A Good Wife

But now the years were slipping away, and Gregory, although he talked often enough of when they would marry, had never actually asked her to marry him. He had a steady job, too. Serena being Serena, honest and guileless and expecting everyone else to be the same—except for her father, of course—had never for one moment thought that Gregory was waiting for her father to die, at which point he would marry her and become the owner of the house and a nice little capital. He had no doubt that Serena would be only too glad to let him take over the house and invest her money for her. He didn’t intend to be dishonest, she would have all she wanted within reason, but it would be his hand which held the strings of her moneybags.

Of course, Serena knew nothing of this… All the same doubts were beginning to seep into her head. Other thoughts seeped in, too, about the stranger she had talked to so freely on Barrow Hill. She had liked him; it had seemed to her that she had known him for a long time, that he was like an old, trusted friend. Nonsense, of course—but, nonsense or not, his memory stayed clearly in her head.

During the week her elder brother came. His visits were infrequent, although he lived in Yeovil, but, as he pointed out, he was a busy man with little leisure. At Christmas and on his father’s birthday he came, with his wife and two children—duty visits no one enjoyed—and every month or so he came briefly. He was very like his father, and they didn’t get on well, so the visits were brief. Serena, offering coffee or tea, was always questioned closely as to finances, warned to let him know if she should ever need him, but was never asked if she was happy or content with the life she led. And this visit was like all the others: brief and businesslike with no mention of herself.

Over a second cup of coffee she said, ‘I should like a holiday, Henry.’

‘A holiday? Whatever for? Really, Serena, you are sometimes quite lacking in sense. You have a pleasant life here; you have friends in the village and leisure. And who is to look after Father if you were to go away?’

‘You could pay someone—or your wife Alice could come and stay. You said yourself that you have a splendid au pair who could look after the children.’

Henry’s colour had heightened. ‘Impossible. Alice has the house to run, and quite a busy social life. Really, Serena, I had no idea that you were so selfish.’ He added, ‘And the au pair is leaving.’

He went away then, wishing her an austere goodbye, leaving her to go upstairs and discover why her father was shouting for her.

A few days later her younger brother came. Matthew was a gentler version of his brother. He also didn’t get on well with his father, but he was a dutiful son, tolerant of Mr Lightfoot’s ill temper while at the same time paying no more than duty visits. He was accompanied by his wife, a forceful young woman who was scornful of Serena, whom she considered was hopelessly old-fashioned in her ideas. She came into the house declaring breezily that Serena was neglecting the garden, and did she know there was a tile loose on the porch roof?

‘These things need attention,’ she pointed out. ‘It doesn’t do to neglect a house, certainly not one as large as this one. I must say you’re very lucky to live so splendidly.’

Serena let that pass, allowing her sister-in-law’s voice to flow over her unlistening head while her brother went to see his father. It was while they were having tea that she said, ‘Henry came the other day. I told him I wanted a holiday.’

Matthew choked on his cake. ‘A holiday? Why, Serena?’

At least he sounded reasonably interested.

‘This is a large house, there are six bedrooms, attics, a drawing room, dining room, sitting room, kitchen and two bathrooms. I am expected to keep them all clean and polished with the help of an elderly woman from the village who has rheumatism and can’t bend. And there’s the garden. I had a birthday a week or so ago—I’m twenty-six—and I think I’m entitled to a holiday.’

Matthew looked thoughtful, but it was his wife who spoke. ‘My dear Serena, we would all like holidays, but one has one’s duty. After all, you have only yourself and your father to care for, and uninterrupted days in which to arrange your tasks to please yourself.’

‘But I don’t please myself,’ said Serena matter-of-factly. ‘I have to please Father.’

Matthew said, ‘Well, it does seem to me to be quite reasonable… You have spoken to Henry…?’

‘Yes, he thinks it’s a silly idea.’

Matthew was at heart a good man, but under his brother and his wife’s thumbs. He said, ‘Oh, well, in that case I don’t think you should think any more about it, Serena.’

When Serena said nothing, he added, ‘I dare say you see a good deal of Gregory?’ Then he said, ‘A steady young man. You could do worse, Serena.’

‘Well, I dare say I could do better,’ said Serena flippantly. ‘Only I never meet any other men.’

She had a sudden memory of the man on Barrow Hill.

Gregory came at the weekend. She hadn’t expected him and, since it was a wet, dreary day, had decided to turn out a kitchen cupboard. Her untidy appearance caused him to frown as he pecked her cheek.

‘Must you look like a drudge on a Saturday morning?’ he wanted to know. ‘Surely that woman who comes to clean could do the work in the kitchen?’

