Waiting for Deborah. Бетти Нилс
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head?
She had allowed his tirade to flow over her head and thought her own thoughts.
Since they travelled for a good part of the way on the M4, turning off at Swindon and going north to Lechlade, the journey took little more than two and a half hours. As they left the town behind them and took a narrow country road Deborah felt the first pangs of doubt. Supposing the old lady didn’t like her? Or her niece for that matter? Well, she had burnt her boats now and there was no turning back. Her spirits lifted a little at Mrs Dexter’s kind, ‘You will be so welcome, my dear, and I am sure that you will be happy here.’
The car turned into a short drive and drew up before a lovely old Cotswold house, its walls and roof of honey-coloured Cotswold stone, its windows with stone mullions and leaded panes. Deborah got out of the car and looked around her with delight; there were daffodils massed in beds on either side of the house and clumps of them dotted around the well-kept lawns surrounding the house. It seemed like heaven after the house at Hampstead.
In answer to Mrs Dexter’s tug on the bell-pull the door was opened by a stout little woman with a round smiling face and twinkling eyes, enveloped in a print overall. She wished them good day in a soft country voice and stood aside for them to go on ahead.
‘It’s Mrs Dexter and the young lady, isn’t it?’ She beamed at them both. ‘Mrs Vernon’s in the drawing-room—this way.’
The hall was pleasant and immaculate and so was the room into which they were shown, flowers everywhere, cushions well shaken, silver photo frames gleaming, and the woman crossing the room to greet them was as immaculate. Dressed in a well cut tweed skirt and a cashmere sweater and just the right amount of gold jewellery, she looked less than her years, her face skilfully made-up and her golden hair cut by a masterly hand. She was good-looking but she wore a discontented air as she kissed the air by Mrs Dexter’s cheek.
‘Aunt Phyllis, you have no idea how delighted I am to see you!’ She glanced at Deborah. ‘And this is Miss Everett?’
She smiled at Deborah but didn’t shake hands and her blue eyes held no warmth. Deborah’s heart sank. She doesn’t like me, she reflected, and then decided that she had been mistaken when Mrs Vernon said, ‘It is such a relief to me that I shall have help with my aunt. It is a light post and you will have plenty of time to yourself, but I lead a busy life with the children and various social commitments and I rely upon you to take good care of her at all times.’ She smiled, though again the smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Do leave your things in the cloakroom and we will have lunch, then I can take you to my aunt.’
The dining-room was as pristine as the drawing-room and rather chilly. A grumpy-looking maid served lamb chops and vegetables and then jellied fruit and custard and Mrs Vernon and Mrs Dexter chatted lightly, careful to include Deborah in the conversation. They had their coffee at the table and presently Mrs Dexter said that she must go again. ‘I must be back in town in good time,’ she explained. ‘I’m dining early, for I’m going to the theatre with friends.’ She smiled kindly at Deborah. ‘My dear, I’m sure that you will be happy here—do write and tell me how you are getting on, won’t you? I am so glad that we met at such a fortuitous time.’
Mrs Vernon went with her to the car and Deborah sat where she was in the hall. Her case had been taken upstairs; she supposed that she would be shown her room and given time to unpack.
Mrs Vernon came back into the house, brisk and businesslike. ‘We will go to my aunt now,’ she said. ‘You can unpack later.’
Deborah followed her up the carpeted staircase, along a corridor and then up another flight of stairs at the back of the house. Here the thick carpeting had given way to a serviceable matting and the windows overlooking the country beyond were curtained in a useful beige material. The passage they were in was narrow and had several doors, the end one of which Mrs Vernon opened.
‘Well, here is your charge,’ she told Deborah.
The room was large, low-ceilinged and sparsely furnished. There was a long latticed window and facing it a narrow bed, its occupant lying flat under its blankets; an old lady, her eyes open, watching them.
Mrs Vernon spoke rather loudly. ‘Aunt Emma, here is your companion. Her name is Deborah; she will wash you and feed you and make your bed and make sure that you are comfortable. I shall show her her room now and then she will come back here to you.’
The old lady closed her eyes and Mrs Vernon said impatiently, ‘Of course, we aren’t sure if she understands what we are saying. Now come and see your room.’
It was separated from the old lady’s by a bathroom, a small room, its narrow bed against a wall. There was a small table beneath the window, a chair by it and a basket chair by the bed beside a side-table with a lamp upon it. The bedspread was candlewick in the same serviceable shade of beige. A depressing little room, but Deborah reminded herself that it was hers, that she had a job and, if she saved her money, security for the foreseeable future.
‘You can unpack later,’ said Mrs Vernon carelessly. ‘Go down to the kitchen at four o’clock and Cook will give you a tray. Aunt Emma has a drink then and you can have your tea at the same time.’
‘Am I to have my meals here?’ asked Deborah.
‘She doesn’t wake early; you can go down to the dining-room at half-past seven and have your breakfast then; I’ll get Florrie—the housemaid—to keep an eye on Aunt Emma while you have your lunch and supper. You will have to arrange whatever free time you want but please don’t expect me to relieve you. I’m completely worn out after weeks of looking after my aunt.’
‘Is she to be left at all?’
‘If she’s sleeping there’s no reason why you shouldn’t get out for a time, I suppose; you’ll discover when is best for yourself.’
Mrs Vernon went away and Deborah went back into the room. The old lady’s eyes were still closed. She crossed to the window and pulled back the curtains and the pale sunshine lighted the room. ‘A few flowers,’ said Deborah, talking to herself, ‘and surely Mrs Vernon would be more comfortable with another pillow.’
She went to the bed and studied the elderly face, one side drawn down a little by reason of the stroke. It must have been good-looking in earlier years and the untidy white hair curled prettily around it. Mrs Vernon opened her eyes, staring up at Deborah, who picked up one of the flaccid hands on the counterpane and held it gently.
‘Hello,’ she said in her pretty voice, ‘I’m Deborah, come to look after you. I’ll do my best to make you comfortable and I’m sure we’ll get on well together. You niece wasn’t sure if you understood her. If you understand me, will you wink?’
It was a nice surprise when the old lady winked. ‘Oh, good,’ said Deborah, ‘that’s an excellent start. I can ask you things and you can wink your answers. One wink for yes and two for no …’
It was a slow business but it worked. Within the next half-hour Deborah had turned her patient over on to her other side, peered into the other rooms along the passage until she found a soft pillow and settled the elderly head upon it and then, armed with a basin and water from the bathroom, freshened her face and hands.
The old eyes stared at her and Mrs Vernon’s mouth made tiny movements although there was no sound.
Deborah pulled up a chair and took a hand in hers. ‘Look, I don’t know much about it, but I’m quite sure that you will be able to move and speak again, but you have to wait for your head to get better. I’ll do all that I can to help you; we’ll think up a routine for you and really work at it.’
She was heartened by the emphatic wink she had in answer.
She unpacked presently while the old lady dozed and then went down to the kitchen for the tray. She went down the way she had come up and as she reached the last tread of the staircase Mrs Vernon came out of the drawing-room with another woman, laughing and talking. She stopped when she saw Deborah and said sharply, ‘You can use the back stairs, Deborah, but, since you’re