Never too Late. Бетти Нилс
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you a ring if I can’t find time to get to Highgate.’
Prudence drove herself up to London in the secondhand Mini Aunt Rachel had given her for her twenty-first birthday. It was a bit battered by now, but it went well enough, and she was a good driver. The flat in Highgate, the ground floor of an imposing Victorian mansion set in a roomy garden, had welcoming lights shining from its windows as she stopped the little car before its door. Nancy had said, ‘Come in good time for dinner,’ but Prudence had cut it rather fine, what with having to type her father’s sermon at the last minute, and round up the choirboys for an extra choir practice for Harvest Festival.
Nancy was at the door before she had time to ring the bell and dragged her inside. ‘Oh, isn’t this fun? You’re late—I was in a panic that you wouldn’t be coming. There’s masses of stuff in the kitchen to see to ready for tomorrow evening.’
She hurried Prudence inside and swept her into the sitting room where James was waiting, and for a time the kitchen was forgotten while they sat with their drinks, talking over the honeymoon and the marvels of Highgate and how marvellous it was to nip into Harvey Nichols or Harrods with absolutely no trouble at all. Prudence listened with pleasure to her sister’s chatter and presently followed her to the back of the flat, to the pretty room she was to sleep in. ‘And when you’ve dolled yourself up, we’ll have dinner and then decide about tomorrow’s food,’ declared Nancy happily. At the door she paused, looking at Prudence. ‘Darling, you really must get married soon—it’s such fun!’
To which Prudence, living up to her name for once, made no reply.
They all repaired to the kitchen after dinner. Mrs Turner, the daily housekeeper, had gone home leaving the way clear for them to prepare whatever was needed for the party, and since Nancy was rather a slapdash cook and James did nothing but eat samples of what was laid out on the table, it fell to Prudence’s lot to make pastry for the vol-au-vents, choux pastry for the little cream cakes Nancy had decided to offer her guests, and bake the sausage rolls. There was to be far more than these, of course. Nancy reeled off a list of the delicacies she had planned and then perched on the kitchen table watching Prudence.
‘You’re such a super cook,’ she said presently. ‘Tony doesn’t know how lucky he is.’
Prudence looked up from her mixing bowl. ‘I’m not going to marry Tony.’ She spoke defiantly.
The two of them stared at her. ‘Not marry…but why not?’
It was James who said slowly: ‘You’ve been engaged a very long time.’
Prudence nodded. ‘Yes, that’s partly it—I mean, we’ve had the chance to marry—oh, ever since we were engaged. It’s gone sour… Tony doesn’t really want me; he wants someone to bolster up his career.’
‘What will you do?’ She blessed James for being so matter-of-fact about it.
‘Get a job. I’ve been mugging up my shorthand and typing, they’re not very good, but I daresay I could manage some sort of office job. I don’t want to stay at home.’ She added impatiently: ‘I’m twenty-seven, you know.’
‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t find something,’ observed James reasonably. ‘There are jobs going—receptionists and so on, where even if typing is needed, it’s not essential—shorthand is always useful, of course. If I hear of anything I’ll let you know.’
‘You’re an angel,’ declared Prudence. ‘I can quite see why Nancy married you.’ She beamed at him and went back to her cooking.
The party was for half past six so that those who had evening engagements could go on to them and those who hadn’t could stay as long as they liked. Prudence, hair and face carefully done, wearing a green dress that matched her eyes, went along to the sitting room in good time to help with the last-minute chores, and when the first of the guests arrived, melted into the background. It was, after all, Nancy’s party, and someone was needed to keep an eye on the food and trot to and fro to the kitchen to replenish plates.
It was on one of these trips, while she was piling another batch of vol-au-vents on to plates, that the kitchen door opened and Benedict van Vinke strolled in. His hullo was friendly and casual, and he ignored her surprise. ‘Thought I’d drop in for an hour,’ he observed mildly, ‘and see how James and Nancy are getting on! Nice party—did you make these things?’ He ate a couple of vol-au-vents and turned his attention to the tiny sausage rolls she had taken out of the oven.
‘Yes, I like cooking. What a lot of friends they’ve got.’ She took off her oven gloves and took a sausage roll and began to eat it.
‘Where’s Tony?’ he asked.
She said carefully: ‘I don’t know—somewhere in London, I suppose. He’s going to the States on Monday. He said he might find time to come over.’
He opened blue eyes wide. ‘Surely he allows himself a few hours off at weekends?’
‘He’s very busy—he’s a successful architect, you know.’
‘Yes, I did know—he told me.’ His voice was dry.
‘And what do you do?’ asked Prudence snappily, on edge for some reason she couldn’t understand.
‘I’m a GP.’ He took another sausage roll and picked up the dish. ‘I’ll carry these in for you.’
She led the way back to the sitting room with a distinct flounce, quite out of temper at his mild snub.
The last of the guests left about nine o’clock, but Benedict didn’t go with them; Nancy had invited him to stay for a cold supper later on, and Prudence guessed from his unsurprised acceptance that he was a frequent visitor. Indeed, he seemed to know his way about the place just as well as his host and hostess, laying the small round table in the dining room and going down to the cellar to bring up the wine while James carved a chicken.
They were half way through the meal when Nancy asked: ‘Did you really mean that, Prudence? I mean about not marrying Tony and getting a job?’
Prudence shot a look across the table to Benedict, whose calm face showed no interest whatever. ‘Yes, of course I did,’ and then she tried a red herring: ‘What a success your party was!’
‘Yes, wasn’t it? Does Tony know?’
‘No. I’ll—I’ll tell him when I see him…’ She was interrupted by the telephone, and when James came back from answering it, he said cheerfully:
‘Well, you’ll be able to do that almost at once—that was Tony saying he can spare us half an hour. He’s on his way.’
‘No,’ said Prudence instantly, ‘I can’t—how can I? I haven’t got a job—he’ll never believe me unless I can prove that I’ve found work—I mean, that’ll make him see that I mean it.’ She stared round at them all. ‘I expect I sound like a heartless fool, but I’m not—I’ve felt—I feel like some Victorian miss meekly waiting for the superior male to condescend to marry me.’ She added strongly: ‘And I won’t!’
‘No, of course not,’ said James soothingly. ‘No one will make you do something you don’t want to do—but it’s a good opportunity to tell him.’ He thought for a minute. ‘If he’s off to the States it’ll make the break much easier—telling people, you know’
Prudence tossed off her wine, choked, spluttered and said between whoops: ‘Could I tell a fib and say I’d found a job, do you think?’
For the first time Benedict spoke. ‘That would hardly become a parson’s daughter,’ he observed mildly, ‘and perhaps there’s no need. It just so happens that I’m badly in need of a general factotum—someone to type—you do type, I hope? My English letters, make sure that I keep appointments, do the flowers, keep an eye on the household and my small daughter. Not much of a job, I’m afraid, but a very necessary one.’
Prudence had her eyes on her face. She said slowly: