An Old Fashioned Girl

Mr van der Beek coughed politely and hushed Basil who had got up to greet him, delighted to have some company.

Patience nearly dropped the candle. She turned slowly and said severely, ‘I might have screamed, Mr van der Beek.’

‘Oh, no, you’re not the screaming kind,’ he told her. ‘If you were you would be upstairs now with your head under the bedclothes. Is it a loose shutter somewhere?’

‘In the pantry, I think, or the scullery. Through here …’ She led the way, much too concerned about the noise to think about the strange appearance she presented. It was a loose shutter in the scullery. Mr van der Beek secured it and looked around him.

‘What an extremely dreary place,’ he remarked, and without looking at her added, ‘I am chilled to the bone; let us have a hot drink before we return to our beds.’

‘Well, that would be nice,’ said Patience, ‘but I’m not sure—I mean, I haven’t got a dressingg-gown …’ She had gone rather red but she gave him a steady look.

‘My dear young lady, no dressing-gown could cover you as adequately as the garment in which you presently appear to be smothered. Miss Murch’s, I gather?’

He had led the way back to the kitchen and opened up the Aga and filled a kettle. ‘Tea?’ he asked.

Patience thrust back her sleeves once more and crossed to the dresser, collecting cups and saucers, spoons, the tea caddy and a tray with the ease of long custom. As she came back with the milk jug and sugar bowl Mr van der Beek, watching the kettle come to the boil, remarked quietly, ‘You are familiar with this house, are you not, Miss Martin? Was it your home?’

‘Oh, how did you know?’ She paused on her way to the table. ‘I didn’t—I didn’t mean to deceive you, you know, only Mr Bennett thought you might need someone to give a hand and as I knew where everything was and the tradespeople …’

‘You have no need to apologise. I am sure you are worth your weight in gold. Do I have to call you Miss Martin?’

‘Oh, no, no. That wouldn’t do at all. My name’s Patience.’

He nodded. ‘And the two ladies who come each day to work here? They know who you are?’

‘Oh, yes. They used to work here while my aunts lived in this house, only not for some time now; for the last few months we managed very nicely without anyone.’

He poured water into the teapot. ‘Your aunts are elderly?’ He knew the answer to that but all the same he waited to hear what she would say.

‘We closed up most of the rooms.’ She spoke with a touch of defiance and he smiled.

‘Come and drink your tea. Are we likely to be snowed in?’

‘Oh, yes. The ploughs will come, of course, but they clear the main roads first so it will be a day or two.’

‘Will we be able to get through to the village?’ he asked idly.

‘Not until the wind dies down and we can dig our way out. The lane dips and there is always a drift every time there. Well,’ she added fairly, ‘there are drifts all over the place but the one in the lane is particularly deep.’

‘So we may be isolated for several days?’

‘I expect so.’ She added kindly, ‘But that will be nice for you; you wanted to be very quiet, didn’t you? And no one is likely to call; the phone will be down, it always is, and of course the postman can’t get here.’

‘An interesting prospect. I trust there is enough coal and wood to keep us warm?’

She nodded and said in her practical way, ‘Yes, I got old Ned to bring some logs up to the boot-room and there is plenty of coal, and if we run short we can live in the kitchen.’

Mr van der Beek sighed; living in the kitchen was something he would prefer not to do, and besides he would be hindered from his writing. He drank the last of his tea and watched her stifle a yawn. ‘Go back to bed, Patience, and get some sleep. I’ll blow out the candles.’

She wished him goodnight and, clutching the surplus folds of her nightgown, made her way back to her room. It was cold there after the kitchen but she was too tired to mind that. She was already asleep within minutes.

