Книга - A Good Wife

A Good Wife
Betty Neels


Mills & Boon presents the complete Betty Neels collection. Timeless tales of heart-warming romance by one of the world’s best-loved romance authors. Ivo van Doelen knows what he wants—he simply has to allow Serena Lightfoot time to come to the same conclusion!Then all he has to do is persuade Serena to accept his convenient proposal of marriage… without her realizing he’s already in love with her!









“I need a wife and you need a future. Will you marry me, Serena?”


She said slowly, “Supposing I fell in love with someone? Suppose you fell in love with another woman?”

“I have had ample time to meet a girl I wished to marry—the risk is slight. And you?”

“Me? Well, I haven’t met many men.” She sighed. “I’m not sure that I believe in love.”

“But do you believe in liking, in friendship, in sharing your life with someone who shares your interests and enjoys your company?”

She said thoughtfully, “Yes, I do believe in that. And I do like you. I don’t know anything about you, but sometimes one meets someone and one feels at home with them at once—like old friends….”

“Indeed, and that is how I feel with you, Serena. Comfortable.”

He smiled at her then, and she smiled back, feeling, for the first time in weeks, secure.




About the Author


Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of BETTY NEELS in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.




A Good Wife

Betty Neels


















CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE




CHAPTER ONE


SERENA LIGHTFOOT, awakened by the early sun of an April morning, rolled over onto her back and contemplated the ceiling; today was her twenty-sixth birthday. Not that it was going to be any different from any other day in the year; her father certainly wouldn’t remember, Matthew, her younger brother, a curate living some way away and recently married, might possibly send her a card, and Henry, her elder brother, a solicitor and family man, wouldn’t give her a thought, although his wife might possibly remember. There was Gregory, of course, with whom she had that old-fashioned thing, an ‘understanding’…

She got up then, wasting a few minutes hanging out of the window to admire the view; she never tired of it—rural Dorset. Away from the main roads, the village was half hidden by a small wood, the hills were close by and beyond them lay the quiet countryside. The church clock struck seven and she withdrew her head and set about getting dressed, then skimmed downstairs to the kitchen to make the early-morning tea.

The kitchen was large, with a lamentable lack of up-to-date equipment. There was a scrubbed wooden table ringed around by sturdy chairs, an old-fashioned gas cooker flanking a deep sink and a vast dresser along one wall. There was a shabby rug in front of the cooker and two Windsor chairs, in one of which there was a small tabby cat to whom Serena wished a good morning before she put on the kettle. The one concession to modernity was a cumbersome fridge which, more often than not, ran amok.

Serena left the kettle to boil and went to the front door to fetch the post. There was a small pile of letters in the post box, and just for a moment she pretended that they were all for her. They weren’t, of course: bills, several legal-looking envelopes, a catalogue or two, and, just as she had expected, two birthday cards for herself. And no card from Gregory. But she hadn’t really expected one from him; he had made it plain to her on several occasions that birthdays were scandalously overpriced and a waste of money. Gregory didn’t believe in wasting money; her father and brothers approved of him for that reason. Serena wasn’t sure of that, but she hoped in a vague way that when they married she would be able to change his frugal ways.

She went back to the kitchen and made the tea, offered milk to the cat and, as the clock struck the half hour, took a tray of tea up to her father’s room.

This was a large, gloomy apartment with heavy old-fashioned furniture, closely curtained against the morning brightness. She tweaked one curtain aside as she crossed the room, the better to see the occupant in the vast bed.

Mr Lightfoot matched the room, gloomy and the epitome of a late-Victorian gentleman, whiskers and all. He sat up in bed, not speaking, and when Serena wished him good morning, he grunted a reply.

‘A good morning for some,’ he observed, ‘but for those who suffer as I do, daylight is merely the solace after a sleepless night.’

Serena put the tray down and handed him his letters. That her father’s snores shattered the peace of the house was something on which there was no point in remarking. She had long ago learned that the only way in which to live with him was to allow his words to flow over her head. She said now, ‘It’s my birthday, Father.’

He was opening his letters. ‘Oh, yes? Why have the gas company sent me another bill? Gross carelessness.’

