Only by Chance

He joined the motorway and sat back, relaxed behind the wheel, reviewing several of his patients’ progress, weighing the pros and cons of each case and, that done, allowed his thoughts to roam.

Miss Henrietta Cowper, he reflected, at first glance was a nonentity, but he suspected that there was more to her than that. A square peg in a round hole, perhaps? Was there an intelligent brain behind that small, plain face? He thought that there was. Mrs Carter had seen that and resented it.

So why didn’t the girl train as a nurse, or, for that matter, go into computers or something similar? Her home had looked shabby from the outside, but the street was a quiet well-kept one, despite it being in one of the East End’s rundown areas.

He turned the car off the motorway and drove for another ten minutes or so along a country road, until he slowed between a handful of cottages and turned again past the church, up the main street of the village and then through his own gates. The drive was short, widening out before the front of the house. He got out and stood a moment looking at it—white walls, half timbered, with a tiled roof, charming lattice windows, glowing with lamplight, a porch and a solid wood door.

Its Tudor origins were apparent, although since then it had been added to from time to time, but nothing had been changed during the last two hundred years. It stood overlooking the wintry garden, offering a warm welcome, and when the door was opened a Labrador dog galloped out to greet him.

Mr Ross-Pitt bent to greet the eager beast. ‘Watson, old fellow—wanting a walk? Presently.’

They went in together to be greeted by his housekeeper. Mrs Patch was elderly, stout and good-natured. She ran his home beautifully, with the help of a girl from the village and Mrs Lock, who came to do the rough work twice a week. She said comfortably, ‘There you are, sir. I’ve just this minute taken a batch of scones out of the oven—just right for your tea.’

He put a hand on her plump shoulder. ‘Mrs Patch, you’re a treasure; I’m famished. Give me five minutes...’ He went along a short passage leading from the roomy square hall and opened the door at its end.

His study was at the side of the house, its French doors opening onto the garden. Now its crimson velvet curtains were closed against the dark night and a fire burned briskly in the steel grate. He sat down at his desk, put his bag beside his chair and turned on the answering machine. Most of the messages were unimportant, and several were from friends—they could be dealt with later.

He left the room and crossed the hall to the drawing room-an irregular-shaped room with windows on two sides, an inglenook and a ceiling which exhibited its original strapwork.

The furniture was a pleasing mixture of comfortable armchairs and sofas, lamp-tables placed where they were most needed, and a bow-fronted cabinet which took up almost all of one wall. It was filled with porcelain and silver, handed down from one generation to the next. He remembered how as a small boy his grandmother had allowed him to hold some of the figurines in his hands.

He had inherited the house from her, and had altered nothing save to have some unobtrusive modernising of the kitchen. He disliked central heating, but the house was warm; the Aga in the kitchen never went out and there were fires laid in every room, ready to be lighted.

He went to his chair near the fire and Mrs Patch followed him in with the tea-tray.

‘It’s no night to be out in,’ she observed, setting the tray down on a table at his elbow, ‘nor yet to be in a miserable cold room somewhere. I pity those poor souls living in bedsitting rooms.’

Was Henrietta Cowper living like that? he wondered.

Each week he spent an evening at a clinic in Stepney; only the two young doctors who ran it knew who he was and he never talked about it.

It had given him an insight into the lives of most of the patients—unemployed for the most part, in small, half-furnished rooms with not enough warmth or light.

On occasion he had needed to go and see them in their homes and he had done what he could, financing the renting of an empty shop where volunteers offered tea and soup and loaves. No one knew about this and he never intended that they should...

Presently he got into his coat again and took Watson for his evening walk. It was still raining and very dark, but he had known the country around his home since he’d been a small boy; he followed well-remembered lanes with Watson trotting beside him. The country, even on a night such as this, was vastly better than London streets.

If, during the following week, Mr Ross-Pitt thought of Henrietta at all it was briefly; his days were full, his leisure largely filled too. He rode whenever he could, and was much in demand at his friends’ and acquaintances’ dinner tables, for he was liked by everyone, unfailingly good-natured and placid. Too placid, some of his women-friends thought; a delightful companion, but never showing the least desire to fall in love.

It was on the next Monday morning that he went down to the occupational therapy unit to check on a patient’s progress since he had operated on him to remove a brain tumour. His progress was excellent, and he told Mrs Carter so.

‘Well, I’m sure we do our best, sir, although it’s hard going—there’s that girl, not turned up this morning. I knew she would be no good when she was taken on—’

‘Perhaps she is ill?’