It was still dark when she got up and the snow had faltered to occasional flurries driven by the wind. She dressed, wound her hair into a neat bun and went downstairs to the kitchen. The Aga might be old but it still worked; she added coal, turned up the heat and set a kettle on to boil. Miss Murch would be down presently and both she and Mr van der Beek would expect tea. There was no sign of Basil, but presently she heard him barking. Perhaps he had got shut out—she went through the scullery and past the boot-room and opened the old door which led to the garden. Here it had been somewhat sheltered from the wind so that the snow hadn’t drifted although it was several inches deep. She poked her head out cautiously, her breath taken by the icy air, and was rewarded by the sight of Mr van der Beek shovelling snow, making a narrow path towards the woodshed. He appeared to be enjoying himself, tossing great shovelfuls to one side as though they were feathers. He had a splendid pair of shoulders, thought Patience, watching him, and, dressed as he was in a great baggy sweater with trousers stuffed into his boots, he didn’t look at all like the austere man whom she spent her days avoiding.

It was Basil who saw her and came romping back to say hello and although Mr van der Beek didn’t look up he called over one shoulder, ‘I should like a cup of tea …’

‘Well, you shall have one if you come into the kitchen now,’ said Patience tartly, ‘and wipe your boots and leave them on the mat.’

She didn’t wait for an answer but went back to the kitchen, made the tea and set out a small tray ready to carry to the study. As soon as he had had it and gone upstairs to make himself presentable for his breakfast she would nip in and get the fire raked out and lighted.

Basil came prancing in, delighted with the weather, and his master with him, looking meek in his socks. ‘I’ll take the tray through to the study,’ said Patience.

‘Indeed you will not. It’s freezing there. I’ll have it here. Where’s Miss Murch?’

‘I expect she will be down presently to cook your breakfast.’ She picked up the teapot and he put three mugs down on the table.

‘Let’s not be dainty. I like two lumps of sugar. Is there a towel I can use to rub Basil dry?’

‘Behind the door. I’ll fetch a clean one for us to use.’

Miss Murch, coming into the kitchen, paused in the doorway. Her, ‘Good morning, Mr van der Beek,’ was glacial, but he didn’t appear to notice that.

‘I’m going to shave,’ he told her cheerfully, ‘and I’ll have my breakfast here where it’s warm—twenty minutes?’ He gave her a charming smile, whistled to Basil and went out of the room.

‘I made a pot of tea,’ said Patience. ‘Would you like a cup, Miss Murch? The Aga’s going nicely and Mr van der Beek has cleared a path to the woodshed so there’ll be plenty of coal and logs. Would you like me to see to the fire in the study first?’

‘Well, since there’s no one else. We had better have our breakfast when Mr van der Beek has finished his. If you could light the study fire it would soon be warm enough for him.’ She sounded almost apologetic.

Patience got into the apron Mrs Perch used when she came to work, collected bucket, shovel, paper and kindling, and went off to the study. It was getting light now; she drew back the curtains to find that the snow had heaped itself up against the windows so that she had to stand firmly on tiptoe in order to see out; really she might just as well have left the curtains drawn …

She had a nice fire going and was sitting back on her heels admiring it when Mr van der Beek came in.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he wanted to know, and she glanced up in surprise; it didn’t sound like him at all.

She said in the kind of voice she might have used to a child who needed something explained, ‘I’m making sure that the fire is going to burn.’

‘I can see that for myself. In future, until this crisis is over, I shall light the fires, fetch the wood and the coals and dispose of the ashes.’

Patience looked at him with interest. ‘Do you know how?’ she asked, and at his icy look added, ‘Oh, don’t look like that, I don’t mean to be rude but I dare say in your home you don’t need to lift a finger.’

‘You consider that I am a man of leisure?’

‘Well, I hadn’t really thought about it, but I’ve got eyes—you drive a lovely car and Miss Murch says you are very successful—I dare say you lead a very pleasant life with lots of friends and theatres and so on.’

Mr van der Beek, slavishly revered by those students lucky enough to be under his tuition, tirelessly devoted to his work and his patients, so generous with both his time and his money, agreed meekly.

Patience laid another piece of coal exactly where it was most needed and got up. ‘It’s very kind of you to offer,’ she told him gratefully, ‘but if you aren’t used to doing it, lighting a fire can be very tiresome.’