‘Perhaps you didn’t pay the first one?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Serena. I have always paid my bills promptly.’

‘But it is possible to make a mistake,’ said Serena, and took herself out of the room, wondering for the thousand and first time how her mother could have lived with such a tiresome man. She herself very often found life quite intolerable, living here with him, doing almost all of the housework, cooking and shopping and looking after him. He had for some time now declared that he was an invalid, and he led an invalid’s life with no concern for her.

Since Dr Bowring had said that there was nothing wrong with him he had refused to see him again, declaring that he knew far better what was wrong with him than any doctor. So he had devised his own treatment for his illness, having declared that he was suffering from a weak heart and congestion of the lungs. He had over the years added lumbago to these, which gave him every reason to take to his bed whenever he wished to do so.

It hadn’t been so bad when her mother had been alive. They had had a housekeeper, and between the two of them Serena and her mother had devised a routine which had allowed them enough freedom; there had been a certain amount of social life for them. Serena had had her tennis parties and small dances at friends’ houses, and her mother had been able to play bridge and enjoy coffee with her friends. Then her mother had fallen ill and died without fuss or complaint, only asking Serena to look after her father. And, since Serena had known that her mother had loved her despot of a husband, she had promised that she would. That had been five years ago…

Her life since then had altered dramatically: the housekeeper had been dismissed; Serena, her father had declared, was quite capable of running the house with the help of a woman from the village who came twice a week for a few hours. What else was there for her to do? he’d wanted to know, when she had pointed out that the house wasn’t only large, it was devoid of any labour-saving devices. Sitting in his armchair by his bedroom window, wrapped in rugs, with a small table beside him bearing all the accepted aids to invalidism, he had dismissed her objections with a wave of the hand.

Since she had to account for every penny of the housekeeping allowance he gave her each month she’d had no chance to improve things. True, there was a washing machine, old now, and given to rather frightening eruptions and sinister clankings, and there was central heating in some of the rooms. But this was turned off at the end of March and not started again until October. Since the plumber from Yeovil came each half year and turned it on and off, there wasn’t much she could do about that.

Serena, recognising the brick wall she was up against, had decided sensibly to make the best of things. After all, Gregory Pratt, a junior partner in the solicitors’ firm in Sherborne, had hinted on several occasions that he was considering marrying her at some future date. She liked him well enough, although she had once or twice found herself stifling a yawn when he chose to entertain her with a resumé of his day’s work, but she supposed that she would get used to that in time.

When he brought her flowers, and talked vaguely about their future together, she had to admit to herself that it would be nice to marry and have a home and her own children. She wasn’t in love with Gregory, but she liked him, and although like any other girl she dreamed of being swept off her feet by some magnificent man, she thought it unlikely that it would happen to her.

Her mother, when she’d been alive, had told her that she was a jolie laide, but her father had always been at pains to tell her that she was downright plain, an opinion upheld by her brothers, so that she had come to think of herself as just that—a round face, with a small nose and a wide mouth, dominated by large brown eyes and straight light brown hair worn long, in a rather careless knot on top of her head. That her mouth curved sweetly and her eyes had thick curling lashes was something she thought little of, nor did she consider her shape, pleasingly plump, to be much of an asset. Since Gregory had never, as far as she could remember, commented upon her appearance, there had been no one to make her think otherwise.

She went back to the kitchen and boiled an egg for her breakfast, and put her two cards on the mantelpiece. ‘I am twenty-six, Puss,’ she said, addressing the tabby cat, ‘and since it is my birthday I shall do no housework; I shall go for a walk—up Barrow Hill.’

She finished her breakfast, tidied the kitchen, put everything ready for lunch and went to get her father’s breakfast tray.

He was reading his paper and didn’t look up. ‘I’ll have a little ham for lunch, and a few slices of thin toast. My poor appetite gives me concern, Serena, although I cannot hope that you share that concern.’

‘Well, you had a splendid breakfast,’ Serena pointed out cheerfully. ‘Egg, bacon, toast and marmalade, and coffee. And, of course, if you got up and had a walk that would give you an appetite.’

