Marrying Mary

A wobbly rendering of ‘Greensleeves’, followed by an unrecognisable piece full of wrong notes, which Polly assured them was ‘The Trout’ by Schubert, put an end to the old lady’s indecision; she would return home, as she had first intended, in two days’ time.

It fell to Mary’s lot, naturally enough, to pack for her aunt, and then unpack everything again because that lady suddenly remembered that she would need a particular cardigan to wear. She did it all cheerfully, quite unmoved by her aunt’s fault-finding and lack of thanks, and two days later she got the car out, loaded the cases and settled Mrs Winton on the back seat.

Her father had come out of his study to say goodbye and her mother, in her painting smock and holding a brush in her hand, had joined him on the doorstep. Polly wasn’t back from school but Mrs Blackett, obliging with an extra afternoon’s work, glowered from the kitchen window.

Great Aunt Thirza said her goodbyes graciously, omitting to thank anyone, giving the impression that she had honoured them greatly by her visit and pausing long enough in the hall to find fault with several things around the house. ‘I’m sure, though, that you did your best,’ she added, ‘and on the whole the meals were palatable.’

These remarks were met in silence. ‘I dare say I shall see improvements when I next visit you,’ she said and swept out to the car.

The Pagetts watched their daughter drive away. ‘Perhaps we should wait a little before we invite dear Aunt Thirza to stay again, my dear,’ observed Mr Pagett, and added, ‘I do hope Mary will cook something tasty for supper...’

Mrs Winton lived in Richmond in a red-brick terraced house, which was much too large for her and stuffed with mid-Victorian furniture, heavy plush curtains and a great many ornaments. Her housekeeper had been with her for a good number of years—a silent, austere woman who kept her distance, ran the house efficiently and never talked about herself, which wasn’t surprising really since Mrs Winton never asked.

She opened the door as Mary stopped the car, wished them good afternoon and took Mrs Winton’s luggage from the boot. ‘We’d like tea at once, Mrs Cox,’ said Great Aunt Thirza, and swept indoors with a brisk, ‘Come along, Mary; don’t dawdle!’

Mary wasn’t listening; she had gone back to the car to give Mrs Cox a hand with the luggage.

She hadn’t wanted to stay for tea but good manners made it necessary; she sat on an uncomfortable horsehair chair—a museum piece if ever there was one—and drank weak tea from a beautiful Minton cup and ate a dry Madeira cake which she suspected had been in the tin ever since Great Aunt Thirza’s illness.

While she ate she thought of the sausages and the mountains of chips she would cook when she got home. She had no doubt that her mother and father and Polly would enjoy them as much as she would.

Driving back presently, it wasn’t sausages and chips on her mind, it was love—the sheer excitement of it, the wonder of it, just to look at someone and know that he was the one... Her euphoria was short-lived. ‘Fool,’ said Mary. ‘You’ll never see him again—it was pure chance; besides, he didn’t even look at you.’

She edged past a slow-moving Ford Anglia, driven by an elderly man in a cloth cap. ‘He’ll be married to some gorgeous wisp of a girl who he’ll treat like fragile porcelain.’ She sighed; no one, however kindly disposed, could describe her as fragile. ‘All the same, it would be nice to find out about him.’

She was talking to herself again, waiting at traffic lights, and the driver of the car alongside hers gave her a startled look. She looked sane enough, but he couldn’t see anyone else in the car...

Professor van Rakesma, unlike Mary, wasn’t talking to himself—he was going through the notes of his patients.

‘Mrs Winton,’ he said at length in a satisfied voice, and made a note of her address. He had no doubt at all that he would discover more of the girl who had been with her—a niece, the old lady had said, and one in the habit of giving extra help and therefore to be tracked down at some future date.

He handed the notes back to the patient nurse waiting for them and left the hospital. He was dining out with friends and anticipating a pleasant evening as well as an excellent dinner.

Mary and her family had an excellent dinner too; the sausages and chips were greeted with whoops of joy from Polly, and even her mother, a dainty eater, welcomed them with pleasure. There was a wholesome roly-poly pudding for afters too, and a bottle of red wine, pronounced delicious by everyone.

Her father, of course, hardly noticed what he drank, and her mother was too kind to do more than remark on its good colour. The professor, had he been there, would have poured it down the sink.

Never mind that—it was a celebration; they were a family again without Great Aunt Thirza to meddle and complain. No one actually said that; only Polly remarked that she hoped that her great aunt wouldn’t pay them another visit for a very long time.

