, absorbed in her painting, and Polly was away most of the day.

Mrs Blackett, free to do as she liked again, was her usual ill-tempered self, although she no longer threatened to leave, and Mary slipped back into her customary routine. And if her thoughts dwelt wistfully upon Professor van Rakesma she didn’t allow them to show; she had plenty of common sense and she was aware that day-dreams, though pleasant, had nothing at all to do with real life.

There was Arthur too. He had been away on a course and now he was back and, though she was reluctant to do so, she had agreed to go out to dinner with him—to a nice little place in Hampstead, he had told her; they would be able to get a good meal very reasonably.

The idea that she was only worth a reasonably priced dinner rankled with Mary, but she got out a pretty if somewhat out-of-date dress, put polish on her nails, did her face and piled her glorious hair on top of her head. She made sure that the casserole for the family supper was safely in the oven, and went to remind her father that she was going out.

He looked up from his writing. ‘Out? Well, enjoy yourself, my dear. Have you a key?’

She went down to the hut next. ‘I’m going out to dinner with Arthur, Mother. The supper’s in the oven; it’ll be ready at half-past seven. I’ve told Polly.’

‘Dear child,’ said her mother fondly, ‘go and enjoy yourself—who with?’

‘Arthur.’

‘Oh, Arthur, of course. Tell me, do you like robins on this card, or do you suppose a bunch of holly would be better?’

‘Robins,’ said Mary.

Polly was in the hall. ‘I’ll see to supper, Mary. Did you feed Bingo?’

The family cat had made himself scarce while Great Aunt Thirza had been there, only skimming in for his meals, but now he was in possession of the house once more, commandeering laps and eating heartily.

‘Yes—here’s Arthur...’

Polly caught her arm. ‘Don’t say yes, Mary,’ she whispered urgently. ‘He might propose!’

‘Arthur has never done anything hastily in his life; he’ll have to give a proposal a lot of thought, and he’ll lead up to it so gradually that I’ll have plenty of time to think about it.’

‘You like him?’

Mary said guardedly, ‘I’ve known him for a long time, love; he’s a good man but I don’t want to marry him.’ She added thoughtfully, ‘I don’t think he really wants to marry me...’

Arthur had got out of the car and thumped the doorknocker; she kissed Polly and went to meet him.

Arthur’s ‘Hello, old girl,’ had nothing lover-like about it. She said, ‘Hello, Arthur,’ and got into the car beside him and enquired about his course.

Telling her about it took up the entire drive and he still hadn’t finished when they sat down at a table in the restaurant. It was a pleasant place but not, she decided, the right background for romance. Its pale green walls were too cool, and the white tablecloths and little pot of dried flowers echoed the coolness, but since Arthur obviously had no thought of romance that didn’t matter.

Mary ate her plaice, French fries and macédoine of vegetables, chose trifle for pudding and listened to him. She was a kind girl, and it was obvious that he needed to tell someone everything which had occurred at the course. She said ‘Oh, splendid,’ and ‘Really?’ at suitable intervals, and wondered what Professor van Rakesma was doing...

She thanked Arthur when he took her back home, offered him coffee, which he refused, and accepted his kiss on her cheek. ‘A splendid evening, Mary—we’ve had a good talk.’ He added, in a rather condescending tone which grated on her ear, ‘When I can find the time we must do it again.’

What about my time? thought Mary, and murmured politely.

Getting into bed, she decided that in ten years’ time Arthur would definitely be pompous.

She was getting the breakfast ready the next morning when the phone rang. Mrs Cox, usually so calm, sounded agitated. ‘Miss Mary? The doctor’s here; your aunt’s took bad. She wants you—ever so restless she is. The doctor said if you could come to ease her mind. Won’t go to the hospital, she says, at least not until you come.’

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can, Mrs Cox. Tell Great Aunt Thirza, will you?’

Mary switched off the gas under the frying-pan and went to find her mother.

CHAPTER TWO

THERE were cars parked on either side of the road where Mrs Winton lived. Mary wedged the elderly Austin into the space between a new Rover and a Rolls Royce and nipped smartly across the pavement and up the steps to the front door.

‘I thought you’d never get here,’ said Mrs Cox, no longer the silent and austere housekeeper now that she was thoroughly put out. ‘Your aunt’s real poorly; the doctor’s with her now.’

‘If she’s so ill she must go back to hospital or have a nurse here—where’s this doctor?’

