Waiting for Deborah

‘You’re very kind. I didn’t know that you had had to look after Mrs Vernon; I thought young Mrs Vernon had been doing that.’

‘Lor’ love you, dearie, she never goes near the poor old thing, only when the doctor comes. She’d have been better off in an hospital but they want to keep her here so’s if she gets to move a hand a bit she can sign her name so’s they can take care of her money.’

She made the tea and put the teapot on the tray. ‘Not that I should be gossiping with you, and you only just here but it’s only right you should know which way the cat’s jumping.’

‘It’s kind of you to tell me,’ said Deborah. ‘I’ll take good care of the old lady.’

She bore the tray upstairs, gave Mrs Vernon the milk, a slow business but successfully achieved, and then sat down near the bed and had her own tea. Mrs Vernon was dozing again and she was able to consider what Mrs Dodd had told her—it was a quite different picture from that which Mrs Dexter had painted although she was sure that that lady had no idea of the true state of things. That her own position in the household wasn’t quite as Mrs Dexter had pictured it didn’t worry her; she was fired with the ambition to get the old lady better although she had very little idea of how to set about it. All she knew was that people recovered from strokes sooner or later and to a greater or lesser degree, provided that the stroke hadn’t been a massive one. The local nurse had been coming in to see her and she might be a useful source of information … Deborah drained the teapot, ate everything on the tea tray and carried it back to the kitchen.

When she finally got into her bed that night she was tired. Mrs Vernon was hard work and she found that she was expected to manage by herself. It meant rolling the patient to and fro while she saw to the bed and washed her, heaved her up on to her pillows, fed her the milky drink which, it seemed, was all that she was allowed, and then sat quietly by the bed until she slept. The job, she reflected, wasn’t quite what she had expected, but never mind that, it was a job and she was free …

She got up early and since the old lady was still asleep she bathed and dressed and crept down the back stairs. Mrs Dodd was in the kitchen and greeted her in a friendly fashion and offered a cup of tea.

‘If you come down in half an hour your breakfast would be ready. You don’t mind eating it here? The mistress has hers in bed and Mr Vernon likes to be on his own …’

Deborah didn’t mind and said so and Mrs Dodd went on, ‘You’ll need to have the old lady spick and span by ten o’clock: the doctor comes twice a week—today and on Friday—just takes a look at her and has a chat with the mistress.’

Old Mrs Vernon was awake when Deborah went back upstairs and there was time to bathe her face and smooth her hair and make her comfortable. Deborah talked while she worked, heaved the old lady up the bed and turned her pillows and then offered her a drink. She drank thirstily and Deborah, offering more water, resolved to ask for something more interesting. Surely if Mrs Vernon could manage to swallow water she could do the same with orange juice or barley water or even Bovril and chicken broth?

Eating the breakfast the cook put before her presently, she broached the subject. ‘Well, I don’t see why you shouldn’t help yourself to anything you would think she might fancy. Fluids, the doctor said, and they’re all fluids, aren’t they?’ She pointed to the big dresser which took up all one wall. ‘You’ll find everything that you want in there and no need to ask.’

So Deborah went back to the old lady’s room with a jug of orange juice and a small tea tray. She hoped she was doing the right thing but she couldn’t see any reason for not doing it and besides the doctor would come presently and she could ask him and find out too just how much movement the patient could tolerate.

The tea was taken with obvious pleasure, judging by the flurry of winks from the mask-like face. Deborah bore the tray back to the kitchen, put the orange juice in the bathroom to keep cool, and set about readying her patient for the day. Mrs Vernon, although helpless, was small and very thin, which was a good thing, for Deborah had a good deal of heaving and turning to do before she was satisfied with her efforts and knew that her patient was comfortable. It seemed that she was, for, when asked, she winked several times.

Dr Benson was a disappointment; he came into the room accompanied by young Mrs Vernon, accorded Deborah a nod and went to look at his patient.

‘Looks comfortable enough,’ he observed jovially. ‘Let us hope that this young woman will look after her as well as you have done, my dear. I only hope that you have not overtaxed your strength; you must take things easy.’