‘Well, she only comes when she wants something,’ said Polly, ‘and she’s well again now isn’t she?’

‘She saw a specialist the other day?’ asked her mother, who, always being in her but working at her cards, had missed the tale of Great Aunt Thirza’s hospital appointment.

Mary, to her great annoyance, blushed. ‘Yes—he said that she was able to resume normal life again and that she was very fit for her age.’

‘Was he nice?’

‘He seemed very nice,’ said Mary cautiously.

Polly asked, ‘What did he look like?’

Mary longed to describe him in every small detail but that would never have done. ‘Oh, well, quite young—he was Dutch...’

‘But what did he look like?’ persisted Polly.

‘Very tall and big with gingery hair, only it was grey too, and he had very blue eyes.’ She remembered something and smiled. ‘Great Aunt Thirza called him “young man”!’

Her father said, ‘Your aunt was always outspoken.’

‘Did he mind?’ asked her mother.

‘No, he said that he rather liked it.’

‘He doesn’t sound like a specialist. Do you suppose that if I’m ill he’d look after me?’ Polly looked hopeful.

‘Well, no—he looks after people with bad hearts.’

‘Supposing you broke your heart—would he look after you?’

Mary said in a level voice, ‘No, I don’t suppose that he’s got time to waste on broken hearts, only ill ones.’ She got up from the table. ’I’ll bring the coffee in here, shall I?’

Life settled down into its accustomed pattern once more. Mary’s days were full. Her father had dropped a pile of notes all over his study floor and it took hours of work to get them in order again; her mother floated in and out of the house, absorbed in her painting, and Polly was away most of the day.

Mrs Blackett, free to do as she liked again, was her usual ill-tempered self, although she no longer threatened to leave, and Mary slipped back into her customary routine. And if her thoughts dwelt wistfully upon Professor van Rakesma she didn’t allow them to show; she had plenty of common sense and she was aware that day-dreams, though pleasant, had nothing at all to do with real life.

There was Arthur too. He had been away on a course and now he was back and, though she was reluctant to do so, she had agreed to go out to dinner with him—to a nice little place in Hampstead, he had told her; they would be able to get a good meal very reasonably.

The idea that she was only worth a reasonably priced dinner rankled with Mary, but she got out a pretty if somewhat out-of-date dress, put polish on her nails, did her face and piled her glorious hair on top of her head. She made sure that the casserole for the family supper was safely in the oven, and went to remind her father that she was going out.

He looked up from his writing. ‘Out? Well, enjoy yourself, my dear. Have you a key?’

She went down to the hut next. ‘I’m going out to dinner with Arthur, Mother. The supper’s in the oven; it’ll be ready at half-past seven. I’ve told Polly.’

‘Dear child,’ said her mother fondly, ‘go and enjoy yourself—who with?’

‘Arthur.’

‘Oh, Arthur, of course. Tell me, do you like robins on this card, or do you suppose a bunch of holly would be better?’

‘Robins,’ said Mary.

Polly was in the hall. ‘I’ll see to supper, Mary. Did you feed Bingo?’

The family cat had made himself scarce while Great Aunt Thirza had been there, only skimming in for his meals, but now he was in possession of the house once more, commandeering laps and eating heartily.

‘Yes—here’s Arthur...’

Polly caught her arm. ‘Don’t say yes, Mary,’ she whispered urgently. ‘He might propose!’

‘Arthur has never done anything hastily in his life; he’ll have to give a proposal a lot of thought, and he’ll lead up to it so gradually that I’ll have plenty of time to think about it.’

‘You like him?’

Mary said guardedly, ‘I’ve known him for a long time, love; he’s a good man but I don’t want to marry him.’ She added thoughtfully, ‘I don’t think he really wants to marry me...’

Arthur had got out of the car and thumped the doorknocker; she kissed Polly and went to meet him.

Arthur’s ‘Hello, old girl,’ had nothing lover-like about it. She said, ‘Hello, Arthur,’ and got into the car beside him and enquired about his course.

Telling her about it took up the entire drive and he still hadn’t finished when they sat down at a table in the restaurant. It was a pleasant place but not, she decided, the right background for romance. Its pale green walls were too cool, and the white tablecloths and little pot of dried flowers echoed the coolness, but since Arthur obviously had no thought of romance that didn’t matter.