‘Ah—the niece,’ said a voice gently beside her. There he was—the man she had been thinking of all day and every day, standing a foot from her, smiling. ‘Mrs Winton’s doctor is with her; I thought it best if I were to have a word with you...’ He glanced at Mrs Cox. ‘If we might go somewhere quiet?’

They were ushered into the drawing-room and Mary sat down on the self-same horsehair chair that she had so happily vacated so short a time ago. She was glad to sit down; she had never believed that nonsense about knees turning to jelly when one was confronted by the loved one, but hers were jelly now.

‘Fancy seeing you again,’ she said, and added, ‘That’s a silly thing to say.’ And she blushed because he was smiling again, although he said nothing.

He stood by the door, watching her, and presently said, ‘Your aunt has had a mild heart attack. Not serious enough for her to return to hospital but she will need to stay quietly at home for a few days. As you may know, the treatment is now quite an active one, but she is old which largely precludes it. If it is difficult for you to stay with her I’m sure Dr Symes will be able to find a nurse from one of the agencies, but I understand from Mrs Winton that you are a very capable young woman, and, of course, a nurse—a private nurse—is a costly expense in these days.’

I don’t cost a penny, reflected Mary bleakly.

‘There will be very little for you to do,’ said the Professor smoothly, watching her expressive face from under heavy lids. ‘See that she takes gentle exercise each day, eats sensibly, doesn’t become agitated...’ Mary gave him a cold look. ‘Yes, I quite understand that Mrs Winton is used to having her own way, but she appears to like you and will probably do what you ask of her.’

He came and sat down opposite her on another horsehair chair. ‘You are needed at home?’ He sounded casually sympathetic. ‘You live close by?’

‘No, no, I don’t; at least, Hampstead isn’t far, but it’s an awkward journey. Besides, there’s no one to see to the house.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘You live alone? I gathered from the hospital that Mrs Winton was staying with a nephew—your father?’

‘Yes, but Father’s writing a book and my mother paints. My sister’s only thirteen and she’s at school all day. Mrs Blackett could manage for a day or two, but she’s always on the point of leaving.’

‘Mrs Blackett?’ prompted the professor gently, greatly enjoying himself.

‘Our daily. At least, she comes four mornings a week, but—she didn’t get on well with Great Aunt Thirza.’

‘Just so.’ The professor might have been only thirty-five years old, but his manner was that of a man twice his age, seemingly prepared to listen sympathetically and give suitable advice. Mary responded to that; she had plenty of friends of her own age, but it wouldn’t have entered her head to bore them with her worries, but here was a sympathetic ear, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to unburden herself.

‘Mother——’ she began. ‘Mother’s a darling, and so clever with a paintbrush, but of course she’s artistic and she doesn’t really like cooking and that kind of thing; besides, the money she gets for the cards is most useful. And Father’s very clever; he doesn’t notice what’s going on around him. I wouldn’t change them for the world but they simply can’t manage unless someone is there to see to the house. Polly’s splendid, but she’s at school and there’s homework. So you see it is a bit awkward if I have to stay here...’ She added snappily, ‘Not that I’m indispensable...’

‘No, no,’ soothed Professor van Rakesma. ‘Of course not, but I see that you have problems. Would it help if you were to go home for a few hours each day? Perhaps while your aunt rests in the afternoons?’

‘Have you any idea what the traffic is like between here and Hampstead—the other end of Hampstead?’

He tucked this useful piece of information away at the back of his mind and said that he had a very good idea. ‘If a nurse were to relieve you for a few hours each day would that help?’ And at her look of surprise he added, ‘I’m sure the National Health Service would be prepared to pay for her; she would cost a lot less than having your aunt in hospital, besides giving us another empty bed. Always in short supply.’

‘Would they? Who should I ask?’

‘Leave that to me. Now, I think we might join Dr Symes and his patient.’

Great Aunt Thirza was sitting, propped up by pillows, in a vast mahogany bed; she looked pale and tired and Mary forgot how tiresome the whole thing was and bent to kiss her cheek. ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Thirza, but a few days’ rest and you’ll be as right as rain.’

‘So that foreign man tells me. Dr Symes is of no use at all—nice enough, but of course all doctors are fools, and don’t contradict me, miss!’ She caught Mary’s hand. ‘You’ll stay, Mary?’