‘Ill?’ Mrs Carter snorted in disgust. These young women don’t know the meaning of a good day’s work. she’ll turn up on Wednesday with some excuse.’

He answered rather absentmindedly and Presently went away, his mind already engrossed with the patient he was to see that afternoon—a difficult case which, would need all his skill.

It was on Wednesday evening that he went along to the clinic, after being at the hospital for most of the day. It was another wet night, cold and windy with a forecast of snow, and the dark streets were gloomy. There was a light over the clinic door, dispelling some of the dreariness.

He parked the car and went inside, past the crowd in the waiting room, to the two small rooms at the back. Both doctors were already there. He greeted them cheerfully, threw his coat onto a chair and put on his white coat.

‘A full house,’ he observed. ‘Is there anyone you want me to see?’

‘Old Mr Wilkins is back again—blood pressure up, headaches, feels giddy...’

Mr Ross-Pitt nodded. ‘I’ll take a look.’ He went into the second room, cast his eye over Mr Wilkins’ notes and then fetched him from the waiting room. After that he worked without pause; the clinic was supposed to shut at eight o’clock, but it never did. As long as there was a patient waiting it remained open, and that evening it was busier than usual.

It was almost nine o‘clock when the younger of the two doctors put his head round the door. ‘Could you cast an eye over this girl? She’s just been brought in—came in a greengrocer’s van. Looks ill. Not our usual type of patient, though; ought to have gone to her own doctor.’

‘Let’s have a look...’ Mr Ross-Pitt went into the almost empty waiting room.

His eye passed over the two elderly women who came regularly, not because they were ill but because it was warm and cheerful; they were the first to arrive and the last to leave. It passed over the young man waiting for his girlfriend, who was with the other doctor, and lighted on the small group on the bench nearest the door—a shabby young man with a kind face and an elderly woman with beady black eyes, and between them, propped up, was Henrietta, looking very much the worse for wear.

Mr Ross-Pitt bit back the words on his tongue and went to bend over her.

‘Miss Cowper, can you tell me what happened?’

She lifted her head and looked at him hazily. ‘I’m not feeling well,’ she said unhelpfully, and the woman spoke up.

‘Bin ill since Saturday night—got a room at my ’ouse, yer see—never see ’er on Monday and Tuesday, and then she went to work this morning same as usual and they brought ’er back. Fainted all over the place, she did.’

He frowned. Why hadn’t they kept her at the hospital if she had been taken ill there? His thought was answered before he could utter it. ‘They couldn’t bring her back at once, see? They ’as ter get the offices cleaned before eight o‘clock, and someone ’ad ter finish ‘er jobs for ’er.’

‘Yes, yes. How far away is this job? How was she brought home?’

‘On a bus, o’ course; there ain’t no money for taxis for the likes of us. Put ‘er ter bed, I did; leastways, got ’er ter lie down and put a blanket over ’er. Thought she’d pick up, but she ain’t much better.

‘You didn’t take her to the hospital?’

‘Brought ’er ’ere, ’aven’t we?’

‘You have done quite right I’d like to see her in the surgery, please.’

He scooped Henrietta up, nodded to the woman to come too, and carried her to the second empty room.

Ten minutes later he sat down at the desk to write up his notes while Henrietta was wrapped up in her elderly coat and a scarf was tied over her head.

‘A rather nasty influenza,’ said Mr Ross-Pitt. ‘She’ll be all right in a few days, provided she takes these tablets regularly, stays in bed and keeps warm.’

Henrietta opened her eyes, then. ‘I’m never ill; I’D be all right at home.’

‘You’ll look after her?’ asked Mr Ross-Pitt, taking no notice of this. ‘She should have gone to her own doctor, you know.’

‘Couldn’t, could she? He don’t see no one on a Sunday, unless they’re at their last gasp, and on weekdays she ’as ter be at the offices by half past six.’

‘In the morning?’

‘O’ course. Them clerks and posh businessmen don’t want no cleaning ladies mopping floors round ‘em, do they?’ She gave him a pitying look. ‘Don’t know much, do yer?’

Mr Ross-Pitt took this in good part. ‘I’m learning,’ he observed placidly, and smiled so that the woman smiled too.

‘I dare say you’re a good doctor,’ she conceded. ‘We’ll get ‘er back ’ome.’