Mary ate her plaice, French fries and macédoine of vegetables, chose trifle for pudding and listened to him. She was a kind girl, and it was obvious that he needed to tell someone everything which had occurred at the course. She said ‘Oh, splendid,’ and ‘Really?’ at suitable intervals, and wondered what Professor van Rakesma was doing...

She thanked Arthur when he took her back home, offered him coffee, which he refused, and accepted his kiss on her cheek. ‘A splendid evening, Mary—we’ve had a good talk.’ He added, in a rather condescending tone which grated on her ear, ‘When I can find the time we must do it again.’

What about my time? thought Mary, and murmured politely.

Getting into bed, she decided that in ten years’ time Arthur would definitely be pompous.

She was getting the breakfast ready the next morning when the phone rang. Mrs Cox, usually so calm, sounded agitated. ‘Miss Mary? The doctor’s here; your aunt’s took bad. She wants you—ever so restless she is. The doctor said if you could come to ease her mind. Won’t go to the hospital, she says, at least not until you come.’

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can, Mrs Cox. Tell Great Aunt Thirza, will you?’

Mary switched off the gas under the frying-pan and went to find her mother.

CHAPTER TWO

THERE were cars parked on either side of the road where Mrs Winton lived. Mary wedged the elderly Austin into the space between a new Rover and a Rolls Royce and nipped smartly across the pavement and up the steps to the front door.

‘I thought you’d never get here,’ said Mrs Cox, no longer the silent and austere housekeeper now that she was thoroughly put out. ‘Your aunt’s real poorly; the doctor’s with her now.’

‘If she’s so ill she must go back to hospital or have a nurse here—where’s this doctor?’

‘Ah—the niece,’ said a voice gently beside her. There he was—the man she had been thinking of all day and every day, standing a foot from her, smiling. ‘Mrs Winton’s doctor is with her; I thought it best if I were to have a word with you...’ He glanced at Mrs Cox. ‘If we might go somewhere quiet?’

They were ushered into the drawing-room and Mary sat down on the self-same horsehair chair that she had so happily vacated so short a time ago. She was glad to sit down; she had never believed that nonsense about knees turning to jelly when one was confronted by the loved one, but hers were jelly now.

‘Fancy seeing you again,’ she said, and added, ‘That’s a silly thing to say.’ And she blushed because he was smiling again, although he said nothing.

He stood by the door, watching her, and presently said, ‘Your aunt has had a mild heart attack. Not serious enough for her to return to hospital but she will need to stay quietly at home for a few days. As you may know, the treatment is now quite an active one, but she is old which largely precludes it. If it is difficult for you to stay with her I’m sure Dr Symes will be able to find a nurse from one of the agencies, but I understand from Mrs Winton that you are a very capable young woman, and, of course, a nurse—a private nurse—is a costly expense in these days.’

I don’t cost a penny, reflected Mary bleakly.

‘There will be very little for you to do,’ said the Professor smoothly, watching her expressive face from under heavy lids. ‘See that she takes gentle exercise each day, eats sensibly, doesn’t become agitated...’ Mary gave him a cold look. ‘Yes, I quite understand that Mrs Winton is used to having her own way, but she appears to like you and will probably do what you ask of her.’

He came and sat down opposite her on another horsehair chair. ‘You are needed at home?’ He sounded casually sympathetic. ‘You live close by?’

‘No, no, I don’t; at least, Hampstead isn’t far, but it’s an awkward journey. Besides, there’s no one to see to the house.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘You live alone? I gathered from the hospital that Mrs Winton was staying with a nephew—your father?’

‘Yes, but Father’s writing a book and my mother paints. My sister’s only thirteen and she’s at school all day. Mrs Blackett could manage for a day or two, but she’s always on the point of leaving.’

‘Mrs Blackett?’ prompted the professor gently, greatly enjoying himself.

‘Our daily. At least, she comes four mornings a week, but—she didn’t get on well with Great Aunt Thirza.’

‘Just so.’ The professor might have been only thirty-five years old, but his manner was that of a man twice his age, seemingly prepared to listen sympathetically and give suitable advice. Mary responded to that; she had plenty of friends of her own age, but it wouldn’t have entered her head to bore them with her worries, but here was a sympathetic ear, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to unburden herself.