Deborah, standing by the bed, saw the pent-up rage in the old eyes staring up at him. There was something wrong and she wasn’t sure what it was but of one thing she was sure: it wouldn’t be of any use asking Dr Benson’s advice. He hadn’t spoken to her at all, addressing all his remarks to Mrs Vernon, but she took heart when she heard him telling her that since she was so anxious about her aunt he had arranged for a specialist to come and see the old lady. ‘I’ll bring him with me on Friday,’ he promised. ‘He’s one of the best men in the medical world.’

‘You’re doing very nicely.’ He bent over his patient and spoke rather loudly. ‘We must be patient.’ He patted her hand, nodded to Deborah and went away with Mrs Vernon.

Deborah skipped to the bathroom and filled a feeder with some orange juice. Rest was all very well but some extra nourishment might do no harm. Her gentle heart was shaken to see tears oozing from under the old lady’s eyelids. She put an arm round the elderly head and lifted it gently. ‘You’re going to get better,’ she said, ‘I’m quite sure of that. You’re going to have nourishing drinks and I’m going to rub your legs and arms so that when you can move again you won’t feel weak. I’m not a nurse but if you’ll trust me I’ll do my very best to get you better. Just don’t lose heart, because it will take the two of us.’

Florrie came presently so that Deborah might go down to her lunch. It surprised her very much to discover that she was having it with young Mrs Vernon, but only for that day it seemed, so that that lady could make her wishes known to Deborah.

‘Normally you may have your lunch in the morning-room at the back of the house and your supper too of course. Tea you can have upstairs and someone will sit with my aunt each afternoon for an hour or so. The village has a shop if you should need anything and when it can be arranged you may take a half-day—there’s a bus once or twice a week into Lechlade.’ She glanced at Deborah. ‘It’s an easy post—there’s really nothing to do but keep my aunt comfortable. She needs very little and has no appetite.’

Deborah murmured politely, not believing a word of it.

She walked to the village and back while Mrs Dodd sat with Mrs Vernon. It was a brisk spring day and her spirits rose in the open air. It was nice to have an aim in life; it would be marvellous if she could get the old lady a little better—well enough to sit in a chair perhaps and eat a little and have visitors. Deborah went back to the unwelcoming room armed with a bunch of late snowdrops she had picked and, since there was no one to see, a few daffodils from the garden.

She showed them to her patient and thought that she saw pleasure in the staring eyes. She put them where they could be seen from the bed and went to fetch the tea tray.

The next day followed the pattern of the last with no sign of the old lady’s niece and so did the day after that, but on Friday morning Deborah was surprised to see young Mrs Vernon come into the room.

‘See that my aunt is in a clean nightgown,’ she told Deborah after a meaningless ‘Good morning’. ‘Dr Benson will be here at half-past eleven with that specialist. Get the room tidied up too and remember to stand still and keep quiet while they’re here; you have no need to answer any questions, for I will be here.’

She went away again, leaving Deborah to finish brushing the silvery hair and to tie it back out of the way. She smiled at the old lady as she did so and was taken aback by the look in her eyes. ‘You can hear, can’t you?’ she asked gently, and when one eye winked, ‘I’m going to try and see the doctor—this specialist who is coming to see you; I don’t know how yet but I’ll manage something—I’m sure there’s more to be done than we’re doing. Shall I do that?’

She had another wink in answer.

She heard Mrs Vernon’s tinkling laugh before the door opened and they came in; she was talking vivaciously to Dr Benson and smiling charmingly at him and the man with him. He paused in the doorway and studied the room, its sparse furniture, the drab curtains, its lack of comfort; his eyes lingered for a moment on the bright splashes of colour afforded by the daffodils and snowdrops and last of all he looked at Deborah, neat as a new pin, her carroty hair severely pinned back, its colour vying with the flowers. He joined the others then and turned with a slight lift of his eyebrows to Mrs Vernon, then glancing at Deborah.

‘Oh, this is my aunt’s companion, or should I say attendant? She is quite a help to me—it is exhausting work, you know.’

The specialist crossed the room and held out a hand. ‘But very worthwhile work,’ he said and smiled down at her. ‘Miss …?’

‘Everett, Deborah Everett …’

Young Mrs Vernon broke in quickly, ‘This is Sir James Marlow, Deborah.’