‘I have a car outside. Supposing I drive Miss Cowper back and you go ahead and get her bed ready and the room warm?’

‘If yer say so.’

Henrietta opened an eye. ‘I’m quite able to manage on my own.’ She added with weary politeness, ‘Thank you.’

He quite rightly ignored this remark too, and, since she felt too peculiar to protest, he carried her out to his car after a brief word with his two colleagues, laid her gently on the back seat and followed the greengrocer’s van through the murky night. Henrietta, her eyes tight shut against a ferocious headache, said crossly, ‘I’m perfectly all right.’

‘Close your eyes and be quiet,’ said Mr Ross-Pitt.

‘You aren’t going to be all right for a couple of days, but you’ll feel better once you’re snug in bed.’

Henrietta made a half-hearted sound which sounded like ‘pooh’ and slid back into uneasy dozing. She really was too weary to bother.

CHAPTER TWO

MR. ROSS-PITT slid to a gentle halt behind the van and got out of his car to find the van’s owner waiting for him. ‘Mrs Gregg’s gone up ter see ter the room,’ he explained. ‘Do you want an ’and?’

‘I think I can manage. The room is upstairs?’

‘Top of the ’ouse, mate. Bit of a climb, but she’s not all that ‘eavy.’ He grinned. ‘And yer no lightweight.’

Mr Ross-Pitt smiled. ‘I’ll carry Miss Cowper upstairs. Thanks for your help—quick thinking on your part to bring her to the clinic.’

‘My old lady’s been on and off. Thinks ’ighly of it.’

‘Thank you.’ Mr Ross-Pitt opened the door of the car and lifted Henrietta out.

She roused herself from a feverish doze to protest. ‘I’m very comfortable, thank you, if I could just go to sleep...’

Mr Ross-Pitt trod up the narrow stairs, his magnificent nose flaring at the all-pervading smell of cabbage, cooked to its death, mingled with a strong whiff of onions. By the time he reached the top floor the smell was fainter, but it was a good deal colder and the room he entered, the door obligingly left open by the landlady, was icy.

‘I’ve lit the fire,’ Mrs Gregg told him unnecessarily. She was smoothing the rumpled bed and shaking out Henrietta’s nightgown—a sensible garment chosen for its warmth rather than its glamour.

He took a quick look round the room, laid Henrietta on the bed, and said, ‘I’ll be outside on the landing. I’ll take another look at Miss Cowper when you’ve put her to bed.’

He paused as he went to the door. Sitting in his cardboard box, Dickens was glaring at him, the kitten huddled against him. ‘Well, well,’ said Mr Ross-Pitt, and went downstairs to find the van driver.

‘Will there be a shop open?’ he wanted to know. ‘Miss Cowper will need milk and eggs, some kind of cold drink, and there are two cats which will need to be fed.’

‘Two now, is it? Me shop’s shut, but I’ll bring what you want for her—I’m in the next street.’

Mr Ross-Pitt produced money. ‘That’s good of you. I take it Miss Cowper is on her own?’

‘Yes-‘as been ever since she came ’ere. And as nice a young lady as you could find in a month of Sundays. Never says nothing about ‘erself, though. Proper lady she is, too. I’ll be off. Bring it upstairs, shall I?’

‘Please.’ Mr Ross-Pitt went back upstairs, knocked on the door and was admitted. Henrietta was in her bed. Her appearance reminded him of a wet hen, and he studied her with no more than a professional eye. She was flushed and hot, and her hair, of which there seemed to be a great quantity, covered the pillow.

He took her wrist and frowned over her rapid pulse. If he had known that she lived in an attic with, as far as he could see, few comforts, he would have driven her to St Alkelda’s and had her admitted. She opened her eyes and he said kindly, ‘You’re back in your bed. Stay there for a couple of days and take the pills I’m going to leave with you.’

‘Dickens,’ she whispered from a sore throat, ‘and Ollie. Don’t let them out.’

‘No, no, they are sitting in a box. I’ll feed them before I go; that’s what you want, isn’t it?’

She nodded. ‘Please.’ She turned her head and saw Mrs Gregg on the other side of the bed. ‘Sorry to be such a nuisance...’ She added anxiously, ‘Don’t let them out...’

Mr Ross-Pitt took her hand. ‘I promise you your cats will be taken care of until you feel better. Mrs Gregg is going to keep an eye on you and them, and someone will be along to see how you feel tomorrow.’

