Judith. Бетти Нилс
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do you ask?’
She was annoyed when he didn’t answer, instead he observed in a silky voice which annoyed her very much: ‘You would find it very tame after London.’
Eileen Hunt had said something very like that too; perhaps they had been discussing her. Judith said sharply: ‘No, I wouldn’t. And now if you’ll let go of my arm, I should like to go.’ She added stiffly: ‘I shan’t see you again, Professor Cresswell; I hope your book will be a success. It’s been nice meeting you.’ She uttered the lie so unconvincingly that he laughed out loud.
‘Of course the book will be a success—my books always are. And meeting you hasn’t been nice at all, Judith Golightly.’
She patted the dogs’ heads swiftly and went down the path without another word. She would have liked to have run, but that would have looked like retreat. She wasn’t doing that, she told herself stoutly; she was getting away as quickly as possible from someone she couldn’t stand the sight of.
CHAPTER THREE
JUDITH LEFT Hawkshead with regret, aware that once she was away from it it would become a dream which would fade before the rush and bustle of hospital life; another world which wouldn’t be quite real again until she went back once more. And if she ever did, of course, it would be London which wouldn’t be real. Driving back towards the motorway and the south after bidding Uncle Tom a warm goodbye, she thought with irritation of London and her work, suddenly filled with longing to turn the Fiat and go straight back to Hawkshead and its peace and quiet. Even Charles Cresswell, mellowed by distance, seemed bearable. She found herself wondering what he was doing; sitting at his desk, she supposed, miles away in the twelfth century.
She was tooling along, well past Lancaster, when a Ferrari Dino 308 passed her on the fast lane. Charles Cresswell was driving it—he lifted a hand in greeting as he flashed past, leaving her gawping at its fast disappearing elegance. What was he doing on the M6, going south, she wondered, and in such a car? A rich man’s car too—even in these days one could buy a modest house for its price. And not at all the right transport for a professor of Ancient History—it should be something staid; a well polished Rover, perhaps, or one of the bigger Fords. She overtook an enormous bulk carrier with some caution and urged the little Fiat to do its best. There was no point in thinking any more about it, though. She wasn’t going to see him again; she dismissed him firmly from her mind and concentrated on getting home.
It was after five o’clock as she drove slowly through Lacock’s main street and then turned into the narrow road and pulled up before her parents’ house. She got out with a great sigh of relief which changed into a yelp of startled disbelief when she saw the Ferrari parked a few yards ahead of her. It could belong to someone else, of course, but she had the horrid feeling that it didn’t, and she was quite right. Her mother had opened the door and Judith, hugging and kissing her quickly, asked sharply: ‘Whose car is that? The Ferrari—don’t tell me that awful man’s here…’
They were already in the little hall and the sitting room door was slightly open. The look on her mother’s face was answer enough; there really was no need for Professor Cresswell to show his bland face round the door. He said smoothly: ‘Don’t worry, Judith, I’m on the point of leaving,’ and before she could utter a word, he had taken a warmly polite leave of her mother, given her a brief expressionless nod, and gone. She watched him get into his car and drive away and it was her mother who broke the silence. ‘Professor Cresswell kindly came out of his way to deliver a book your Uncle Tom forgot to give you for your father.’ She sounded put out and puzzled, and Judith flung an arm round her shoulders.
‘I’m sorry, Mother dear, but I was surprised. I had no idea that Professor Cresswell was leaving Hawkshead. I—I don’t get on very well with him and it was such a relief to get away from him—and then I get out of the car and there he is!’
‘You were rude,’ observed Mrs Golightly. ‘I thought he was charming.’
‘Oh, pooh—if he wants to be, he can be much ruder than I was; we disliked each other on sight.’ She frowned a little as she spoke because her words didn’t ring quite true in her own ears, but the frown disappeared as Curtis came lumbering out of the sitting room to make much of her.
‘Professor Cresswell liked Curtis,’ observed Mrs Golightly. ‘He has two dogs of his own…’
‘Yes, I know—a Border terrier and a labrador. I’ve met them.’
‘So you’ve been to his house?’ Mrs Golightly’s question was uttered with deceptive casualness.
‘Only because I had to. Where’s Father?’
‘Playing bowls—he’ll be sorry to have missed Professor Cresswell.’
‘Well, he’s got Uncle Tom’s book. I’ll get my case…’
‘Tea’s in the sitting room—I made a cup for the Professor…’
‘Cresswell,’ finished Judith snappishly, and then allowed her tongue to betray her. ‘Where was he going, anyway?’
Her mother gave her a guileless look. ‘I didn’t ask,’ she said, which was true but misleading.
There was a lot to talk about and it all had to be repeated when her father got home. It was surprising how often Charles Cresswell’s name kept cropping up; Judith decided that her dislike of him had been so intense that it would take some time to get rid of his image. ‘Hateful man!’ she muttered as she unpacked. ‘Thank heaven I’ll never see him again!’
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