‘Until you are better, yes, Aunt Thirza.’

Mrs Winton closed her eyes. ‘Then go away and leave me in peace.’

Mary looked at the two men. Dr Symes nodded to her to go with him, leaving the professor at the bedside. Outside the door he said, ‘She’ll listen to him. Are you sure you can manage? I’ll be in every day and I dare say Professor van Rakesma will visit again. It was a piece of luck that I happened to be on the other phone to him when the housekeeper rang up—said he’d seen her at St Justin’s and asked if he might come and see her. Very civil of him.’

She agreed, and added sedately, ‘I’m sure it will be a great relief to Aunt Thirza to know that she is being looked after so well. You’ll be here in the morning?’

‘After surgery, but phone me if you are worried.’

They were joined by the professor then, who, beyond wishing her good morning, had nothing further to say before the two men went out to their cars and drove away. She shut the door and went to find Mrs Cox.

‘You’re staying, Miss Mary? I told the doctor and I’m telling you that I’m the housekeeper, not the nurse. I’ve enough to do without fetching and carrying all day and half the night.’

‘Yes, of course I’ll stay, Mrs Cox. Professor van Rakesma thinks that Mrs Winton will be fully recovered in a short time. I’m sure that it must have been a nasty shock to you when she became ill again. I’ll look after my aunt so please don’t worry; I’m sure that you have enough to do.’

Mrs Cox bridled. ‘Well, as to that, I’m sure I’m willing to give a hand when necessary—though I won’t be left alone with Mrs Winton.’

‘No, no. No one would ask you to do that. I’m sure we’ll manage very well between us. I’ll go and see my aunt now. I dare say she’s tired after being examined.’

Great Aunt Thirza was asleep. Mary stealthily opened a window, and sat down on a little spoon-back chair and went over her conversation with the professor. He had said that she was to leave things to him, that he would arrange for someone to come each day so that she could go home, but he was a busy man and, however well meant, she doubted if anything would come of that.

It had been a delightful surprise seeing him again, she reflected, not that he had been over-friendly. Well, she conceded, he’s been kind and helpful, but she rather thought that he would be that to anyone with a problem. She had to admit that he had shown no special interest in her, but then why should he? Probably he was happily married...

‘Why are you sitting there?’ demanded Great Aunt Thirza. ‘There’s surely something you can be doing? I don’t approve of idle hands.’

‘I was waiting for you to wake up,’ said Mary. ‘Dr Symes wants you to have a warm drink—tea or milk or cocoa?’

Great Aunt Thirza was feeling cantankerous. ‘I don’t want a drink...’

Mary got to her feet. ‘I’ll bring you a tray of tea-Earl Grey—and do you fancy a little fish for your lunch?’

‘Fish! Fish? I’m very ill, girl, probably dying...’

‘Professor van Rakesma said that you will be up and about in a few days. You’ve had a nasty fright, Aunt Thirza, but there’s no question of your dying. A nice little piece of sole, with a morsel of creamed potato and perhaps a purée of new peas?’

‘You may bring it to me,’ said the old lady ungraciously, ‘but I shall most likely be unable to eat it.’

It seemed a very long day to Mary; her aunt kept her busy, for she was a bad patient, prone to do exactly the opposite to what she was asked to do, so that Mary got into bed quite worn out with hanging on to her patience. She had phoned her mother that evening, and was relieved that everything was going smoothly at home—although Mrs Pagett’s efforts at cooking supper seemed to have been rather chaotic.

‘You won’t have to stay there long?’ her mother had asked.

‘No, I don’t think so.’ She recounted what the doctor had said but didn’t mention the professor’s offer to find a relief for her each day. It had been a kind thought, she reflected sleepily, but he would have forgotten by now.

He hadn’t though. Mary was carrying her aunt’s lunch tray downstairs the next day when Mrs Cox admitted an elderly woman in a nurse’s uniform.

Mary, poised on the bottom tread of the stairs, stared at her. ‘He actually meant it,’ she exclaimed.

The woman smiled. ‘Indeed he did. Professor van Rakesma seldom says much, but when he does he means it. He has arranged for me to come each day while you are here—two o’clock until half-past five.’

Mary put down her tray and shook hands. ‘That’s very kind and thoughtful of him—and kind of you too. It’s not interfering with your work? I didn’t realise that the Health Service were so helpful.’