She gave him a kindly smile; he was an old tyrant, greedy and selfish, but her mother had asked her to look after him. Besides, she felt sorry for him, for he was missing so much from life. ‘I’m going out for a walk,’ she told him. ‘It’s a lovely morning…’

‘A walk? And am I to be left alone in the house?’

‘Well, when I go to the shops you’re alone, aren’t you? The phone is by the bed, and you can get up if you want and go downstairs for a change.’

She reached the door. ‘I’ll be back for coffee,’ she told him.

She fetched a jacket—an elderly garment she kept for gardening—found stout shoes, put a handful of biscuits into a pocket and left the house. Barrow Hill looked nearer than it was, but it was still early. She turned away from the road leading down to the village, climbed a stile and took the footpath beside a field of winter wheat.

It was a gentle climb to start with, and she didn’t hurry. The trees and hedges were in leaf, there were lambs bleating and birds singing and the sky was blue, a washed-out blue, dotted with small woolly clouds. She stopped to stare up at it; it was indeed a beautiful morning, and she was glad that she had rebelled against the routine of housework and cooking. No doubt her father would be coldly angry when she got back, but nothing he could say would spoil her pleasure now.

The last bit of Barrow Hill was quite steep, along a path bordered by thick undergrowth, but presently it opened out onto rough ground covered in coarse grass and strewn with rocks, offering a splendid view of the surrounding countryside. It was a solitary spot, but she saw that today she was going to have to share it with someone else. A man was sitting very much at ease on one of the larger rocks—the one, she noticed crossly, which she considered her own.

He had turned round at the sound of her careful progress through the stones and grass tufts, and now he stood up. A very tall man, with immensely broad shoulders, wearing casual tweeds. As she went towards him she saw that he was a handsome man too, but past his first youth. Nearer forty than thirty, she reflected as she wished him good morning, casting a look at her rock as she did so.

His ‘Good morning,’ was cheerful. ‘Am I trespassing on your rock?’

She was rather taken aback. ‘Well, it’s not my rock, but whenever I come up here I sit on it.’

He smiled, and she found herself smiling back. He had a nice smile and it was unexpected, for his features were forbidding in repose—a powerful nose, heavy-lidded blue eyes and a thin mouth above the decidedly firm chin. Not a man to treat lightly, she thought.

She sat down without fuss on the rock, and he sat on a tree stump some yards away. He said easily, ‘I didn’t expect to find anyone here. It’s quite a climb…’

‘Not many people come up here for that reason, and, of course, those living in the village mostly go to Yeovil to work each day. In the summer sometimes people come and picnic. Not often, though, for they can’t bring a car near enough…’

‘So you have it to yourself?’

She nodded. ‘But I don’t come as often as I would like to…’

‘You work in Yeovil too?’

He asked the question so gently that she answered, ‘Oh, no. I live at home.’

He glanced at her hands, lying idly in her lap. Small hands, roughened by work, not the hands of a lady of leisure. She caught his glance and said in a matter-of-fact way, ‘I look after my father and run the house.’

‘And you have escaped? Just for a while?’

‘Well, yes. You see, it’s my birthday…’

‘Then I must wish you a very happy day.’ When she didn’t reply, he added, ‘I expect you will be celebrating this evening? A party? Family?’

‘No. My brothers and their families don’t live very close to us.’

‘Ah, well—but there is always the excitement of the postman, isn’t there?’

She agreed so bleakly that he began to talk about the country around them; a gentle flow of conversation which soothed her, so that presently she was able to tell him some of the local history and point out the landmarks.

But a glance at her watch set her on her feet. ‘I must go.’ She smiled at him. ‘I enjoyed talking to you. I do hope you will enjoy your stay here.’

He got up and wished her a pleasant goodbye, and if she had half hoped that he would suggest going back to the village with her she was disappointed.

It had been pleasant, she reflected, going hurriedly back along the path. He had seemed like an old friend, and she suspected that she had talked too much. But that wouldn’t matter; she wasn’t likely to see him again. He had told her casually that he was a visitor. And now she came to think of it he hadn’t sounded quite English…

She reached the house a little out of breath; her father had his coffee at eleven o’clock each morning and it was five minutes to the hour. She put the kettle on, still in her jacket, and ground the beans, then kicked off her shoes, smoothed her hair, laid a tray and, once more her quiet self, went up to her father’s room.