‘Mother——’ she began. ‘Mother’s a darling, and so clever with a paintbrush, but of course she’s artistic and she doesn’t really like cooking and that kind of thing; besides, the money she gets for the cards is most useful. And Father’s very clever; he doesn’t notice what’s going on around him. I wouldn’t change them for the world but they simply can’t manage unless someone is there to see to the house. Polly’s splendid, but she’s at school and there’s homework. So you see it is a bit awkward if I have to stay here...’ She added snappily, ‘Not that I’m indispensable...’

‘No, no,’ soothed Professor van Rakesma. ‘Of course not, but I see that you have problems. Would it help if you were to go home for a few hours each day? Perhaps while your aunt rests in the afternoons?’

‘Have you any idea what the traffic is like between here and Hampstead—the other end of Hampstead?’

He tucked this useful piece of information away at the back of his mind and said that he had a very good idea. ‘If a nurse were to relieve you for a few hours each day would that help?’ And at her look of surprise he added, ‘I’m sure the National Health Service would be prepared to pay for her; she would cost a lot less than having your aunt in hospital, besides giving us another empty bed. Always in short supply.’

‘Would they? Who should I ask?’

‘Leave that to me. Now, I think we might join Dr Symes and his patient.’

Great Aunt Thirza was sitting, propped up by pillows, in a vast mahogany bed; she looked pale and tired and Mary forgot how tiresome the whole thing was and bent to kiss her cheek. ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Thirza, but a few days’ rest and you’ll be as right as rain.’

‘So that foreign man tells me. Dr Symes is of no use at all—nice enough, but of course all doctors are fools, and don’t contradict me, miss!’ She caught Mary’s hand. ‘You’ll stay, Mary?’

‘Until you are better, yes, Aunt Thirza.’

Mrs Winton closed her eyes. ‘Then go away and leave me in peace.’

Mary looked at the two men. Dr Symes nodded to her to go with him, leaving the professor at the bedside. Outside the door he said, ‘She’ll listen to him. Are you sure you can manage? I’ll be in every day and I dare say Professor van Rakesma will visit again. It was a piece of luck that I happened to be on the other phone to him when the housekeeper rang up—said he’d seen her at St Justin’s and asked if he might come and see her. Very civil of him.’

She agreed, and added sedately, ‘I’m sure it will be a great relief to Aunt Thirza to know that she is being looked after so well. You’ll be here in the morning?’

‘After surgery, but phone me if you are worried.’

They were joined by the professor then, who, beyond wishing her good morning, had nothing further to say before the two men went out to their cars and drove away. She shut the door and went to find Mrs Cox.

‘You’re staying, Miss Mary? I told the doctor and I’m telling you that I’m the housekeeper, not the nurse. I’ve enough to do without fetching and carrying all day and half the night.’

‘Yes, of course I’ll stay, Mrs Cox. Professor van Rakesma thinks that Mrs Winton will be fully recovered in a short time. I’m sure that it must have been a nasty shock to you when she became ill again. I’ll look after my aunt so please don’t worry; I’m sure that you have enough to do.’

Mrs Cox bridled. ‘Well, as to that, I’m sure I’m willing to give a hand when necessary—though I won’t be left alone with Mrs Winton.’

‘No, no. No one would ask you to do that. I’m sure we’ll manage very well between us. I’ll go and see my aunt now. I dare say she’s tired after being examined.’

Great Aunt Thirza was asleep. Mary stealthily opened a window, and sat down on a little spoon-back chair and went over her conversation with the professor. He had said that she was to leave things to him, that he would arrange for someone to come each day so that she could go home, but he was a busy man and, however well meant, she doubted if anything would come of that.

It had been a delightful surprise seeing him again, she reflected, not that he had been over-friendly. Well, she conceded, he’s been kind and helpful, but she rather thought that he would be that to anyone with a problem. She had to admit that he had shown no special interest in her, but then why should he? Probably he was happily married...

‘Why are you sitting there?’ demanded Great Aunt Thirza. ‘There’s surely something you can be doing? I don’t approve of idle hands.’

‘I was waiting for you to wake up,’ said Mary. ‘Dr Symes wants you to have a warm drink—tea or milk or cocoa?’

Great Aunt Thirza was feeling cantankerous. ‘I don’t want a drink...’

Mary got to her feet. ‘I’ll bring you a tray of tea-Earl Grey—and do you fancy a little fish for your lunch?’

‘Fish! Fish? I’m very ill, girl, probably dying...’

‘Professor van Rakesma said that you will be up and about in a few days. You’ve had a nasty fright, Aunt Thirza, but there’s no question of your dying. A nice little piece of sole, with a morsel of creamed potato and perhaps a purée of new peas?’

‘You may bring it to me,’ said the old lady ungraciously, ‘but I shall most likely be unable to eat it.’

It seemed a very long day to Mary; her aunt kept her busy, for she was a bad patient, prone to do exactly the opposite to what she was asked to do, so that Mary got into bed quite worn out with hanging on to her patience. She had phoned her mother that evening, and was relieved that everything was going smoothly at home—although Mrs Pagett’s efforts at cooking supper seemed to have been rather chaotic.

‘You won’t have to stay there long?’ her mother had asked.

‘No, I don’t think so.’ She recounted what the doctor had said but didn’t mention the professor’s offer to find a relief for her each day. It had been a kind thought, she reflected sleepily, but he would have forgotten by now.

He hadn’t though. Mary was carrying her aunt’s lunch tray downstairs the next day when Mrs Cox admitted an elderly woman in a nurse’s uniform.

Mary, poised on the bottom tread of the stairs, stared at her. ‘He actually meant it,’ she exclaimed.

The woman smiled. ‘Indeed he did. Professor van Rakesma seldom says much, but when he does he means it. He has arranged for me to come each day while you are here—two o’clock until half-past five.’

Mary put down her tray and shook hands. ‘That’s very kind and thoughtful of him—and kind of you too. It’s not interfering with your work? I didn’t realise that the Health Service were so helpful.’

‘Well, you must have time to yourself. I’m Maisie Stone.’ She glanced at Mrs Cox, who was standing by the door looking rather sour.

‘This is Mrs Cox, my aunt’s housekeeper,’ said Mary hastily. ‘She runs the house beautifully and is such a help.’

Mrs Cox looked smug. ‘I’m sure I do my best but, as I told Miss Mary here, I won’t do no nursing or lifting or suchlike.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t expect you to do that,’ said Mrs Stone comfortably. ‘I’m sure we shall get on very well together.’ She turned to Mary. ‘If I might take a look at the patient?’

Ten minutes later Mary was in the car, driving home. It was an awkward journey, but she had discovered several short cuts and the traffic wasn’t too heavy and it was worth it; her mother was delighted to see her—it wasn’t one of Mrs Blackett’s days and the kitchen needed urgent attention. Mary put on a pinny. ‘If you’ll make us a cup of tea—there’s a cake in the tin on the dresser—I’ll just clear these dishes and saucepans. What had you planned for the evening?’

‘There’s that chicken you were going to roast...’

‘I’ll casserole it. Then all you’ll have to do is put it in the oven a couple of hours before you want it.’ Mary picked up a teatowel. ‘Mother, supposing I write down what you need to buy each day? Then when I come home I’ll get it ready to cook.’

‘Oh, darling, would you? I’ve been so busy I’ve hardly had a moment to do any painting. Perhaps Polly...?’

‘Well, no, love, she’s got a lot of prep to do when she gets home, hasn’t she? If you pop down to the shops each morning you’ll have the rest of the day to work—you and Father can have a cold lunch. Is he at home?’

‘No. He said he’d be back about five o’clock.’

Mary hung the teacloth to dry and sat down at the table. ‘So we’ll have tea and decide what to buy tomorrow.’

‘Will you be away long?’ asked her mother wistfully. ‘We don’t seem able to get on very well when you’re not here, dear.’

‘Not long, and I can come home each afternoon— well, most of them; I don’t know about weekends.’

But when Sunday came Mrs Stone arrived at her usual hour, and this time the professor was. with her. He took a quick look at Mrs Winton, pronounced her greatly improved, suggested that she could take some exercise each day and, as they went downstairs, observed casually that since he had heard that Mary lived at Hampstead, and he was on his way there, he would give her a lift.

Mary paused on the bottom tread. ‘Thank you; that’s kind of you to offer but I’ve got our car—I have to get back again, you see.’

‘I’m invited to tea with my godson—his parents live near the Heath. I’ll pick you up at around five o’clock and collect Maisie.’

Even though she was so much in love with him and could hardly bear him out of her sight Mary took a few moments to agree to this. Her heart might be his, but common sense told her that allowing herself to get involved wouldn’t do at all. A prudent refusal was on the tip of her tongue when he said, ‘Well, run along and get your coat and we can be off.’