‘Well, you must have time to yourself. I’m Maisie Stone.’ She glanced at Mrs Cox, who was standing by the door looking rather sour.

‘This is Mrs Cox, my aunt’s housekeeper,’ said Mary hastily. ‘She runs the house beautifully and is such a help.’

Mrs Cox looked smug. ‘I’m sure I do my best but, as I told Miss Mary here, I won’t do no nursing or lifting or suchlike.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t expect you to do that,’ said Mrs Stone comfortably. ‘I’m sure we shall get on very well together.’ She turned to Mary. ‘If I might take a look at the patient?’

Ten minutes later Mary was in the car, driving home. It was an awkward journey, but she had discovered several short cuts and the traffic wasn’t too heavy and it was worth it; her mother was delighted to see her—it wasn’t one of Mrs Blackett’s days and the kitchen needed urgent attention. Mary put on a pinny. ‘If you’ll make us a cup of tea—there’s a cake in the tin on the dresser—I’ll just clear these dishes and saucepans. What had you planned for the evening?’

‘There’s that chicken you were going to roast...’

‘I’ll casserole it. Then all you’ll have to do is put it in the oven a couple of hours before you want it.’ Mary picked up a teatowel. ‘Mother, supposing I write down what you need to buy each day? Then when I come home I’ll get it ready to cook.’

‘Oh, darling, would you? I’ve been so busy I’ve hardly had a moment to do any painting. Perhaps Polly...?’

‘Well, no, love, she’s got a lot of prep to do when she gets home, hasn’t she? If you pop down to the shops each morning you’ll have the rest of the day to work—you and Father can have a cold lunch. Is he at home?’

‘No. He said he’d be back about five o’clock.’

Mary hung the teacloth to dry and sat down at the table. ‘So we’ll have tea and decide what to buy tomorrow.’

‘Will you be away long?’ asked her mother wistfully. ‘We don’t seem able to get on very well when you’re not here, dear.’

‘Not long, and I can come home each afternoon— well, most of them; I don’t know about weekends.’

But when Sunday came Mrs Stone arrived at her usual hour, and this time the professor was. with her. He took a quick look at Mrs Winton, pronounced her greatly improved, suggested that she could take some exercise each day and, as they went downstairs, observed casually that since he had heard that Mary lived at Hampstead, and he was on his way there, he would give her a lift.

Mary paused on the bottom tread. ‘Thank you; that’s kind of you to offer but I’ve got our car—I have to get back again, you see.’

‘I’m invited to tea with my godson—his parents live near the Heath. I’ll pick you up at around five o’clock and collect Maisie.’

Even though she was so much in love with him and could hardly bear him out of her sight Mary took a few moments to agree to this. Her heart might be his, but common sense told her that allowing herself to get involved wouldn’t do at all. A prudent refusal was on the tip of her tongue when he said, ‘Well, run along and get your coat and we can be off.’

He sounded just like the older of her two brothers; besides, if she refused to go she might never see him again...

She went out to the car with him and he opened the door for her to get in. There was a dog sitting behind the steering-wheel—a Jack Russell, white and black with a whiskered face full of intelligence. He eyed her beadily and the professor said, ‘A friend, Richard,’ and went round to his door and got in.

Richard moved to sit between them, panting and uttering short happy barks. Mary rubbed his ears and asked, ‘Why Richard? It’s an unusual name for a dog.’

‘He has a lion’s heart. Don’t let him crowd you; you like dogs?’

‘Yes, but we haven’t got one. We have a cat called Bingo.’

He began to talk about her aunt then; he sounded exactly like a family doctor, which made him remote so that she couldn’t find the courage to ask him about his work, let alone his personal life. Even though he talked about Mrs Winton it was surprising the amount of information he gleaned from her without giving the least inkling of his own life.

They were very nearly at her home when she asked shyly, ‘Do you live here in England or go back to Holland?’

‘My home is in Holland but I spend a good deal of time here.’ He added lightly, ‘A foot in either camp, as it were.’

Which left her knowing no more about him than that.

He stopped before her home and she thanked him with a hand on the door ready to jump out, but he was there before her, holding her door open—something Arthur wouldn’t have dreamt of doing even if she’d had her arms full of parcels. Arthur would have sat behind the wheel and said, ‘So long, old girl.’

Professor van Rakesma was older and wiser than Arthur, besides the fact that he had nice manners. He opened the gate, glanced at the shabby house with its elaborate gables and said, ‘There must be a splendid view from the back of your home.’