He was sitting in his great armchair by the window, reading. He looked up as she went in. ‘There you are. Gregory telephoned. He has a great deal of work. He hopes to see you at the weekend.’

‘Did he wish me a happy birthday?’ She put down the tray and waited hopefully.

‘No. He is a busy man, Serena. I think that you sometimes forget that.’ He picked up his book. ‘I fancy an omelette for lunch.’ He added reprovingly, ‘My bed is not yet made; I shall probably need to rest after I have eaten.’

Serena went back downstairs, reminding herself that she had had a few hours of pure pleasure on Barrow Hill; it would be something to think about. She supposed that it was because it was her birthday that she had been so chatty with the stranger there. She blushed at the thought.

‘Not that it matters,’ she told Puss, offering the small beast sardines from the tin she had opened. ‘He doesn’t know me from Adam, and I don’t know him, though I think he’d be rather a nice person to know. He’ll have forgotten all about me…’



However, he hadn’t. He walked back to Dr Bowring’s house, thinking about her. He had known the doctor and his wife for many years—they had been medical students and she a nurse—creating an easy friendship which had lasted, despite the fact that he lived and worked in Holland. On his occasional visits to England he contrived to see them, although this was the first time he had visited them in Somerset. At lunch he told them of his walk up Barrow Hill.

‘And I met a girl there—rather shabby clothes, round face, brown hair—very untidy, nice voice. Said she looked after her father but she’d escaped for an hour or two because it was her birthday.’

‘Serena Lightfoot,’ chorused his companions. ‘A perfect darling,’ said Mrs Bowring. ‘Her father’s the horridest old man I’ve ever met. Threw George out, didn’t he, darling?’

The doctor nodded. ‘He’s perfectly fit, but has decided to be an invalid for the rest of his life. I’m not allowed in the house, but from what I can glean from the village gossip he spends his days sitting around or lying in bed, enjoying ill health. When his wife died he sacked the housekeeper, and now Serena runs the place with old Mrs Pike going there twice a week. No life for a girl.’

‘So why doesn’t she leave? She’s old enough and wise enough, surely?’

‘I’ve done my best to persuade her to get a job away from home—so has the rector—but it seems that she promised her mother that she would look after him. It’s not all gloom and doom though. It’s an open secret in the village that Gregory Pratt intends to marry her. He’s a partner in a law firm in Sherborne. A prudent man, with an eye on Mr Lightfoot’s not inconsiderable financial status and the house—both of which it is presumed he will leave to Serena. She has two brothers, both with incomes of their own and steady positions, but neither of them see much of her or their father, and have let it be known that they neither expect nor want anything when he dies.’

‘So is Serena by way of being an heiress?’

‘It seems so. Neither her father nor her brothers seem to have mentioned it to her, but I have heard that Gregory is aware of it.’

‘So he would have told her, surely?’

‘Oh, no. That might give her the idea that he only wants to marry her for her money and the house.’

The Dutchman raised heavy brows. ‘And does he?’

‘Of course. My dear Ivo! He’s not in love with her, I feel sure, and I doubt very much if she is with him, but he’s always very attentive if they should go out together, which isn’t often, and I think she likes him well enough. She’s a sensible girl; she knows she hasn’t much in the way of looks, and very little chance of leaving home unless her father dies. Even then she has had little chance to go out into the world and meet people.’

‘It’s a shame,’ said Mrs Bowring, ‘for she’s great fun and so kind and gentle; she must long for pretty clothes and a chance to meet people of her own age. You’ve no idea what a job it is to get her here for drinks or dinner. Her wretched father manages to feel ill at the last minute, or he telephones just as we’re sitting down to dinner and demands her back home because he’s dying.’

They began to talk of other things then, and Serena wasn’t spoken of again. Two days later Mr van Doelen drove himself back to London and shortly after, back to Holland.