There was a knock on the door and the milk and groceries were handed in. Mr Ross-Pitt took them, refusing to accept the change with exactly the right casual air. ‘Certainly not, my dear chap; we’re beholden to you.’

‘Oh, I’ll nip off ’ome then; the missus will be wondering where I’ve got to. So long, guv.’

‘So long.’ Mr Ross-Pitt went back into the room and stowed everything away tidily, fed the animals and then thoughtfully put them on the end of the bed. Henrietta didn’t open her eyes but he saw her little smile.

‘Will you leave a small light on, Mrs Gregg? Perhaps we might have a word downstairs.’

The word, accompanied by the handing-over of suitable financial support, didn’t take long. ‘Miss Cowper should be in hospital, but I am sure that you will take good care of her. Someone will visit her tomorrow to make sure that she is quite comfortable, but I know I can depend on you, Mrs Gregg.’

Mrs Gregg fingered the notes in her pocket and assured him that she would look after Henrietta like a mother.

Which she did. She wasn’t one to bother about her various tenants—as long as they paid their rent and kept quite quiet she felt no concern for them—but Henrietta was a good tenant, paid her rent on the dot and was as quiet as a mouse. No gentlemen-friends, either. Mrs Gregg would have done her best for her even without being paid for it.

As it was, she rose to the occasion, going upstairs several times during the night and following morning, warming milk, offering cold drinks, feeding the cat and kitten. She washed Henrietta’s face and hands and straightened the bed while Henrietta tottered, wrapped in her dressing gown, down to the floor below to the loo, where she was quietly sick, to return, very wobbly on her feet, and climb thankfully back into bed.

The doctor with whom she had registered came to see her later that day. He was a busy man with a large practice but, asked courteously by Mr Ross-Pitt to visit Henrietta, he had consented to do so. He had agreed, too, to let him know if she showed signs of improvement.

He had been taken aback at the sight of the attic; she had been to his surgery once or twice and he had formed the vague opinion that she was a cut above his usual patient, probably living in one of the new blocks of flats springing up on the bulldozed sites of abandoned terraced houses.

He examined her carefully, wondering why Mr Ross-Pitt, whom he had met once or twice at the hospital, should take an interest in her. He had said something about her working at St Alkelda’s, which would account for it, he supposed.

He phoned the hospital later and, since Mr Ross-Pitt wasn’t available, he left a message. Miss Cowper was suffering from flu and not feeling too good, but she seemed a sensible young woman, taking her antibiotics and staying in bed, and her landlady appeared to be a good sort.

His message was received with a grunt as Mr Ross-Pitt bent over the operating table; the girl was in good hands now, so he forgot about her, absorbed in a tricky bit of surgery which demanded his powerful concentration.

At the end of the day Mr Ross-Pitt remembered Henrietta again, though. It would do no harm to make sure that Mrs Gregg was looking after her. He stopped the car outside a small flower shop near the hospital gates, picked a bunch of daffodils and narcissi at random and drove to Mrs Gregg’s house.

Waiting for her to open the door, he felt impatient; he had had a long day and he would have to spend the night at his flat It was imperative that he visited his patient later that night and if necessary in the early morning; the quiet evening that he had been looking forward to would have to be curtailed.

The door opened at last and Mrs Gregg stood aside and allowed him to enter.

‘Upstairs I was, sir; came as quick as I could. Do you want to see Henrietta?’

‘Please. I understand her doctor has been?’

‘S’ right. In a bit of an ‘urry, but took a look at ’er. Told ‘er ter take them pills regular and come and see ’im if she wasn’t well in a few days.’

They had been climbing the stairs as she spoke; now she opened the attic door and stood aside to let him into the room. ‘Ere’s yer doctor, love.’ She went on, ‘And while yer ’ere I’ll see to them cats.’

Henrietta sat up in bed, aware that she wasn’t looking her best. Her hair felt like damp seaweed, she was hot and sticky, and she was wearing a grey cardigan over her nightie. She said, ‘Hello,’ in a gruff voice and eyed him with peevishness. ‘I’m much better...’

‘I am glad to hear that. I was passing and hoped you wouldn’t mind me calling to enquire.’ He laid the flowers on the bed and she put out a gentle finger to touch them.

‘For me? How very kind. They’re beautiful. Thank you, and thank you for calling. I really am feeling better. I shall get up tomorrow.’

‘You will stay in bed tomorrow,’ he told her quietly, ‘and on the following day, if you feel well enough, you may get up. You will take things easily for the rest of the week. Presumably your doctor will sign you off as fit for work when he thinks it right.’