‘Oh, there is—the Heath, you know.’

They stood facing each other, either side of the gate, and he smiled suddenly. ‘I’ll be back around five o’clock, Miss Pagett.’

She went up the overgrown drive to the front door and turned round to look when she reached it. He was still there, and she wondered uneasily if he had expected to be asked in. He had said that he was going to have tea with his godson ... She opened the door and went inside.

Polly came into the hall to meet her. ‘Mary, I haven’t seen you for days. Mother’s in the hut and Father’s in the study. I cooked most of the lunch. Can you stay for tea? I made some rock cakes.’

‘Lovely, Polly, and I can stay for tea, but I have to be ready to leave at five o’clock.’ She went on with a slightly heightened colour, ’I have a lift here and back.’

‘Not Arthur?’

‘Heavens, no. What I mean is, I don’t think he knows I’m at Aunt Thirza’s house.’

‘Then who?’

‘Professor van Rakesma brought Mrs Stone, who relieves me each day, and since he was visiting someone in Hampstead he said he’d bring me home and drive me back.’

‘What’s he like? I know you said he had ginger hair and blue eyes but is he nice?’

‘Very nice.’

‘Is he married?’

‘I really don’t know. He’s—he’s not a man to talk about himself, I think.’

‘Well, then, he’s a nice change from Arthur,’ observed Polly. ‘It would be nice if he fell in love with you and married you, and that would be one in the eye for Arthur.’

‘Arthur is a good, steady man,’ said Mary as they went into the kitchen and began to gather things ready for tea.

‘Oh, pooh,’ said Polly. ‘Can you imagine what he’ll be like in ten years’ time?’

Mary knew exactly what she meant.

On Sundays, when they were all at home, they had tea in the drawing-room—a large, lofty-ceilinged place and very draughty since the old-fashioned windows were ill-fitting and allowed the air to seep in round their frames. In winter, of course, the door was shut and no one went near the place; it would have cost a fortune to light a fire large enough to warm the room and there was a damp patch in one corner which dried out during the summer and reappeared each autumn.

Today was dry and warm, however, and the room, though shabby and on the chilly side, was pleasant enough; the chairs were elderly but comfortable and Mary and Mrs Blackett kept the tables and cabinets polished. They laid the tea things on a table by the big bay window at the back of the room and Mary cut sandwiches while Polly cut the cake and boiled the kettle.

As Mary sliced and spread she allowed her thoughts to wander. Professor van Rakesma was probably at that very moment eating his tea somewhere in Hampstead. It would be a more elegant meal than she was preparing, of course—good china and silver teaspoons and cake-stands. He must be glad to get away from the hospital, which was jammed tight among narrow, busy city streets. Would he live there? she wondered, and dismissed the idea. Consultants would only be at the hospital at certain times; he must have a flat ...

‘Mary.’ Polly had raised her voice. ‘I’ve been talking to you for ages and you haven’t heard a word. Are you in love? You look quite moony.’

‘Good heavens, no.’

Mary spoke so sharply that Polly said, ‘Well, you don’t have to snap my head off. P’haps you are tired. Great Aunt Thirza’s pretty grim, isn’t she?’

‘She’s old. Will you be a darling and fetch Mother from the hut? And I’ll get Father.’

Tea was a pleasant, leisurely meal. Mrs Pagett wondered in her dreamy way when Mary would be home again, and her father remarked in a vexed voice that when she was away he could never find anything that he wanted.

‘I’ll be home soon,’ soothed Mary. ‘Aunt Thirza is much better and she’s to start doing more tomorrow.’

‘That’s nice, dear. Don’t let her tire you too much,’ observed her mother. ‘I suppose you have to go back after tea?’

‘Yes. Five o’clock. Professor van Rakesma gave me a lift here and is calling for me then.’

‘He could have come to tea...’

‘He was going to have tea with his godson, somewhere in Hampstead.’

‘Will he be coming in? I still have one or two cards—’

’He won’t come in, Mother. I’ll wait for him at the gate—he’ll want to get back:

Mrs Pagett got up. ‘Then you won’t mind if I go back to the but and get on with my painting, darling. I’ll see you tomorrow, I expect.’

She wandered away down the garden and presently Mr Pagett got up too. ‘I’ll leave you two to tidy up; I’ll only be in the way.’

