Dearest Love

‘It isn’t always necessary,’ she told him kindly.

‘Ask Miss Baird to deal with it as you go, will you?’

Dr Tavener closed the door behind her and sat down. ‘A paragon,’ he observed mildly. ‘With a plunger too! Do we know anything about her, James?’

‘She comes from a place called Colpin-cum-Witham in Wiltshire. Parents killed in a car crash and—for some reason not specified—she had to leave her home. Presumably no money. Excellent references from the local parson and doctor. She’s on a month’s trial.’ He smiled. ‘Have you got flowers in your room too?’

‘Yes, indeed.’ He added, ‘Don’t let us forget that new brooms sweep clean.’

‘You don’t like her?’

‘My dear James, I don’t know her and it is most unlikely that I shall see enough of her to form an opinion.’ He got up and went to look out of the window. ‘I thought I’d drive up to Leeds—the consultation isn’t until the afternoon. I’ll go on to Birmingham from there and come back on the following day. Miss Baird has fixed my appointments so that I have a couple of days free.’

Dr Marshall nodded. ‘That’s fine. I’m not too keen on going to that seminar in Oslo. Will you go?’

‘Certainly. It’s two weeks ahead, isn’t it? If I fly over it will only take three days.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better do some work; I’ve that article to finish for the Lancet.’ He went to the door. ‘I’ve two patients for this evening, by the way.’

As for Arabella, she went back to her room, had lunch, fed Percy and, after a cautious look round, went into the garden with him, unaware that Dr Tavener was at his desk at the window. He watched her idly, admired Percy’s handsome grey fur, and then forgot her.

Miss Baird had been very helpful. There were, she had told Arabella, one or two small shops not five minutes’ walk away down a small side-street. Arabella put on her jacket and, armed with a shopping-basket, set off to discover them. They were tucked away from the quiet prosperous streets with their large houses—a newsagents, a greengrocer and a small general store. Sufficient for her needs. She stocked up with enough food for a couple of days, bought herself a newspaper and then went back to Wigmore Street. On Saturday, she promised herself, she would spend her free afternoon shopping for some of the things on her list. She was to be paid each week, Miss Baird had told her and, although she should save for an uncertain future, there were some small comforts she would need. She would have all Sunday to work without interruption.

After that first day the week went quickly; by the end of it Arabella had found her feet. She saw little of the nurses and still less of Dr Marshall, and nothing at all of his partner. It was only when she went to Miss Baird to collect her wages that she overheard one of the nurses remark that Dr Tavener would be back on Monday. ‘And a good thing too,’ she had added, ‘for his appointments book is full. He’s away again in a couple of weeks for that seminar in Oslo.’

‘He doesn’t get much time for his love-life, does he?’ laughed the other nurse.

Arabella, with her pay-packet a delightful weight in her pocket, even felt vague relief that he would be going away again. She had been careful to keep out of his way, although she wasn’t sure why, and the last two days while he had been away she had felt much more comfortable. ‘It’s because he’s so large,’ she told Percy, and fell to counting the contents of her pay-packet.

While her parents had been alive she had lived a comfortable enough life. There had always seemed to be money; she had never been spoilt but she had never gone without anything she had needed or asked for. Now she held in her hand what was, for her, quite a large sum of money and she must plan to spend it carefully. New clothes were for the moment out of the question. True, those she had were of good quality and although her wardrobe was small it was more than adequate for her needs. She got paper and pen and checked her list…

It took her until one o’clock to clear up after the Saturday morning appointments and then there was the closing and the locking up to do, the answering machine to set, the few cups and saucers to wash and dry, the gas and electricity to check. She ate a hasty lunch, saw to Percy’s needs then changed into her brown jersey skirt and the checked blouson jacket which went with it, stuck her rather tired feet into the Italian loafers she had bought with her mother in the happy times she tried not to remember too often, and, with her shoulder-bag swinging, caught a bus to Tottenham Court Road.

The tea-chests had yielded several treasures: curtains which could be cut to fit the basement windows and make cushion covers, odds and ends of china and kitchenware, a clock—she remembered it from the kitchen; a small radio—still working; some books and, right at the bottom, a small thin mat which would look nice before the gas fire.

She needed to buy needles and sewing cottons, net curtains, scissors and more towels, shampoo and some soap and, having purchased these, she poked around the cheaper shops until she found what she wanted: a roll of thin matting for the floor—it would be awkward to carry but it would be worth the effort. So, for that matter, would the tin of paint in a pleasing shade of pale apricot. She added a brush and, laden down with her awkward shopping, took a bus back to Wigmore Street.

Back in the basement again, she changed into an elderly skirt and jumper and went into the garden with Percy. It was dusk already and there were no lights on in the rooms above. The house seemed very silent and empty and there was a chilly wind. Percy disliked wind; he hurried back indoors and she locked and bolted the door before getting her supper and feeding him. Her meal over, she washed up and went upstairs to check carefully that everything was just as it should be before going back to lay the matting.

It certainly made a difference to the dim little room; the matting almost covered the mud-coloured flooring, and when she had spread an old-fashioned chenille tablecloth over the round table its cheerful crimson brightened the place further. It had been at the bottom of one of the tea-chests, wrapped around some of the china, and the curtains were of the same crimson. It was too late to start them that evening but she could at least sew the net curtains she had bought. It was bedtime by the time she had done that, run a wire through their tops, banged in some small nails and hung them across the bars of the windows. She went to bed then, pleased with her efforts.

She woke in the middle of the night, for the moment forgetful of where she was and then, suddenly overcome with grief and loneliness, cried herself to sleep again. She woke in the morning to find Percy sitting on her chest, peering down at her face—part of her old life—and she at once sat up in bed, dismissing self-pity. The walls had to be painted and if there was time she would begin on the curtains…

‘We have a home,’ she told Percy as she dressed, ‘and money in our pockets and work to keep us busy. It’s a lovely morning; we’ll go into the garden.’

There was a faint chill in the air and there was a Sunday morning quiet. She thought of all the things she would do, the places she would visit in the coming weeks, and feeling quite cheerful got their breakfasts.

She had covered the drab, discoloured wallpaper by the late afternoon and the room looked quite different. The pale apricot gave the place light and warmth and she ate her combined tea and supper in great content.

The smell was rather overpowering; she opened the door to the garden despite the chilly evening and cut up the curtains ready to sew, fired with enthusiasm. As she wielded the scissors she planned what to buy with her next pay-packet: a bedspread, a table-lamp, a picture or two—the list was neverending!

CHAPTER TWO

DR TAVERNER, arriving the next morning, saw the net curtains and grinned. Unlike Mrs Lane, the new caretaker disliked the view from her window. Mrs Lane, on the other hand, had once told him that she found the sight of passing feet very soothing.

There were fresh flowers on his desk and there wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen; the wastepaper basket was empty and the elegant gas fire had been lighted. He sat down to study the notes of his first patient and hoped that such a satisfactory state of affairs would continue. She was quite unsuitable, of course; either she would find the work too much for her or she would find something more suitable.

Arabella, fortunately unaware of these conjectures, went about her duties with brisk efficiency. Miss Baird had wished her a cheerful good morning when she had arrived, even the two nurses had smiled as she opened the door to them, and after that for some time she was opening and closing the door for patients, ignored for the most part—a small, rather colourless creature, not worth a second glance.

She had no need to go to the shops at lunchtime—the milkman had left milk and she had everything she needed for making bread. She made the dough, kneaded it and set it to rise before the gas fire while she started on the curtains. She was as handy with her needle as she was with her cooking and she had them ready by the time she had to go back upstairs to let in the first of the afternoon patients. She would hang them as soon as everyone had gone later on.

By half-past five the place was quiet. The last patient had been seen on his way, the nurses followed soon afterwards and lastly Miss Baird. Dr Marshall had already gone and she supposed that Dr Tavener had gone too. It would take her an hour to tidy up and make everything secure for the night but she would hang the curtains first…

They looked nice. Cut from the crimson curtains which had hung in the dining-room of her old home they were of heavy dull brocade, lined too, so that she had had very little sewing to do. She admired them drawn across the hated bars, and went upstairs to begin the business of clearing up.

She had a plastic bag with her and emptied the wastepaper baskets first—a job Miss Baird had impressed upon her as never to be forgotten. She went around putting things in their proper places, shaking the cushions in the waiting-room chairs, turning off lights, picking up magazines and putting them back on the table. She went along to Dr Tavener’s rooms presently and was surprised to find the light on in his consulting-room.

He was at his desk and didn’t look up. ‘Be good enough to come back later, Miss Lorimer. I shall be here for another hour.’

She went away without saying anything and went back to the basement and began to get her supper. Percy, comfortably full, sat before the fire and the bread was in the oven. She whipped up a cheese soufflé, set the table with a cloth and put a small vase of flowers she had taken from the garden in its centre. She had been allowed to take essential things when she left her home—knives and spoons and forks and a plate or two. She had taken the silver and her mother’s Coalport china plates and cups and saucers; she had taken the silver pepperpot and salt cellar too, and a valuable teapot—Worcester. She would have liked to have taken the silver one but she hadn’t quite dared—though she had taken the Waterford crystal jug and two wine-glasses.

She ate her soufflé presently, bit into an apple and made coffee before taking the bread from the oven. By then almost two hours had elapsed. She put her overall on once again and went upstairs to meet Dr Tavener as he left his rooms.

He stopped short when he saw her. ‘Something smells delicious…’

‘I have been making bread,’ said Arabella, cool and polite and wishing that he would hurry up and go so that she could get her work done.

‘Have you, indeed? And do I detect the smell of paint? Oh, do not look alarmed. It is very faint; I doubt if anyone noticed it.’ He stared down at her. ‘You are not afraid to be here alone?’

‘No, sir.’

He wished her goodnight then, and she closed the door after him, bolting it and locking it securely. He paused on the pavement and looked down at the basement window. She had drawn the curtains and there was only a faint line of light showing. He frowned; he had no interest in the girl but living in that poky basement didn’t seem right… He shrugged his shoulders; after all, she had chosen the job.

A week went by and Arabella had settled into a routine which ensured that she was seldom seen during working hours. Tidying Miss Baird’s desk one evening, she had seen the list of patients for the following day, which gave her a good idea as to the times of their arrival. Now she checked each evening’s list, for not all the patients came early in the day—once or twice there was no one until after ten o’clock, which gave her time to sweep and dust her own room and have a cup of coffee in peace. Nicely organised, she found life bearable if not exciting and, now that her room was very nearly as she wished it, she planned to spend part of her Sundays in the London parks. She missed the country. Indeed, come what may, she had promised herself that one day she would leave London but first she had to save some money before finding a job near her old home.

‘We will go back,’ she assured Percy, ‘I promise you. Only we must stay here for a while—a year, perhaps two—just until we have enough money to feel safe.’

Only Dr Marshall came in on the Monday morning. Dr Tavener would be in directly after lunch, Miss Baird told her. He was taking a clinic at one of the nearby hospitals that morning. ‘He’s got a lot of patients too,’ she warned Arabella. ‘He probably won’t be finished until early evening—he doesn’t mind if he works late; he’s not married and hasn’t any ties.’ She added kindly, ‘If you want to run round to the shops I’ll see to the phone and the door.’

‘Thank you. If I could just get some vegetables? I can be back in fifteen minutes.’

‘Don’t hurry. You do cook proper meals for yourself?’

‘Oh, yes. I have plenty of time in the evening.’

It was a cheerless morning, not quite October and already chilly. Arabella nipped smartly to the row of little shops, chose onions and turnips and carrots with care, bought meat from the butcher next door and hurried back. A casserole would be easy, she could leave it to cook gently and it wouldn’t spoil however late she might have her supper. A few dumplings, she reflected and a bouquet garni. It would do for the following day too.

She prepared it during the lunch hour, gave Percy his share of the meat and tidied herself ready to open the door for the first of Dr Tavener’s patients.