‘And you’re good at it?’ His voice was bland. ‘What else are you good at, Patience?’

‘Me?’ She thought for a moment. ‘Why—nothing much—I can cook and mend things—sew and knit—change plugs, mend fuses, that kind of thing.’

‘You have no wish to do anything else?’ He spoke casually with just the right amount of interest.

‘I’m not clever and I’m plain—Aunt Bessy says I’m the plainest girl she has ever seen, but if I could be clever and charming and pretty I’d like to spend a week in London going to the theatres and the kind of restaurants where there are candles on the tables and waiters and the menu is in French—and shopping of course … Your breakfast will be ready, Mr van der Beek.’ Her voice was all of a sudden brisk. ‘Now there’s a fire I can bring a tray in here …’

‘I actually said I would have my breakfast in the kitchen,’ he reminded her, and now he didn’t sound friendly any more.

He was adamant that Miss Murch and Patience should have breakfast with him too but he was no longer casually friendly; the conversation was strictly businesslike and concerned the possibility of being snowed in for a further day or so and how to make the best of it. ‘Close the rooms we don’t need,’ he told Miss Murch. ‘This kitchen is the warmest place in the house; we can eat here—the study and the small sitting-room will be all right with fires. Are there enough candles and lamps?’

Miss Murch looked at Patience. ‘Plenty of candles but there’s not a great deal of oil left,’ said Patience. ‘We could keep the lamps for the study and take the candles with us when we go from room to room; they’ll last ages that way.’

‘Food?’

Miss Murch replied with dignity. ‘I trust I am a sufficiently good housekeeper to ensure a fully adequate supply of food for several days at least, and that of course over and above my normal store of groceries.’

‘There’s plenty of greenstuff in the greenhouse,’ said Patience. ‘If Mr van der Beek could dig a path I can go and collect as much as we’re likely to need before it’s frozen solid.’

‘Mr van der Beek has better ways of employing his time,’ observed Miss Murch sharply.

Mr van der Beek took another slice of toast and buttered it lavishly. ‘Indeed I have,’ he agreed. ‘On the other hand can you, in all fairness, conceive of Patience digging her way through a snowdrift? There’s not enough of her.’

Patience bore the scrutiny of two pairs of eyes with equanimity. ‘I am very strong,’ she observed in a matter-of-fact voice.

‘The exercise will do me good,’ said Mr van der Beek in the kind of voice with which one couldn’t argue.

It took him the whole morning with the briefest of intervals while he drank the hot coffee which Patience, wrapped in one of Miss Murch’s cardigans on top of her own woolly, took to the garden door.

‘You’re doing very nicely, Mr van der Beek,’ she said encouragingly. ‘There’s a little dip just before you get to the greenhouse; take care you don’t trip up.’

A giant of a man, rock-steady on his large feet, he nevertheless thanked her politely for the warning.

It was very cold and the wind, which had died down, started up again with renewed ferocity. Patience, scuttling around the house, stoking the study fire, making beds and cleaning vegetables at Miss Murch’s bidding, worried about the aunts. True, the little house was easy to keep warm and Mrs Dodge had promised to keep an eye on them. The news, on Miss Murch’s portable radio in the kitchen, held out little hope of the weather improving for at least twenty-four hours, perhaps longer.

‘Really, I do not know what the world is coming to,’ observed Miss Murch crossly. ‘How am I to get fresh meat in this weather?’

It wasn’t worth answering. ‘As soon as I can get to the village I shall need to go and see if my aunts are all right, Miss Murch …’

‘At the same time you can call at the butcher.’

There was no point in telling her that Mr Crouch got his meat for the most part from local markets and farms and transport would be difficult for several days.

Miss Murch, despite her ill humour, contrived a delicious soup, cheese and onion pasties and a large pot of coffee. Mr van der Beek, glowing with good health and a certain smugness, ate hugely and went away to his study. ‘A cup of tea at four o’clock,’ he asked, ‘and on no account am I to be disturbed until dinner—at half-past seven if that is possible, Miss Murch?’