It was the following Saturday when Gregory called to see Serena, although after greeting her in a somewhat perfunctory fashion he went upstairs to see her father. A man who knew on which side his bread was buttered, and intending to have jam on it too, he lost no opportunity of keeping on good terms with Mr Lightfoot. He spent half an hour or so discussing the stockmarket, and listening with every appearance of serious attention to Mr Lightfoot’s pithy remarks about the government, before going back downstairs to the sitting room to find Serena sitting on the floor, doing the Telegraph crossword puzzle.

He sat down in one of the old-fashioned armchairs. ‘Would you not be more comfortable in a chair, Serena?’

‘Do you suppose an etui is the same thing as a small workbag, Gregory?’

He frowned. ‘Really, my dear, you ask the most stupid questions.’

‘Well, they can’t be all that stupid or they wouldn’t be in a crossword puzzle.’ She sat back on her heels and looked at him. ‘You forgot my birthday.’

‘Did I? After all, birthdays aren’t important, not once one is adult.’

Serena pencilled in a word. Gregory was probably quite right; he so often was—and so tolerant. Her brothers had told her that he would be a good and kind husband. Sometimes, though, she wondered if she would have liked him to be a little more exciting. And why was it that everyone took it for granted that she would marry him?

She said now, ‘I should have liked a card, and flowers—a great sheaf of roses in Cellophane tied with ribbon—and a very large bottle of perfume.’

Gregory laughed. ‘You really must grow up, Serena. You must have been reading too many novels. You know my opinion about wasting money on meaningless rubbish…’

She pencilled in another word. ‘Why should flowers and presents be meaningless rubbish when they are given to someone you love or want to please? Have you ever felt that you wanted to buy me something madly extravagant, Gregory?’

He lacked both imagination and a sense of humour, and besides, he had a high opinion of himself. He said seriously, ‘No, I can’t say that I have. What would be the point, my dear? If I were to give you a diamond necklace, or undies from Harrods, when would you have the occasion to wear them?’

‘So when you buy me a present at Christmas you think first, Now, what can I buy Serena that she can find useful and use each day? Like that thing you gave me for shredding things which takes all day to clean?’

He refused to get annoyed. He gave her an indulgent smile. ‘I think you must be exaggerating, Serena. How about a cup of tea? I can’t stay long; I’m dining with the head of my department this evening.’

So she fetched the tea, and he told her of his week’s work while he drank it and ate several slices of the cake she had baked. Since she had little to say, and that was sensible, he reflected that despite her lack of looks she would be a quite suitable wife for him; he didn’t allow himself to dwell on the house and the comfortable inheritance she would have, and which would make her even more suitable.

He went back upstairs to say goodbye to Mr Lightfoot, and presently came down again to give her a peck on a cheek and tell her that he would do his utmost to come and see her the following weekend.

Serena shut the door behind him and gathered up the tea things. She reflected that Gregory wasn’t just frugal, he was downright mean. Washing up, impervious to her father’s voice demanding attention, she considered Gregory. She wasn’t sure when it had first become apparent that he was interested in her. She had felt flattered and prepared to like him, for her life had been dull, and, after a while, her father had signified his approval of him. When her brothers had met him, they had assured her in no uncertain terms that Gregory would be a splendid husband, and she, with the prospect of a life of her own, had allowed herself to agree with them.

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…’

She thanked him, kissing his elderly cheek. ‘I’ll be all right,’ she assured him. ‘I don’t need to move out at once, do I?’

‘No, no. It will be several weeks before the necessary paperwork can be done.’

‘Oh, good. Time for me to make plans.’ She smiled at him so cheerfully that he went away easier in his mind.

Serena went back to the drawing room. Her brothers were discussing their inheritance, weighing the pros and cons of investments, while their wives interrupted with suggestions that the money would be better spent on refurbishing their homes and wardrobes. They broke off their discussions when she joined them, and Henry said gravely that of course the money would be put to good use.

‘I have heavy commitments,’ he pointed out, ‘and the children to educate.’ That they were at state schools and not costing him a penny was neither here nor there. Serena could see that he was anxious to impress upon her that she couldn’t expect any financial help from him.

It was Matthew who asked her what she intended to do. ‘For I am surprised at Father leaving you so ill provided for. Perhaps we could—?’

