gape at him, astonished that he had hit the nail on the head so unerringly. He went on matter-of-factly: ‘Is everything locked up and put away, or can we have a cup of coffee? I was on my way back from a patient of mine in Guildford and it seemed an idea to come this way. I didn’t expect to find anyone here.’ His eyes had taken in the bowl of roses on the side table. ‘Flowers,’ he observed, ‘and a wonderful smell of polish and lavender bags. Thank you, specially as you had no need to do it.’
Euphemia sniffed. ‘I wasn’t going to hand it over all dusty and—and lonely.’ She got out a hanky and blew her nose vigorously and wiped her eyes. ‘I’ll get some coffee.’
They went into the kitchen together and she made coffee for them both while he carried on a rather one-sided conversation about nothing in particular. They left the house together presently, and he gave her no chance to linger but ushered her through the door with a brisk: ‘Of course, you will be coming back, probably sooner than you think.’
Euphemia had murmured something, intent on being sensible and unsentimental about it all, then got into the Morris and driven away after bidding him goodbye in answer to his own still brisk farewell. He had been kind, she acknowledged, as she started on the drive back to the hospital, but she still didn’t like him. And why had he been there, anyway? He hadn’t told her that. She shrugged the thought aside; it didn’t matter now, in a few hours he would be living there. She wanted to cry again because she was lonely and missed her father, and picking up the threads of life and changing its pattern wouldn’t be easy.
She flung herself into her work with an energy which left her nurses breathless, and even Sir Richard, pausing at the end of his round to bid her a courteous farewell, remarked that her devotion to duty exceeded even his high standards. ‘But I daresay you are glad to be occupied,’ he observed, ‘although it must be a great relief to you to know that Dr van Diederijk is your tenant at Hampton-cum-Spyway and not some stranger.’
Euphemia clenched her teeth on the observation that he was, at any rate to her, a complete stranger. She agreed politely and sped the great man on his way to the Women’s Medical. But it was a relief all the same when the cheque for the handsome sum Dr van Diederijk was paying every month arrived by the next day’s post. She paid it into the bank with instructions that the mortgage was to be paid each month. There was still a little money over: holidays, she decided, clothes for the boys, and perhaps it would pay for some sort of training for Ellen, only she wasn’t sure what. Of course, Ellen might marry. She had had a number of boyfriends, although Euphemia didn’t think that she was serious about any of them; all the same it was a very likely possibility.
Euphemia stopped thinking about Ellen for a moment and thought about herself. Matthew Patterson, whose parents lived on the other side of the green, had asked her to marry him several times, but she had refused him on each occasion; his eyes were too close together, she considered, and he had a nasty temper. And there was Terry Walker too, Senior Medical Registrar, who had proposed, rather lightheartedly, she had to admit—besides, she had the lowering feeling that when he discovered her father had left them all without a penny, he wouldn’t be as keen as he made out. Miss Blackstock, with a highly respected colonel for a father and a supposedly comfortable portion of his worldly goods to come her way sooner or later, was a rather different kettle of fish from Miss Blackstock with nothing at all. But it was hardly fair to think about herself; it was the boys who mattered. The house would have gone to Nicky and she must at all costs try and save it for him. The sums she had scribbled on the backs of envelopes and scraps of paper weren’t encouraging; the mortgage would take fifteen years to pay off, which would be about right for Nicky but would leave her, at the ripe age of forty-two, exactly where she was now…
It was almost a week later when she received a brief note from Dr van Diederijk inviting her to join himself and a few friends for drinks at her old home. In four days’ time, he had written in a rather sprawling hand, and underlined the date and the time. She read it several times and then put it down on her desk as Terry Walker walked in.
He was a good-looking youngish man, ambitious and good at his work but not over-liked by his colleagues. He smiled at her now in a rather guarded manner and asked: ‘What’s this I hear about you renting your house? Surely you’ll need to keep it open for the boys and your sister?’ And when she didn’t answer at once: ‘You didn’t have to rent it, did you?’ He gave her a sharp look and although she hadn’t meant to tell him anything she changed her mind now.
‘Yes, we did. The house is mortgaged.’
He looked so surprised that she felt quite sorry for him. ‘You mean you’ve no money?’ At her cold stare he added hastily: ‘What I mean is, how about the boys—their education?’
‘That’s safe enough.’ She saw the embarrassment on his face and felt sorry for him—after all, he had been home with her once or twice and he must have got the impression that her background was comfortable and solid. To lighten the atmosphere she picked up the letter. ‘I’ve had an invitation to have drinks in my own home, don’t you think that was nice of Dr van Diederijk?’
Terry read it quickly. ‘Good lord, you’re not going? Can’t you see he’s only being polite? I don’t imagine for one moment he expects you to go. He couldn’t do less than ask you, of course, knowing that you won’t accept.’
Euphemia kept her eyes on the desk, which was a good thing, because they glittered like topazes. She said softly: ‘No, of course not,’ a remark which could have meant a lot or nothing at all. As she got up to accompany Terry on his round, she was already planning what she should wear.
She took care to get to Hampton-cum-Spyway a little late. The last thing she wanted was a tête-à-tête with her host, and she had timed it well. There were a number of cars strung out around the green and lights in all the downstairs windows. As she rang the bell she could hear the discreet hum of conversation coming from the drawing-room.
Mrs Cross opened the door, wearing the blue overall and looking important. ‘Oh, it’s you, Miss Euphemia—you could have walked in—it’s your ’ouse.’ She smiled briefly. ‘I’m ever so busy.’
‘I’m sure you are,’ agreed Euphemia, ‘but I couldn’t really walk in, now could I?’ She went to the mirror above the wall table and tucked away a strand of hair. She had taken pains to make the most of herself and the dress she was wearing, while not new, was an expensive one her father had given her on her last birthday; finely pleated chiffon over a silk slip, very simply cut, its blues and greens and tawny shades making the most of her eyes.
‘And very nice, too,’ commented Dr van Diederijk from the drawing-room door. ‘I was beginning to think that you weren’t coming.’
She held out her hand. ‘There was a good deal of traffic…’ She gave him a social smile and was annoyed to see that he was looking amused, but he replied gravely enough: ‘It was good of you to come.’
They crossed the hall together. ‘Well, I was curious,’ she told him frankly, and was put out at his bland: ‘Yes, I thought you might be.’
The drawing-room was full. At first glance Euphemia was reassured to see a number of faces she already knew, but there were an equal number of people she had never seen before. Dr van Diederijk touched her arm lightly and introduced her to a small group of people, several of whom she knew slightly, waited long enough to see that she had a glass of sherry and then moved away. She exchanged small talk for ten minutes or so and then, catching sight of Dr Bell, excused herself and made her way over to him.
‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she told him. ‘I don’t know half these people.’ She took another sherry from a passing waiter and took an appreciative sip, quite forgetting that she’d missed her tea and supper was unlikely.
‘You’re all right, my dear?’ asked Dr Bell kindly.
Euphemia smiled a little tremulously because his sympathy was real and she had grown tired of presenting a calm face to so many people who had asked the same question without really wanting to know. ‘Yes, we’re managing. It’ll get better, won’t it? Just at first… Ellen’s settled