her future. She couldn’t alter it for the moment, for she had given her word to her mother, but there was no reason why she shouldn’t try and learn some skill, something she could do at home. She was handy with her needle, but she didn’t think there was much future in that; maybe she could learn how to use a computer—it seemed that was vital for any job. There were courses she could take at home, but how to get hold of a computer?
Even if she found something, where would she get the money to pay for it? She had to account for every penny of the housekeeping money her father gave her each month, and when she had asked him for an allowance so that she might buy anything she needed for herself, he had told her to buy what she needed and have the bill sent to him. But to buy toothpaste and soap and expect the shopkeeper to send a bill for such a trivial purchase really wasn’t possible, so she managed to add these items to the household bills from the village shop.
Since she hardly ever went out socially, she contrived to manage with her small wardrobe. She had on one occasion actually gone to Yeovil and bought a dress and had the bill sent to her father, but it had caused such an outcry that she had never done it since. She had never been sure if the heart attack he had assured her she had given him had been genuine or not, for he had refused to have the doctor. Instead he had lain in his bed, heaping reproaches on her head every time she had entered the room. By no means a meek girl, Serena had nonetheless felt forced to believe him.
Ten days later, on a bright May morning, Mr Perkins the family solicitor called. He was a nice old man, for when her mother had died, and he had been summoned by Mr Lightfoot, he had come upon Serena in the kitchen, crying her eyes out. He had patted her on the arm and told her not to be too unhappy.
‘At least your father has provided for your future,’ he had reassured her. ‘You need never have that worry. I should not be telling you this, but it may help a little.’
She had thanked him and thought little of it at the time, but over the years she had come to assume that at least her future was secure.
Now Mr Perkins, older and greyer, was back again, and was closeted for a long time with her father. When he came downstairs at length he looked upset, refused the coffee she offered him and drove away with no more than a brief goodbye. He had remonstrated against Mr Lightfoot’s new will, but to no avail.
Serena’s brothers had mentioned her wish to have a holiday to their father. They had been well meaning, but Mr Lightfoot, incensed by what he deemed to be gross ingratitude and flightiness on the part of Serena, had, in a fit of quite uncalled for rage, altered his will.
Mr Perkins came with his clerk the next day and witnessed its signature, and on the following day Mr Lightfoot had a stroke.
CHAPTER TWO
MR LIGHTFOOT’S stroke was only to be expected; a petulant man, and a bully by nature, his intolerance had led him to believe that he was always right and everyone else either wrong or stupid. High blood pressure and an unhealthy lifestyle did nothing to help this, nor did his liking for rich food. He lay in his bed for long periods, imagining that he was suffering from some serious condition and being neglected by Serena, and now the last straw, as it were, was to be laid on the camel’s back: he had ordered sweetbreads for his lunch, with a rich sauce, asparagus, and baby new potatoes, to be followed by a trifle.
Serena pointed out in her usual sensible manner that the sweetbreads would be just as tasty without the sauce, and wouldn’t an egg custard be better than trifle? ‘And I shall have to go to the village—the butcher may not have sweetbreads. What else would you like?’
Mr Lightfoot sat up in bed, casting the newspaper from him. ‘I’ve told you what I wish to eat. Are you so stupid that you cannot understand me?’
‘Don’t get excited, Father,’ said Serena. ‘Mrs Pike will be here presently, and I’ll go to the village. She will bring your coffee…’
While she was in the village he refused the coffee, and then, when Mrs Pike was working in the kitchen, he went downstairs and unlocked the cupboard where he kept the whisky.
Serena, back home, bade Mrs Pike goodbye and set about getting her father’s lunch. She did it reluctantly, for she considered that he ate the wrong food and was wasting his life in bed, or sitting in his chair doing nothing.
‘A good walk in the fresh air,’ said Serena, unwrapping the sweetbreads, ‘and meeting friends, playing golf or something.’ Only fresh air was contrary to Mr Lightfoot’s ideas of healthy living and he had no friends now.
At exactly one o’clock she bore the tray up to his room. He was sitting up in bed, propped up on his pillows reading the Financial Times, but he cast the paper down as she went in.
‘Well, bring the tray here, Serena. How very slow you are. Probably because you don’t have enough to do. I must consider dismissing Mrs Pike. There isn’t enough work for two strong women to do in this house.’
Serena set the tray on his knees. She said, in the colourless voice she used when she needed to show self-restraint, ‘Mrs Pike is sixty and has rheumatism; she can’t kneel or bend—you can hardly call her strong. Even if I’m strong, I have only one pair of hands. If you send her away it would mean that either I do no housework and look after you and cook, or do the housework and feed you sandwiches.’
He wasn’t listening, but poking at the food on his plate with a fork.
‘These aren’t lamb’s sweetbreads. I particularly told you that they are the only ones I am able to digest.’
‘The butcher only had these…’
Mr Lightfoot raised his voice to a roar. ‘You thoughtless girl. You are quite uncaring of my comfort and health.’
He picked up the plate and threw it across the room, and a second later had his stroke.
‘Father,’ said Serena urgently, and when he lay silently against his pillows she sped to the bed. Her father was a nasty colour and he was breathing noisily, his eyes closed. She took his pulse, settled his head more comfortably on a pillow and reached for the phone by the bed.
Dr Bowring, on the point of carving the half-leg of lamb his wife had set before him, put down the carving knife as the phone rang.
He addressed his wife and their guest in a vexed voice. ‘This always happens just as we are about to have a meal. Sorry about this, Ivo.’
He went to answer the phone, and was back again within a minute.
‘Serena Lightfoot. Her father has collapsed. He isn’t my patient. He showed me the door a couple of years ago; doesn’t believe in doctors, treats himself and has turned into a professional invalid. But I’ll have to go…’ He glanced at Ivo van Doelen. ‘Like to come with me, Ivo? She’s alone, and if he’s fallen I’ll need help.’
Serena, shocked though she was, didn’t lose her head. She ran downstairs and opened the front door, and then went back to her father. She had little idea as to what to do for him, so she sat on the side of the bed and took one of his flaccid hands in hers and told him in a quiet voice that he wasn’t to worry, that the doctor was coming, that he would be better presently; she had read somewhere or other that quite often someone who had had a stroke was able to hear, even if they were unable to speak…
The two men came quietly into the room and saw her sitting there. They saw the mess of asparagus, potatoes and sweetbreads, too, scattered on the floor. Dr Bowring said quietly, ‘Hello, Serena. You don’t mind that I have brought a friend—a medical man, too—with me? I wasn’t sure if there would be any lifting to do.’
She nodded, and looked in a bewildered fashion at his companion. It was the man who had been on Barrow Hill. She got up from the bed to make way for the two men.
‘Can you tell me what happened?’
She told him in a quiet voice, and added, ‘You see, he was angry because they weren’t the sweetbreads he had told me to get. The butcher didn’t have them.’ She sighed. ‘I annoyed