A Good Wife. Betty Neels
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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