His wife interrupted smoothly, ‘Serena is bound to find a good job easily; such a practical and sensible girl, and only herself to worry about. I must admit that I—we are very relieved to have inherited something. It will be just enough to have central heating put in—the house is so damp…’

‘I thought the Church Council, or whatever it is, paid for things like that,’ said Serena.

Her sister-in-law went red. ‘We might have to wait for months—years, even—while they decide to have it done.’ She added sharply, ‘Matthew’s income is very small.’

Serena reflected that Matthew had a private income from a legacy both brothers had received from an old aunt years ago. Neither of them needed to worry about money, but there was no point in reminding them of that! She offered coffee and sandwiches and presently bade them goodbye. They would keep in touch, they told her as they drove away.

She cleared away the cups and saucers and plates, fed Puss and sat down to have a think about her future. She was a practical girl, and for the moment she put aside her own vague plans. They were to be allowed to take personal property and gifts before the house was handed over, and the house would need to be left in good order. She would need to get the cases and trunks down from the attic so that their possessions could be packed. There were bills to be paid, too, and people to notify. Only when that was done could she decide what she would do.

At the back of her mind, of course, was the reluctant thought that Gregory might want to marry her. It was an easy solution for her future but, tempting though it was to have the rest of her life settled without effort on her part, she was doubtful. It was, of course, the sensible thing to do, but under her practical manner there was the hope, romantic and deeply buried, that one day she would meet a man who would love her as dearly as she would him. And that man wasn’t Gregory.

She went to bed presently, with Puss for company, and since it had been a busy and rather sad day, she went immediately to sleep.

Gregory had been at the funeral, but he hadn’t come to the house afterwards, pleading an appointment he had been unable to cancel. He would come, he had assured her, on the following evening.

‘We have a great deal to talk about,’ he had told her, smiling and looking at her with what she’d decided was a proprietary look.

She hadn’t minded that, for yesterday she had been feeling in need of cherishing. Now, in the cold light of early morning, common sense took over. Gregory might not be the man of her dreams, but if he loved her she might in time learn to love him, too. She liked him, was even a little fond of him, but she had the wit to know that that was because she hadn’t had the opportunity to meet other men…

She spent the day busily, dragging down cases and a trunk from the attics, clearing out her father’s bedroom, and, after a sandwich and coffee, sitting down to write letters to those who had written and sent flowers. She had tea then, and changed into a sweater and skirt, did her hair and face and put a tray ready with coffee. She lighted a small fire in the sitting room, for the evening was chilly, and sat down to wait for Gregory.

He was late. His car wouldn’t start, he explained, adding that he would soon be able to get a new one. He smiled as he said it, but Serena, pouring the coffee, didn’t see that.

They talked for a little while about the funeral, until he put down his cup, saying, ‘Well, Serena, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t get married as soon as we can arrange it. I’ll move in here, of course. I’ve always liked this house. We can modernise it a little—perhaps another bathroom, have the central heating updated, have the rooms redecorated.’ He smiled at her. ‘We must use your money to its best advantage, and you can rely on me getting the best advice as to investing your capital…’

Serena had been pouring herself another cup of coffee. She put the pot down carefully. ‘But this house isn’t mine.’ She sounded quite matter-of-fact about it. ‘Father has left it to charity.’

Gregory said sharply, ‘But he has left you a legacy? He was comfortably off, you know.’

‘Five hundred pounds,’ said Serena, still very matter-of-fact. ‘The rest goes with the house.’

‘But this is preposterous. You must contest the will. What about your brothers?’ Gregory wasn’t only surprised, he was angry. ‘And how are you supposed to live? Something must be done about it at once.’

‘I don’t see why,’ said Serena in a reasonable voice. ‘If this is what Father wanted, why change it? Henry and Matthew are quite happy about it.’ She paused. ‘And if you’re going to marry me, I don’t need to worry, do I?’

Gregory went red. ‘You must see that this alters all my plans, Serena. I’m an ambitious man and I need a secure background, a good living standard, a suitable house…’

‘What you mean is that you need to marry a well-to-do girl. Not me.’