The last patient went just before six o’clock and Arabella, having already tidied Dr Marshall’s rooms, started to close the windows and lock up. There was still no sign of Dr Tavener when she had done this so she went down to the basement, set the table for her supper and checked the casserole in the oven. It was almost ready; she turned off the gas and set the dish on top of the stove, lifted the lid and gently stirred the contents—they smelled delicious.

Dr Tavener, on the point of leaving, paused in the hall, his splendid nose flaring as he sniffed the air. He opened the door to the basement and sniffed again and then went down the stairs and knocked at the door.

There was silence for a moment before he was bidden to enter—to discover Arabella standing facing the door, looking uncertain.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Arabella was surprised to see him—she hadn’t known who it was and had secretly been a little frightened—and as for Dr Tavener, he stood looking around him before remarking, ‘Dear me, you have been busy and to very good effect.’ He glanced at the table, nicely laid with a white cloth, the silver, one of the Coalport plates, a Waterford glass and a small vase of flowers. Their new caretaker was, indeed, a little out of the common. ‘I hope I didn’t startle you; something smelled so delicious that I had to see what it was. Your supper?’

She nodded.

He said with amusement, ‘Are you a cordon bleu cook as well as a plumber?’

‘Yes.’

‘Surely if that is the case you could have found a more congenial post?’

‘No one would have Percy.’

Dr Tavener studied the cat sitting before the little fire staring at him. ‘A handsome beast.’ And then, since their conversation was making no progress at all, ‘Goodnight, Miss Lorimer.’ As he turned away he added, ‘You will lock up?’

‘I have been waiting to do so, sir.’ Her voice was tart.

His smile dismissed that. ‘As long as you carry out your duties, Miss Lorimer.’

He had gone then, as quietly as he had come.

‘He isn’t just rude,’ Arabella told Percy. ‘He’s very rude!’

When she heard the front door close she put the casserole in the oven again and went upstairs to clear up his rooms, close the windows and turn the key in the door before the lengthy business of locking and bolting the front door. Only then did she go back to her delayed supper.

Sitting by the gas fire later, sewing at the cushion covers, she allowed her thoughts to dwell upon Dr Tavener. He didn’t like her, that was obvious, and yet he had come down to her room—something Dr Marshall would never think of doing. Perhaps she should have been more friendly, but were caretakers supposed to be friendly with their employers? She doubted that. He unsettled her. While her parents had been alive she had had friends, cheerful young men and women of her own age, but none of the young men had fallen in love with her, nor had she been particularly attracted to any of them. Dr Tavener wasn’t like any of them. It wasn’t only his good looks—perhaps it was because he was older. She gave up thinking about him and turned her attention to her work.

She had only brief glimpses of him for the rest of that week and beyond a terse greeting he didn’t speak to her. On the other hand, Dr Marshall, while evincing no interest at all in her private life, was always friendly if they chanced to encounter each other.

Then Dr Tavener went to Oslo, his nurse took a holiday and Arabella found herself with less to do. True, she checked his rooms night and morning, but there was no need to Hoover and polish now he was away. There were fewer doorbells to answer too, so she had time to spare in which to make apple chutney from the windfalls dropping from the small old tree at the bottom of the garden. She had, of course, asked Dr Marshall first if she might have them and he had said yes, adding that he had had no idea that they could be used. So for several evenings there was a pleasant smell of cooking apples coming from the basement. She made bread too, and a batch of scones; and buns with currents—nicely iced; and a sponge cake, feather-light. The tiny old-fashioned pantry, its shelves empty for so long for Mrs Lane had only fancied food out of tins, began to fill nicely.

Dr Tavener was due back on the following day, Miss Baird told her. Not until the late afternoon, though, so there would be no patients for him. ‘And I daresay he’ll go straight home and come in the next morning.’

So Arabella gave his rooms a final dusting. There were still some Doris pinks in the garden; she arranged some in a glass vase and added some sprigs of lavender and some veronica. The room was cool so they would stay fresh overnight—she must remember to turn the central heating on in the morning and light the gas fire. She put everything ready for the nurse too, so that she could make herself a cup of tea when she arrived, then she went round checking the windows and the doors, and went downstairs again.