Polly ate the last sandwich. ‘I’ll wash up,’ she volunteered, ‘after you’ve gone.’

‘We’ll do it together—there’s fifteen minutes before he’ll be here.’

They cleared the table together and went into the kitchen. Mary turned on the sink taps and waited patiently for the water to get warm—the boiler was beginning to get temperamental—and Polly went off to feed Bingo. She went out of the back door to call him in and found him lying comfortably in a rose bed by the gate. Professor van Rakesma was leaning over the gate, doing nothing.

‘Hello,’ Polly danced up to him. ‘Have you come for Mary? She’s in the kitchen, washing up.’ She scooped up Bingo and added, ‘Open the gate and follow me.’

The professor smiled down at her. ‘Shall I be welcome?’

‘Why ever not? If you’re a professor shouldn’t you be old or at least elderly?’

‘Er—you know, I’d never thought about it. I shall, of course, in due time be elderly and hopefully old.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Thirty-five.’ He sounded amused.

‘I’m thirteen. Mary’s twenty-four, getting on a bit; if she doesn’t marry Arthur she’ll be an old maid.’

‘Then let us hope that there is an alternative.’

They had arrived without haste at the kitchen door and he stood for a moment watching Mary, who was attacking a saucepan with a great deal of energy so that her hair was coming loose as she rubbed and scoured. She didn’t see him at once but when Bingo let out an impatient miauw said, ‘You found him. Good. I can’t think why this saucepan is burnt—what...?’

Something made her turn her head then. Feeling very much at a disadvantage, and aware that she hardly looked her best, she said peevishly, ‘You should have come to the front door.’

He said meekly, his heavy lids hiding the gleam of amusement in his eyes, ‘I do apologise. I’ll go back and ring the bell while you tuck your hair up and assume your usual calm manner!’

She smiled then, and Polly laughed. ‘I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to be rude.’

‘Think nothing of it; I am convinced that a burnt saucepan is enough to upset any housewife worth her salt.’

Polly said suddenly, ‘I like you. You’re not a bit like a professor. Are you married? Because if you aren’t you might—’

Mary, with a heightened colour, interrupted her briskly. ‘Polly, be an angel and tell Father I’m just going, will you?’ She was washing her hands and wishing that she could get to a comb and a looking-glass. Heaven alone knew what she looked like. ‘I’ll get my handbag...’

Polly went with them to the car and the professor waited patiently while she admired it. ‘I’ve never ridden in a Rolls Royce,’ she observed wistfully.

‘Then I will come and take you for a ride one day.’

‘You will? You promise?’

‘I promise.’

‘You’re great—I do wish that Mary—’ She caught her sister’s look of outrage and went on airily, ‘Well, perhaps I’d better not say that.’ When they were in the car she poked her head through the open window. ‘If you take a good look at Mary she’s quite pretty!’

The professor spoke gravely. ‘I agree with you absolutely, Polly.’ He waved goodbye and drove off and Mary, very red in the face, was relieved when he didn’t even glance at her.

She said presently, ‘You mustn’t take any notice of Polly—she’s a bit outspoken.’

‘One forgets how delightful it was when one could speak honestly—something quickly smothered by the conventions. Have you ever considered how much happier we would be if we uttered our real feelings instead of the well-mannered platitudes expected of us?’

‘Well, it would be nice sometimes to say just what one wished to say...’ She stared ahead of her. ‘I expect you have to—to—wrap up your words to your patients.’

‘Indeed I do, but if I’m asked a straight question then I give an honest answer.’

‘You like being a doctor?’

He smiled faintly. ‘Yes, it has been, until very recently, the one great interest in my life.’

She thought about this. ‘Are you going to get married?’

‘Shall we say, rather, that I have from time to time considered it?’ He glanced at her. ‘And you?’

‘Me? No...’ She cast around to find some light-hearted remark about that, and was relieved when Richard, perched between them, decided that her lap would be more comfortable. After that they said very little until he stopped at Great Aunt Thirza’s front door.

After he and Maisie had gone Mary, preparing her aunt’s supper since Mrs Cox had gone to church, allowed her thoughts to dwell on the professor. His goodbye had been polite but uninterested, just as though, she thought bitterly, he had discharged a task and was thankful that it was done. Well, she would take care to keep out of his way in future; she would badger Dr Symes to allow her to go home within the next day or two.