Gregory looked relieved. ‘What a sensible girl you are, Serena. You understand me…’

Serena stood up. ‘Oh, I do, Gregory, and nothing would make me marry you if you were the last man living. Now, will you go away? I don’t want to see you again, and now I come to think about it, I wouldn’t like to be married to you. Run along and find that rich girl!’

Gregory started towards her. ‘Let us part…’ he began.

‘Oh, do go along,’ said Serena.

After he had gone she went to the kitchen to get her supper—scrambled eggs on toast—and, since she felt that this was something of an occasion, she took the keys of the sideboard and chose a bottle of claret.

She ate at the kitchen table, with Puss at her feet enjoying a treat from a tin of sardines. And she drank two glasses of claret. She supposed that she would have been feeling unhappy and worried, but she was pleased to discover that all she felt was relief. She had five hundred pounds and the world before her in which to find the man of her dreams. She tossed back the last of the claret in her glass.

There was no need to look for him. She had already found him, although she wasn’t sure if a brief acquaintance with Dr van Doelen was sufficient to clinch the matter. She thought not. Indeed, it was unlikely that their paths would cross in the future. She would do better to get herself a job and hope to meet a man as like him as possible.

Nicely buoyed up, she by the claret and Puss by an excess of sardines, they went upstairs to bed and slept dreamlessly.

Henry came in the morning, telling her importantly that he had taken a few hours off in order to look round the house and claim anything to which he was entitled. Which turned out to be quite a lot: the table silver, a claret jug and three spirit bottles in a metal frame, and the best part of a Spoke tea service which had belonged to their mother, that Matthew would have no use for nor would Serena, Henry pointed out.

‘But I have no doubt that Matthew will be glad to have the dinner service. Father bought it from Selfridges, I believe, so anything which may break can be replaced. There’s the new coffee percolator, too; I’ll leave that for him. Where is the Wedgwood biscuit barrel, Serena?’

‘In the cupboard in the dining room, Henry. Shouldn’t you wait and see what Matthew wants—and what I might want?’

‘My dear girl, Matthew will want useful things which he can use in his home. Remember that he is, after all, living in a very small house, and has no social life worth mentioning.’

‘But he will have when he gets a parish of his own…’

Henry ignored that. ‘And you—you won’t want to be lumbered with a number of useless things.’

‘I don’t know why you say that, Henry. You have no idea what I am going to do or where I’m going. You don’t want to know, do you? Do you know that Gregory has jilted me? Or perhaps I should say he jilted my five hundred pounds.’ She added bleakly, ‘I thought he wanted to marry me, but all he wanted was this house and the money he thought Father would be sure to leave me.’

Henry looked uncomfortable. ‘You must understand, Serena, that Gregory has his way to make in the world.’

‘And what about me?’

‘You’re quite able to find a good job and do very well. You might even marry.’

Serena picked up a fairing from the side-table in the drawing room, where Henry was inspecting the contents of a china cabinet. The fairing was small, a man and woman holding hands, crudely done, yet charming. The kind of thing Henry and Matthew would find worthless. She would keep it for herself, a reminder of her home in happier days when her mother had been alive.

Henry bore away what he considered to be his; he had written a list of various other things, too. Serena hoped that Matthew wouldn’t wait too long before making his own choice. Henry was obviously going to exert his rights as elder son.

Matthew came the next day, bringing his wife with him. The dinner service was packed up, as was an early-morning teaset which hadn’t been used since their mother died. To these were added two bedspreads, a quantity of bedlinen, the cushions from the drawing room and, at the last moment, the rather ugly clock on the mantelpiece.

‘We shall probably be back,’ said Matthew’s wife as they left.

‘My turn,’ said Serena to Puss, and went slowly from room to room. She would take only small things that would go in her case or the trunk: her mother’s workbox, family photographs, two china figurines to keep the fairing company, a little watercolour of the house her mother had painted. She tried to be sensible and think of things which would be of use to her in the future. The silver-framed travelling clock which had stood on the table by her father’s bed, writing paper and pens, the cat basket from the attic—for of course Puss would go with her.

But where would she go? Mr Perkins had told her that she would be able to stay at the house for two or three weeks. Tomorrow, she decided, she would go to Yeovil and go to as many employment agencies as possible.