Dr Marshall had a great number of patients the next morning; she was kept busy answering the door and Dr Tavener’s nurse, short-tempered for some reason, found fault with her because the central heating hadn’t been turned on sooner. In the afternoon it began to rain—a steady downpour—so the patients left wet footprints over the parquet flooring and dropped their dripping umbrellas unheeding on to the two chairs which flanked the side-table. Arabella had taken a lot of trouble to clean them and polish them and now they were covered in damp spots. She would have liked to bang the door behind them as they left…

The house was quiet at last and she fetched her plastic bag, her dusters and polish, and lugged the Hoover from its place under the stairs. There had been no sign of Dr Tavener; he would have gone straight home as Miss Baird had suggested. Arabella bustled around, intent on getting back to her own room. Tea had been out of the question and she thought with pleasure of the supper she intended to cook—a Spanish omelette with a small salad. She had made soup yesterday, with bones and root vegetables, and she would have an apple or two and a handful of raisins. Bread and butter and a large pot of tea instead of coffee—what more could anyone want?

The weather had turned nasty, with a cold wind and heavy rain. It was a lonely sound beating on the windows; she wondered why it sounded so different from the rain on the windows of her home at Colpincum-Witham. There the wind used to sough through the trees—a sound she had loved. She had finished her tidying up when she remembered that the nurse had complained about the light in the waiting-room. The bulb wasn’t strong enough, she had been told, and another one must replace it. She fetched it and then went to haul the step-ladder up from the basement so that she might reach the elaborate shade hanging from the ceiling.

She was on the top step when she heard the front door being opened, and a moment later Dr Tavener came into the room. He was bareheaded and carried his case in his hand. He put it down, lifted her down from the steps, took the bulb from her hand and changed it with the one already in the socket. Only then did he get down and bid her good evening.

Arabella, taken by surprise, hadn’t uttered a sound. Now she found her voice and uttered a stiff thank you.

He stood looking at her. ‘It’s a filthy night,’ he observed. ‘You wouldn’t be kind and make me a cup of tea or coffee—whichever is easiest?’

She started for the little kitchenette leading from his rooms but he put out a hand. ‘No, no. No need here—may I not come downstairs with you?’

She eyed him uncertainly. ‘Well, if you want to,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I was going to make tea.’

She went down to the basement, very conscious of him just behind her. The room looked surprisingly cosy; she had left one of the little table-lamps lit and the gas fire was on. She went to turn it up and said rather shyly, ‘Please sit down, the tea won’t take long.’

He sat down in the small shabby armchair and Percy got on to his knees. ‘Have you had your supper? Do I smell soup?’

‘Are you hungry?’ She warmed the teapot and spooned in the tea.

‘Ravenous. My housekeeper doesn’t expect me back until the morning.’ He watched her as she made the tea. ‘I could go out for a meal, I suppose. Would you come with me?’

She looked up in surprise. ‘Well, thank you for asking me but I’ve supper all ready.’ She paused to think. ‘You can share it if you would like to, though I’m not sure if it’s quite the thing. I mean, I’m the caretaker!’

He smiled and said easily, ‘You are also a splendid cook, are you not?’ He got up out of his chair. ‘And I don’t believe there is a law against caretakers asking a guest for a meal.’

‘Well, of course, put like that it seems quite…’ She paused, at a loss for a word.

‘Quite,’ said Dr Tavener. ‘What comes after the soup?’

She laid another place at the table. ‘Well, a Spanish omelette with a salad. I haven’t a pudding, but there is bread and butter and cheese…’

‘Home-made bread?’ And when she nodded he said, ‘I can think of nothing nicer. While you are cooking the omelette I shall go and get a bottle of wine. Five minutes?’

He had gone. She heard the door close behind him and the car start up. She broke three eggs into a bowl and then a fourth—he was a very large man.

The omelette was ready to cook when he got back, put a bottle on the table and asked if she had a corkscrew. It was a good wine—a red burgundy of a good vintage, its cost almost as much as half of Arabella’s pay-packet. He opened it to let it breathe.