Serena tucked back a strand of hair behind an ear. ‘She comes twice times a week for two hours. In a house this size it barely gives her time to do the kitchen and bathrooms and Hoover. I didn’t expect you…’

‘Obviously. I have brought you some flowers.’

He handed her daffodils wrapped in Cellophane with the air of a man conferring a diamond necklace.

Serena thanked him nicely and forebore from mentioning that there were daffodils running riot in the garden. It’s the thought that counts, she reminded herself as she took off her pinny. ‘I’ll make some coffee. Father has had his.’

‘I’ll go and see him presently.’ Gregory added carefully, ‘Henry tells me that you want to go on holiday.’

She was filling the kettle. ‘Yes. Don’t you think I deserve one? Can you think of somewhere I might go? I might meet people and have fun?’

Gregory said severely, ‘You are being facetious, Serena. I cannot see why you should need to go away. You have a lovely home here, with every comfort, and you can please yourself as to how you organise your days.’

She turned to look at him. He was quite serious, she decided, and if she had expected him to back her up she was to be disappointed.

‘You make it sound as though I spend my days sitting in the drawing room doing nothing, but you must know that that isn’t true.’

‘My dear Serena, would you be happy doing that? You are a born housewife and a splendid housekeeper; you will make a good wife.’ He smiled at her. ‘And now how about that coffee?’

He went to see her father presently, and she began to get lunch ready. Her father had demanded devilled kidneys on toast and a glass of the claret he kept in the dining room sideboard under lock and key. If Gregory intended to stay for lunch, he would have to have scrambled eggs and soup. Perhaps he would take her out? Down to the pub in the village where one could get delicious pasties…

Wishful thinking. He came into the kitchen, saying importantly that he needed to go to the office.

‘But it’s Saturday…’

He gave her a tolerant look. ‘Serena, I take my job seriously; if it means a few hours’ extra work even on a Saturday, I do not begrudge it. I will do my best to see you next Saturday.’

‘Why not tomorrow?’

His hesitation was so slight that she didn’t notice it. ‘I promised mother that I would go and see her—sort out her affairs for her—she finds these things puzzling.’

His mother, reflected Serena, was one of the toughest old ladies she had ever encountered, perfectly capable of arranging her affairs to suit herself. But she said nothing; she was sure that Gregory was a good son.

On Sunday, with the half-hope that she might see the stranger again, she walked up to the top of Barrow Hill, but there was no one there. Moreover, the early-morning brightness had clouded over and it began to rain. She went back to roast the pheasant her father had fancied for his lunch, and then spent the afternoon with Puss, listening to the radio.

While she listened she thought about 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 him, and now he’s really ill…’

‘No, Serena, it has nothing to do with you. Your father, while I was allowed to attend to him, had a very high blood pressure; neglect of that condition made a stroke inevitable. You have no reason to reproach yourself. Perhaps you would like to make yourself a cup of tea; we shan’t be long.’

So she went down to the kitchen, made a pot of tea and sat at the kitchen table drinking it, for there was nothing else for her to do until Dr Bowring came downstairs.

When he did he sat down at the table opposite her. ‘You don’t mind Mr van Doelen being here?’

She glanced at the big man, who was leaning against the dresser. ‘No, no, of course not…’

‘Your father has had a severe stroke. He is too ill for him to be moved to hospital, I’m afraid. In fact, my dear, I believe that he will not recover. I’ll get the community nurse to come as soon as possible. If necessary she will stay the night. Presumably your brothers will come as soon as possible and see to things?’

‘I’ll telephone them. Thank you for coming, Dr Bowring.’

‘I’ll come in the morning, or sooner if you need me. If by any chance I’m on another case, will you allow Mr van Doelen to come in my place?’

She glanced at the big man, standing so quietly, saying nothing and yet somehow making her feel safe. ‘No, of course I don’t mind.’

‘Then if I may use your phone to get Nurse Sims up here. Until she comes I’m sure Dr van Doelen will stay with you.’

‘Oh, but I’ll be all right.’ She knew that it was a silly thing to say as soon as she had uttered the words, so she added, ‘Thank you, that would be very kind.’

Dr Bowring went presently, and Mr van Doelen, with a reassuring murmur, went upstairs to her father’s room. Presently Nurse Sims came, and he bade Serena a quiet goodbye after talking to Nurse Sims.

Serena had phoned her brothers; they would come as soon as possible, they had both told her. She sensed that they found her father’s illness an inconvenience, but then illness never took convenience into account, did it? She set about getting a room ready for Nurse Sims, and getting the tea. She had gone upstairs to see her father, but he was still unconscious and she could see that he was very ill. Nurse Sims had drawn a comfortable chair up to the bed and was knitting placidly.