Deborah held out a hand and had it engulfed in his large cool one. He was a giant of a man, nearer forty than thirty, she thought, and handsome with it, his fair hair already silvered, his eyes a clear blue half hidden under heavy lids. She smiled—here was someone she could talk to …

CHAPTER TWO

DEBORAH quickly discovered that there was to be no chance of saying anything. Young Mrs Vernon had a smooth answer for Sir James’s questions. Oh, yes, she assured him earnestly, her aunt had a varied liquid diet and she herself had massaged the flaccid arms and legs just as the nurse had told her to do. ‘Quite exhausting,’ she added, the very picture of patient effort.

Sir James had little to say; he nodded courteously and indicated that he would like to examine his patient. Deborah, waved away by Mrs Vernon’s imperious hand, stepped back and watched while that lady turned back the bed covers, observing, ‘Of course my aunt doesn’t understand anything, does she? There is absolutely no response …’

Sir James didn’t speak, but bent his vast bulk over the bed and began a leisurely examination of his patient. He was very thorough and when it was necessary to turn the patient from one side to the other it was Deborah who did it. ‘For,’ declared young Mrs Vernon, ‘I simply haven’t the strength.’ Dr Benson patted her hand in a sympathetic manner but Sir James took no notice, intent as he was on noting reactions from his patient’s feet. Not that there were any. Deborah replaced the bedclothes, squeezed one of the quiet hands on them and efficiently retired to her corner.

Sir James straightened his enormous back. He said clearly, looking at the old lady as he spoke, ‘I see no reason why Mrs Vernon should not recover at least two-thirds of her normal capacity. Perhaps we might discuss what is to be done …’

‘How splendid,’ observed young Mrs Vernon, not meaning a word of it, and Dr Benson looked doubtful.

‘It would mean treatment of some sort, presumably? But Mrs Vernon simply couldn’t allow her aunt to go into hospital—here she has all the care she needs.’

‘Perhaps if we talk about this downstairs?’ suggested Sir James and smiled at Deborah as he left the room.

Deborah whisked herself over to the bed. ‘He’s on our side,’ she said to the mask-like face on its pillows. ‘He said that you would get better, you heard him, didn’t you?’ She received a wink, and went on, ‘I must see him—if only he would stay for lunch I might see him when he leaves.’

Fate was, for once, being helpful. Cook told her that Sir James was staying to lunch although Dr Benson had had to go, ‘Though he did say that he would have to be back in London later this afternoon. I’m to have lunch ready for one o’clock sharp so’s he can leave by half-past two.’

Deborah, about to leave the kitchen with a jug of the delicious nourishing bouillon purloined from the dining-room lunch, paused to ask, ‘Could Florrie come punctually, do you think? If she could come before two o’clock—I’ll come back early to make up for it.’

‘Don’t you worry, miss,’ said Cook, polishing the glasses at the table, ‘I’ll see she’s there. Come down for your lunch as soon as you can. Old Mrs Vernon’ll enjoy that bouillon—real tasty it is.’

Deborah talked while she fed the old lady, making plans about what they could do once Mrs Vernon was on her feet again. ‘What you really need is a room on the ground floor so that I can put you in a wheelchair and take you for walks. But first we have to get you out of bed …’

She went down to her own lunch presently and took her tray into the morning-room and closed the door carefully to shut out the sound of young Mrs Vernon’s laugh. Deborah, a gentle soul by nature, really hated her. However, she had other things to think about; if Florrie was punctual she could be out of the house soon after two o’clock and since there was only one road to the village and the main road beyond it, Sir James would have to go that way. She would lie in wait for him, she decided, gobbling up the little dish of profiteroles Cook had saved from the dessert destined for the dining-room.

She had just finished settling Mrs Vernon for the afternoon when Florrie came and settled herself with a magazine near the bed.

‘I’ll be back by half-past three,’ promised Deborah, and added, ‘thank you, Florrie.’

‘Meeting your boyfriend?’ asked Florrie.

‘With my plain face?’ Deborah spoke matter-of-factly. ‘I haven’t got one—never had, not had the time nor the chance.’

‘Well, I never, miss, and you’re not all that plain, if you’d do your hair different like for a start—it’s a lovely colour and I bet it curls a bit if only you’d give it a chance.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ promised Deborah. She took a last look at the old lady and hurried off to get on her outdoor things; she had wasted time talking to Florrie.