She carried out her plan on the following morning when Dr Symes arrived. There was really no reason for her to stay any longer; Great Aunt Thirza was quite recovered, she told him. Dr Symes agreed.

‘I can arrange for a practice nurse to come in each morning, just to keep an eye on things, and both Professor van Rakesma and I are agreed that the sooner your aunt returns to her normal, quiet way of living the better. You do understand that there may be further heart attacks, but living an invalid’s life is no guarantee against that?’

‘So it would be quite all right for me to go home in a day or two? Of course I’ll come over and see my aunt—I could come each day if you thought that I should—but I really need to be at home...’

‘Yes, of course; shall we say the day after tomorrow?’

Mary told Maisie that afternoon. ‘I expect Dr Symes will tell Professor van Rakesma, won’t he?’

Maisie nodded. ‘Suie to—after all, the professor was consulted in the first place, although of course your aunt is Dr Symes’s patient. Don’t worry, my dear. You could stay here for months and your aunt would be as fit as a fiddle, on the other hand she could die tomorrow; you never know with heart cases, and she is an old lady.’

As if in complete agreement with Maisie’s words, Great Aunt Thirza died peacefully in her sleep that night.

It was Mary, taking her an early morning cup of tea, who found her. She put the small tray she was carrying slowly down on to the bedside table. The cup rattled in the saucer because her hands were shaking but she stayed calm, aware of regret that the old lady had died and at the same time glad that her end had been so peaceful.

She wasn’t going to pretend to a sorrow she didn’t feel; Great Aunt Thirza had been a difficult and despotic member of the family, but all the same she had been family. Mary murmured a childish prayer and went to phone Dr Symes.

Mary had plenty to occupy her for the next few days. Her father reluctantly undertook to make all the necessary arrangements, but she and Mrs Cox were left to deal with all the details. Maisie had come, alerted by Dr Symes Mary supposed, and proved invaluable, but although Mary’s father had dealt with the undertakers he had left a great deal for her to do.

‘I’ve let Aunt Thirza’s solicitor know,’ he told her. ‘He’ll see to everything, my dear. The funeral is on Friday; did I tell you?’

‘No, Father. Do you want everyone to come back here afterwards? It’s usual. Mrs Cox will see to that side of things.’

‘Do what you like, Mary. I told the solicitor to let any friends know.’ He smiled briefly. ‘I don’t think your Great Aunt Thirza had many.’ He added vaguely, ‘She was twelve years older than my mother and the last of her generation.’

He patted her arm, ‘Well, my dear, I think I’ve seen to everything. Arrange things with your mother, won’t you? I have an appointment later on today...’

There weren’t many people at the funeral other than the family. There was Mrs Cox, of course, tight-slipped and dour in black; she had said little to Mary but Mary guessed that she was worried about her future—she had been with Great Aunt Thirza for many years and another job might be hard to find now that she was past middle age. There were several old ladies there too—Great Aunt Thirza’s bridge companions. They said little, but ate Mrs Cox’s splendid tea with relish.

It was when they had all gone that Mr Shuttleworth, “Great Aunt Thirza’s solicitor, observed that he would now read the will. He was an old man, and Mary, who had a vivid imagination, thought that he looked as if someone had taken him out of a cupboard and dusted him down for the occasion.

Great Aunt Thirza having been Great Aunt Thirza, her will held no pleasant surprises. Mrs Cox was to have the contents of the wardrobe and two thousand pounds, Mr Pagett three thousand pounds, Polly the full set of Encyclopaedia Brittanica and Mary an early edition of Mrs Beeton’s cookery book, with the hope that by its perusal she might improve her cooking.

The house, its contents and the remainder of her not inconsiderable fortune were to be given to various charities.

Mrs Pagett received nothing, which caused her no distress at all. Great Aunt Thirza had never approved of her designing Christmas and greetings cards; she had once observed that it was no suitable occupation for a lady. Mrs Pagett, even if she was whimsical, didn’t lack spirit; she had laughed and muttered, ‘Pooh,’ before going away to her shed.

Mary watched Mr Shuttleworth tidy away his papers. It was a pity that Great Aunt Thirza hadn’t left her father a larger portion of her fortune. All the same, perhaps now the roof might get a few necessary tiles and the old boiler could be replaced with something modern. She saw Mr Shuttleworth to the door, her mind busy with domestic problems.

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