‘There’s nothing for me to do. It’s just a question of waiting. Are your brothers coming?’

‘As soon as possible, they said. Is there anything I can do?’

‘No, Serena. Go and have a cup of tea. I’ll have mine here, if you don’t mind…’

Henry arrived first, and went at once to see his father, then accepted the cup of tea Serena offered him before going away to see Dr Bowring. He was closely followed by Matthew, who stayed with his father for some time and then came down to sit with Serena, not saying much until Henry returned.

Neither of them would be able to stay. Henry explained pompously that he had important work to do, and Matthew had his parochial duties. She was to telephone them immediately if their father’s condition worsened. She would be companioned throughout the night by the nurse, and in the morning they would review the situation.

‘It is impossible for Alice to come,’ Henry pointed out. ‘She has the children and the house to run.’ And Matthew regretted that his wife Norah had the Mother’s Union and various other parish duties to fulfill.

Serena bade them goodbye and went into the kitchen to see about supper. She wasn’t upset; she hadn’t expected either of them to offer any real help. They had left her to manage as best she could for years, and there was no reason to expect them to do otherwise now.

She got supper, relieved Nurse Sims while she ate hers, and then got ready for bed and went and sat with her father while Nurse Sims took a nap. Since there was nothing to be done for the moment, presently she went to her own bed.

She was in the kitchen making tea at six o’clock the next morning when Nurse Sims asked her to phone the doctor.

It was Mr Van Doelen who came quietly into the kitchen. ‘Dr Bowring is out on a baby case. Shall I go up?’

Serena gave him a tired ‘Hello.’ She was both tired and very worried, her hair hanging down her back in a brown cloud, her face pale. She was wrapped in an elderly dressing gown and she had shivered a little in the early-morning air as he had opened the door. She led the way upstairs and stood quietly while he and Nurse Sims bent over her father. Presently he straightened up.

He said gently, ‘Would you like to stay with your father? It won’t be very long, I’m afraid.’ When she nodded, he drew up a chair for her. ‘I’ll sit over here, if I may?’ He moved to the other end of the room. ‘I’m sure Nurse Sims would like a little rest?’

Mr Lightfoot died without regaining consciousness; Serena, sitting there holding his hand, bade him a silent farewell. He had never liked her, and she, although she had looked after him carefully, had long ago lost any affection she had had for him. All the same, she was sad…

Mr van Doelen eased her gently out of her chair. ‘If you would fetch Nurse Sims? And perhaps telephone your brothers? And I’m sure we could all do with a cup of tea.’

He stayed until her brothers came, dealt with Henry’s officious requests and questions, and then bade her a quiet goodbye. ‘Dr Bowring will be along presently,’ he told her, ‘and I’m sure your brothers will see to everything.’

She saw him go with regret.

The next few days didn’t seem quite real. Henry spent a good deal of time at the house, sorting out his father’s papers, leaving her lists of things which had to be done.

‘You’ll need to be kept busy,’ he told her, and indeed she was busy, for the writing of notes to her father’s few friends, preparing for their arrival and the meal they would expect after the funeral fell to her lot, on top of the usual housekeeping and the extra meals Henry expected while he was there. Not that she minded; she was in a kind of limbo. Her dull life had come to an end but the future was as yet unknown.

At least, not quite unknown. Gregory had come to see her when he had heard the news and, while he didn’t actually propose, he had let her see that he considered their future together was a foregone conclusion. And he had been kind, treating her rather as though she were an invalid, telling her that she had always been a dutiful daughter and now she would have her reward. She hadn’t been listening, otherwise she might have wondered what he was talking about.

Not many people came to the funeral, and when the last of them had gone old Mr Perkins led the way into the drawing room. Henry and Matthew and their wives made themselves comfortable with the air of people expecting nothing but good news. Serena, who didn’t expect anything, sat in the little armchair her mother had always used.

Mr Perkins cleaned his spectacles, cleared his throat and began to read. Mr Lightfoot had left modest sums to his sons, and from the affronted look with which this was received it was apparent that, despite the fact that they had expected nothing, they were disappointed.

‘The house and its contents,’ went on Mr Perkins in a dry-as-dust voice, ‘are bequeathed to a charity, to be used as a home for those in need.’ He coughed. ‘To Serena, a sum of five hundred pounds has been left, and here I quote: “She is a strong and capable young woman, who is quite able to make her own way in the world without the aid of my money”. I must add that I did my best to persuade your father to reconsider this will, but he was adamant.’

He went presently, after assuring them that he was at their service should he be needed, and taking Serena aside to tell her that he would see that she had a cheque as soon as possible. ‘And if I can help in any way…’