‘Well, yes, I’m sure he will. I must write to Mrs Carter...’

‘I’ll leave a message with Reception.’

‘Oh, will you? How kind.’ She smiled at him from a white face, and he thought uneasily that she should be in more comfortable surroundings.

‘Have you lived here long?’ he asked.

‘A few years.’ She didn’t enlarge on that, and he didn’t ask any more questions for he guessed that she wasn’t going to tell him anything. Presently he wished her goodnight and went away, escorted by Mrs Gregg.

‘I’ll look after ’er,’ she assured him. ‘Independent, that’s what she is. Never a word about where she came from nor nothing about ‘er family. Always ready to give an ’and—elps that greengrocer on ’is stall of a Saturday afternoon. Well, every little ‘elps, don’t it?’

‘Which reminds me,’ said Mr Ross-Pitt, putting a hand into his pocket.

Two days later Henrietta got up, assuring Mrs Gregg that she felt fine and that there was no need for that lady to toil up and down the stairs any longer. ‘There’s plenty for me to eat in the cupboard. I must owe you a lot of money...’

‘That doctor wot brought you ’ere, he asked Mr Biggs where ‘e could get milk and such and, Biggs being a greengrocer, ’e fetched what was wanted.’

‘So I owe Mr Biggs?’

‘Well, that doctor paid for everything.’

‘Oh, dear, I’ll have to write him a note and ask him how much I owe him. Mrs Gregg, I don’t suppose there was a message from the offices?’

‘Yes, there was. One of the girls wot brought you ’ere sent a note ter say yer job’s still waiting for yer.’ Mrs Gregg eyed her anxiously. ‘But you’ll not be going back until the doctor says so.’

‘Of course not,’ said Henrietta, not meaning a word of it. ‘Thank you for looking after Dickens and Ollie.’

Monday was only two days away. Over the weekend Henrietta swallowed her pills, ate the contents of her cupboard, shutting her mind to what they had cost and how she was ever going to pay for them, washed her hair and made her plans.

She didn’t think she had better go back to the hospital on Monday. She hadn’t been to the doctor, and she supposed that she would have to wait for him to tell her that she might go back to work. No one knew about the offices, though—only Mrs Gregg, and she didn’t get up very early. Henrietta reckoned that she would be back in her room by the time her landlady was up and about.

She had to admit to herself that she didn’t feel as well as she had hoped as she caught the early bus on Monday morning. Probably the weather, she told herself; bitter cold and an icy wind. ‘Going to snow,’ said the conductor, taking her fare.

The other cleaning ladies were glad to see her back. ‘Cor, we was afraid you’d get the sack,’ she was told. ‘Lucky you came this morning; there’s plenty wanting to step into yer shoes. OK, are yer?’

Henrietta agreed that she was perfectly OK, donned her apron and got to work. It was the prospect of losing her job which kept her on her feet. The vacuum cleaner was like lead, the bucket of soapy water she needed to clean the paintwork weighed ten times as much as it usually did, and when she polished the desks they danced drunkenly under her eyes.

She managed to finish on time, however, put away her cleaning equipment, assured everyone that she felt fine, and, wrapped in her elderly coat, left the building to catch the bus.

Mr Ross-Pitt, driving himself home after an urgent summons to the clinic to do what was possible for Mr Wilkins, who had been found moribund in the street by one of the volunteer helpers, saw Henrietta walking with exaggerated care along the icy pavement. He stopped the car and got out and faced her, and since her head was bent against the wind she didn’t see him.

‘You little fool,’ he observed, in a voice so cold that her head shot up to meet his eyes, which were as cold as his voice. ‘Have you no sense? Are you doing your best to get pneumonia?’

He took her arm and bundled her into the car. ‘You will go back to your room and go back to bed and try for a little common sense.’

He started the car and drove in silence, and Henrietta sat without saying a word; she felt peculiar for one thing, and for another she really couldn’t be bothered to think of anything suitable to say. Besides, Mr Ross-Pitt was angry—coldly and quietly furious with her. She closed her eyes and dozed off.

He turned to look at her as he stopped before the house. She was asleep, long lashes curling onto her pale cheeks, her mouth slightly open. In no way was it possible to consider her pretty, even passably good-looking, and yet he found himself smiling a little, wishing that she would open her eyes. Certainly she couldn’t go back to that attic room.