Without much success, as it turned out. She had no qualifications, and she couldn’t type, the computer was a mystery to her, and the salesladies asked for had to be experienced. She was told, kindly enough, to leave her phone number, and that if anything suitable turned up she would be notified.

But nothing turned up. The charity, anxious to take possession, were kind enough to let her stay for an extra week, and at the end of that week, still with no job in sight, Serena, Puss, her trunk and a large case, moved unwillingly into Henry’s house.

Just as unwillingly she was welcomed there. There was room enough for her, for Henry lived in a large house on the outskirts of the town, but, while he wasn’t slow to confide his generosity towards his sister to his colleagues, his wife made no bones in letting Serena see that she was a necessary evil. It was bad enough having her, her sister-in-law pointed out in the privacy of their bedroom, but to have to give house room to a cat as well…

As for Serena, she redoubled her efforts to find some sort of job. Housekeepers were in demand, and that was something she could do, but she wasn’t going to part with Puss, and no one, it seemed, was prepared to accept a cat, especially when the applicant had no references from previous employers.

Between fruitless visits to Yeovil, she was given no chance to be idle. Her sister-in-law, a social climber by nature, quickly saw her opportunity to widen her social life, since Serena was so conveniently on hand to do the shopping and prepare meals. And when the children came home from school there was no reason, since she had nothing better to do, why she shouldn’t give them their tea and keep an eye on them while they did their homework.

Serena, gritting her splendid teeth, accepted the role of unpaid domestic and put up with the childish rudeness of her nephew and niece and her brother’s pompous charity. His wife’s ill-concealed contempt was harder to bear, but since she was out a good deal Serena was almost able to ignore it.

She had been living with her brother for more than a week when one morning, as she was washing the breakfast dishes, alone in the house, there was a ring on the doorbell. She didn’t stop to dry her hands; it was possibly the postman—probably with the answer to two more jobs she had applied for. Perhaps her luck had changed at last…

It wasn’t the postman. It was Dr Bowring on the doorstep.

‘I had to come to Yeovil,’ he told her smilingly. ‘I thought I’d just see how you were getting on.’ He glanced at her wet hands and pinny. ‘Is Mrs Lightfoot at home?’

‘No, just me. Do come in. How nice to see you. If you don’t mind coming into the kitchen, I’m sure no one will mind if I make coffee.’

He looked at her enquiringly. ‘No job yet?’

‘Well, no. You see, I must have Puss with me, and so far no one will have her…’

He followed her into the kitchen. ‘What kind of job?’

‘Housekeeper or companion. I can’t do anything else.’ She spoke lightly, but he noted her rather pale face and the shadows under her eyes.

He said bluntly, ‘You’re not happy here?’

She put the instant coffee into two mugs. ‘Well, it’s not really convenient for Henry to have me here, and they don’t like Puss.’ She smiled. ‘But something will turn up.’

He stayed for a little while, vaguely troubled about her, deciding silently that he would keep an eye open for a job which would suit her. It was obvious that she was unhappy, although she had made light of it.

He told his wife about her when he got back home.

‘All we can do is keep our eyes open for a job for her,’ said Mrs Bowring, ‘and we shall have to go carefully; Serena is proud in the best sense, and she would hate to be pitied.’



Mr van Doelen had spent a busy day at one of the London hospitals; he was an orthopaedic surgeon of some repute and had come to assist at a complicated operation on a boy’s shattered legs. It had been successful, and he was free to return to Holland that evening, but, leaving the hospital early that lovely summer evening, he decided against driving up to Harwich and instead picked up the car phone and dialled Dr Bowring.

Of course he was to come and spend the night—as many nights as he could spare. ‘We’ll wait dinner for you,’ said Mrs Bowring. ‘It’s only four o’clock; you’ll be with us in a couple of hours.’

Once free of the London suburbs, the traffic thinned and he sent the Bentley powering ahead. The countryside was bathed in sunshine, green and pleasant and exactly what he needed after hours in an operating theatre. And he need not return until the evening ferry on the following day; he had expected to be away for two days, but the operation had gone better than they had expected.





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