He walked away without waiting for an answer.

Patience cleared the table and began to wash the dishes. ‘It is ridiculous that there is no dishwasher,’ remarked Miss Murch, making no effort to give a hand. ‘I shall lie down for a time, Patience; I have a headache.’

‘Shall I bring you a cup of tea just before four o’clock?’

‘Yes, thank you. I find this snow very trying.’

Left to herself, Patience saw to the Aga, cast an eye on the fire in the sitting-room and looked out of the window. It was snowing again.

She laid a tray for Mr van der Beek’s tea and another for Miss Murch and herself and took herself off to the sitting-room, to curl up before the fire with the only book she could find—Beeton’s Household Management. It made interesting reading and was profusely illustrated with coloured plates of mouth-watering food.

Miss Murch didn’t look very well when she took her a cup of tea but she came down to the kitchen presently and cut delicate sandwiches of Gentleman’s Relish to add to the pot of tea on Mr van der Beek’s tray.

‘Don’t go in before you’re told to,’ she admonished Patience, ‘and don’t stop and talk either. Just put the tray down and come away at once.’

Patience’s gentle tap was answered by an impatient voice bidding her enter and when she did so he snapped, ‘You may look like a mouse, but you don’t have to behave like one—I don’t bite.’

‘I should hope not, indeed,’ said Patience briskly. ‘I was told to make no noise and not to come in until I was told …’ She added kindly, ‘I dare say you’re busy with your book—is it about surgery?’

‘Er—some aspects of it, yes—a reference book …’

‘Like Mrs Beeton’s cookery book, I dare say, full of instructions about the best way to cook food, written by an expert.’

Mr van der Beek’s eyelids drooped over an amused gleam. ‘If that is a compliment, Patience, thank you. I cannot compete with Mrs Beeton in her own field, but I venture to admit to being moderately well known in my own.’

Miss Murch’s headache had returned; Patience, taking care not to usurp that lady’s authority, did as much as she could to help her so that by the time dinner was ready there was an appetising meal on the table.

Mr van der Beek was in the sitting-room by the fire, with Basil at his feet. He had taken the trouble to change into a collar and tie and a good tweed jacket, and Patience, sent to fetch him to the kitchen, was made aware of her own appearance. With an eye to the weather she had come to work in a thick tweed skirt and an equally thick sweater over a shirt blouse and she had nothing with her to make this prosaic outfit more becoming, but at least her hair, strained back into a large bun, was tidy, and she had powdered her nose.

Miss Murch had done them proud, there were leeks in a french dressing, boeuf bourguignon and sautéd potatoes and an egg custard with a variety of cheeses to round off this heartening fare. Mr van der Beek made polite conversation and made no comment at Miss Murch’s lack of appetite; only when the meal was finished did he ask casually, ‘You’ve got a headache, Miss Murch?’

‘A slight one, sir.’

‘May I suggest a bed, a warm hot-water bottle and a hot drink? I’ll let you have some paracetamol. If you don’t feel better in the morning, stay in bed—there’s nothing like a day in bed to discourage a cold.’

He smiled kindly at her and bade her goodnight before turning to Patience. ‘Will you see that Miss Murch does just that?’ He glanced at the table. ‘These can wait for the time being.’

So Patience filled a hot-water bottle, urged Miss Murch upstairs to her cold bedroom and went away to get her a hot drink. It would have to be tea; the milk was running low. Miss Murch was in bed by the time she got back; she handed the pills, fetched a glass of water for the night and waited while the hot drink was swallowed. ‘I’ll pop in tomorrow morning,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry you’re not feeling well; a good night’s sleep will probably put it right.’

When she got back to the kitchen it was to find the dishes washed and the kitchen more or less tidy. She was standing rather aimlessly when Mr van der Beek put his head round the door. ‘Go to bed, Patience. I’ll see to the Aga. Good night.’

It didn’t turn out to be a good night, though.

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