It was the end of March and the month was going out like a lamb, true to the old adage. It was pleasant walking along the narrow country road but she didn’t loiter; she wanted to be at least halfway to the village, well away from the house. If she remembered rightly there was a layby there; it would do nicely. All she had to do was to get him to stop.

She reached the spot and found it highly satisfactory for the road stretched on either side of it in a more or less straight line so that she would see him coming. It was merely a question of waiting.

She didn’t have to wait long. The grey Bentley came rushing towards her in dignified silence and she stepped into the middle of the road and held up an arm. The great car stopped smoothly and Sir James opened the door.

‘Do get in,’ he said pleasantly. ‘We can talk more easily.’

He waited while she got in and sat down and then leaned across her and closed the door.

‘Did you know I’d be here?’

‘I rather expected to see you …’

‘Why?’

‘You have an expressive face, Miss Everett.’ He turned to look at her. ‘What is worrying you?’

She studied his face before she replied; he wasn’t only a very handsome man, he looked—she sought for a word—safe; besides, he was a doctor and one could say things to doctors and they listened and never told anyone …

‘I haven’t much time and I don’t suppose you have either. I’ve only been here four days and I don’t know anything about old Mrs Vernon. I was told that she was on a fluid diet and that she just needed to be kept comfortable but she had been having endless milk and water and—and she wasn’t very clean. And somehow I couldn’t get Dr Benson alone to ask him. I’ve started giving her some orange juice and Bovril and weak tea and she likes that—I know because she winks once if she thinks something is all right and twice if something is wrong. I turn her in bed as often as possible but couldn’t I massage her arms and legs? You see, I’d like to help her to get better and not just lie there, but perhaps I shouldn’t be doing any of these things. So would you tell me what to do and could you ask Dr Benson to write out a diet for her?’ She heaved a gusty sigh. ‘I sound like a prig, don’t I? But I don’t mean to be.’

He smiled very kindly. ‘Not in the least like a prig, but why didn’t you ask Dr Benson all this? He’s a very kind man; it is hardly …’

‘Oh, dear—it’s something called medical ethics, isn’t it? Silly of me not to think of that, but thank you for listening and I’ll try to get him alone.’ She put a hand on the door and he leaned across and took it off again and put it back in her lap.

‘Not so fast. Leave it to me, will you? And in the meantime there is no reason why Mrs Vernon should not have variety in her fluid diet. No coffee, of course … you are familiar with the rudiments of nursing?’

‘I nursed my mother for a year before she died and then my stepfather for more than two years.’

His voice was casual. ‘You have no family?’

‘Not really—a stepbrother and a stepsister.’

He nodded. ‘There is no reason why Mrs Vernon should not improve considerably. By all means massage her legs and arms, and talk to her—you do already, do you not? Her hearing as far as I could judge is good.’

She heard the note of finality in his voice and put her hand on the door once more but before she could open it he had got out and come round the car to open it for her. She hadn’t expected that and, much to her annoyance, blushed.

Sir James’s firm mouth twitched but all he said was, ‘Now do exactly as Dr Benson says, won’t you? Goodbye, Miss Everett.’

She watched the car until it was out of sight before turning round and going back to the house. She was unlikely to see him again, she reflected, but she couldn’t forget him; it wasn’t just the magnificent size of him or his good looks—he had listened to her, something Walter hadn’t done for years. Nor, for the matter, had her stepfather.

‘A very nice man,’ said Deborah, talking to herself since there was no one else to talk to. ‘I should very much like to meet him again but of course I shan’t.’

Florrie was deep in her magazine when Deborah got home. ‘She’s been as good as gold,’ she told Deborah, ‘sleeping like a baby.’

But when she went over to the bed the old lady’s eyes were open. ‘Good, have you been awake for a long time?’

An eye winked. ‘Then we’ll have tea early, shall we? I’ll tell you about my walk …’

She described the primroses and violets she had found, the lambs she had seen in the fields bordering the road, the hedges and the catkins and a squirrel she had seen up a tree, but she didn’t say a word about Sir James.

It was several days before Dr Benson came again and this time he wished her good morning. ‘I have received a letter from Sir James,’ he told her. ‘I have already told Mrs Vernon of its contents but since you are looking after my patient it is necessary that I tell you too. He is of the opinion that the diet may be increased—broth, Bovril, weak tea, fruit juices—and he suggests that she might tolerate a nourishing milky food: Complan. You know of it?’

Deborah said that yes, she did, reflecting on the countless times she had prepared it for her stepfather.

‘He also agrees with me that gentle massage would be of great benefit. Five minutes or so each day on the limbs.’

Young Mrs Vernon spoke, ‘Of course none of this is going to cure her—but it might make her more comfortable, I suppose.’ She peered down at her aunt, who lay with her eyes shut. ‘She must be very weak by now.’ She added quickly, ‘Poor dear old thing.’ Then gave Dr Benson a sad smile.

‘You have done all—more than enough for her,’ he told her. ‘You are quite worn out—you need a few weeks’ rest.’ He glanced at Deborah. ‘I should suppose that this young lady—Deborah?—is capable of taking over your duties as well as her own for a short period?’

Deborah, assuming her most capable expression, pondered the fact that Dr Benson, who was probably a nice man, clever enough and kind to his patients, should have been taken in so completely by Mrs Vernon. Probably Sir James felt the same way; she was by no means beautiful but she was skilfully made up and wore beautiful clothes; besides, she had mastered the art of being charming …

Dr Benson rambled on. ‘You husband is still away? In London? What could be better? Allow yourself to relax, Mrs Vernon, enjoy yourself, go and join him, go out and about; you will return refreshed.’

Any woman, thought Deborah, listening to this, would be refreshed by a few theatres, dinners out and the kind of shopping Mrs Vernon would do. She wondered about Mr Vernon, apparently away on business. His wife spoke of him in capital letters so presumably he was her loving slave …

She caught the tail-end of what Mrs Vernon was saying. ‘To leave my dear aunt with servants … I should never forgive myself if anything should happen while I was away.’

‘My dear lady, your aunt may linger for some time; on the other hand she may die very shortly—she is very weak as you can see. Even with this diet which Sir James has suggested and massage … they are merely a means of bringing your aunt more comfort.’

‘You think so?’ Mrs Vernon sounded eager. ‘Then perhaps I will go away for a week or so. But supposing she should die while I am away …?’

‘My dear Mrs Vernon, no one is going to question your absolute devotion to your aunt and, in any case, she is unaware of anyone or anything.’

Deborah was standing where she could see her patient’s face. She winked at it and had an answering wink. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Dr Benson that his patient was listening to every word. She had her mouth open to utter when she received two winks and such a glare from the elderly eyes that she could only close her mouth again.

Dr Benson and Mrs Vernon went away presently and Deborah perched on the side of the bed so that the old lady could see her clearly.

‘Nothing could be better,’ she observed in her practical way. ‘We shall have a week or more … I’ll massage you and feed you up with chicken broth and beef tea and anything else that will go down. And don’t take any notice of what they say. I know you are going to get better.’ She added to clinch the matter, ‘Sir James told me so.’

Mrs Vernon didn’t go at once; she came every morning now to enquire as to her aunt’s condition and Deborah told her each time that her patient had had a quiet night and was taking her feeds. What she didn’t tell was that she had seen old Mrs Vernon’s toes twitch when she had been washing her in bed. It was exciting and she was bursting to tell someone, preferably Sir James, but that wouldn’t be possible; it would have to be Dr Benson and then only after she had made sure that she hadn’t fancied it or given way to wishful thinking.

Young Mrs Vernon went at last, driven away in a taxi loaded with enough luggage for a month although she had told Deborah that she would return in a week, or ten days at the latest. She had also told Deborah not to force her aunt to take her feeds. ‘We must allow the dear old thing to die peacefully,’ she told Deborah. ‘You are to let me know if you think that she is failing. Dr Benson will be away for a week or so, by the way, but really it is not necessary for the doctor to call. In an emergency you may telephone Dr Ferguson at Lechlade who understands the situation.’ As an afterthought she added, ‘You will be paid at the end of the month with the servants.’

A remark which Deborah found it unnecessary to reply to—just as well for rage at such rudeness was choking her.

For the first few days Mrs Vernon telephoned each evening. Then, since Deborah’s report was always the same, she decided to telephone less often. ‘Dr Benson will contact me immediately should I be needed,’ she said and Deborah forbore from reminding her that Dr Benson was away …