Grasp a Nettle. Betty Neels
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to a richly furnished sitting room overlooking the front of the house, and through which she threaded her way without loss of time, to go through a small, very old arched door cut into one of its walls. It led to another staircase, a very small one, down which she trod, to open an even smaller door at the bottom opening directly into the entrance hall of the house. There was a large table set in the centre of this vast area, laid out neatly with brochures, postcards, small souvenirs, pots of homemade jam and the like, and she made for the chair at its centre and took her seat just as the first of the visitors poked enquiring heads through the open doors.
The next two hours went fast. Jenny had been right, there were a good number of visitors, and when she had done her stint in the hall and Mrs Thorpe, the vicar’s wife, very correctly dressed in her best summer two-piece and a good hat, had taken over from her, she went across to the old stables, converted into a tea-room, and found that it was nicely filled with family parties, tucking into their cream teas. Florrie, the indispensable housekeeper, and her niece Felicity were managing very well between them, so Jenny made her way back to the house, to enter it by a small door at the side, which led via a back hall into the last of the chain of rooms on view to the public—the dining room, sombre and panelled in oak, its refectory table and massive oak chairs protected by crimson ropes, and the silver goblets and plates on the great table protected by a burglar alarm which no one could see; they gleamed richly against the dark wood.
There were a dozen people there, standing about staring at the treasures around them, gazing without a great deal of interest at the dark oil paintings on the walls—family portraits, and not very colourful ones, although if any of them had studied them closely they would have noticed that most of them portrayed a variety of people with coppery hair, just like Jenny’s.
The next room leading from the dining room was crowded, as it usually was; it was a small apartment, its walls lined with bookshelves, and arranged on a number of small tables was the collection of dolls which Aunt Bess had occupied herself in collecting over the years. This small room led in its turn to the blue drawing room, lofty and rather grand with its ornate ceiling and silk-hung walls, and furnished with gilded chairs and tables and a magnificent harpsichord. The little anteroom leading from it was far more to Jenny’s taste; panelled in pinewood and rather crowded with Regency furniture, surprisingly comfortable to sit on. The family sometimes used the room in the summer, but once the evenings became chilly it was more prudent to stay in the private wing, for a small staircase led from the anteroom, up and down which the wind whistled, leaving anyone silly enough to sit there chilled to the bone.
Jenny didn’t pause, but went up the staircase to cast an eye over the three bedrooms on view. No one had used them for very many years now. Their fourposters were magnificent, the heavy tables and mirrors and chests worth a fortune, but they held little comfort. There were quite a few people here too; she mingled with them, answering a few questions and cautioning people that the stone staircase leading down to the hall was worn in places and needed care before slipping away again, this time to go through yet another of the small doors which peppered the house, into the private wing. It was cosy here, with thick carpets underfoot, damask curtains at the mullioned windows, and a nicely balanced mixture of period furniture. Jenny’s room was down a narrow passage, a roomy apartment with a small sitting room adjoining it and a bathroom on its other side. She had always occupied it, ever since, as a small child, she had spent her holidays at Dimworth.
She went straight to the wall closet now, gathered an armful of clothes and began to pack with speed and neatness. She intended leaving early the next morning, driving herself in the Morgan two-seater which Aunt Bess had given her for her twenty-first birthday; she had had it for four years now, and drove it superbly, making light of the journey to and from London, a journey she made at least twice a month. She would have liked to have spent all her days off at Dimworth, but she had a great many friends in and around the hospital—besides, Toby Blake, the elder son of Aunt Bess’s nearest neighbour, might feel encouraged to propose to her yet again if she went down there too often. She frowned now, thinking about him; she supposed that sooner or later she would marry him, not because she was in love with him, but because they had known each other for such a long time and everyone expected them to. She was aware that this was no reason to accept him, but he did persist. ‘Water wearing out a stone,’ she commented to the room around her as she shut her case, took a cursory look in the mirror and went to find her aunt.
Tea was a meal which, on the days when the house was open to the public, was a moveable feast in the small sitting room on the ground floor. Anyone who had the time had a cup, and old Grimshaw, the butler, made it his business to tread to and fro with fresh tea as it was required. He was on the lookout now for Jenny and as she gained the lower hall, said in his fatherly fashion: ‘I’ll bring tea at once, Miss Jenny,’ and disappeared through the baize door beside the stairs, kitchenwards.
Jenny called after him: ‘Oh, good,’ and added: ‘I’m famished, Grimshaw,’ as she opened the door and went in. Her aunt was sitting by the open window, her tea on the sofa table beside her chair.
‘I must have an aspirin,’ she declared in a voice so unlike her own that Jenny hurried over to her. ‘I have the most terrible headache.’
‘You’ve been working too hard, Aunt Bess. I’ll get them…in your room?’
Her aunt nodded and she sped away to return at the same time as Grimshaw with the teapot. She poured her aunt another cup and shook out two tablets and offered them to her. ‘Do you often get headaches?’ she enquired, casting a professional eye over the elderly white strained face.
‘I’ve never had a headache in my life before,’ observed Miss Creed sharply, ‘only these last few weeks…’
‘And aspirins help?’
‘Not really.’ She was sitting back in her chair, her eyes closed.
‘Then let’s get Doctor Toms to see you.’
Miss Creed opened her eyes and sat up very straight. ‘We will do no such thing, Janet. I’m never ill. You will oblige me by not referring to it again.’
‘Well,’ said Jenny reasonably, ‘if you have any more headaches like this one, I shall certainly refer to it. Probably you need stronger glasses.’
Her aunt turned her head to look at her as she stood at the table, pouring herself her tea. ‘H’m—perhaps that’s it. You’re a sensible girl, Jenny.’
Jenny smiled at her; her aunt always called her Janet when she was vexed, now she was Jenny again. They began to talk of other things and her aunt’s indisposition wasn’t mentioned again that day. Only the next morning when she went along to her aunt’s room to wish her goodbye did that formidable lady declare: ‘If ever I should be ill, Jenny, I should wish you to nurse me.’ And Jenny, noting uneasily the pallor of the face on the pillows, said hearteningly: ‘You’re never ill, my dear, but if ever you are, yes, I’ll look after you—you know that.’ She bent to kiss the elderly cheek. ‘You’ve been father and mother to me for almost all of my life, and very nice parents you’ve been, too.’ She went to the door. ‘I’ll be back in ten days’ time and I’ll telephone late this evening unless anything crops up.’
London at the end of summer was crowded, hot, and smelled of petrol. Jenny wrinkled her nose as she drove across its heart and into the East End. When she had started her training as a nurse, her family, particularly Margaret, had been annoyed at her choice of hospital. With all the teaching hospitals to choose from, she had elected to apply to Queen’s, large and old-fashioned and set squarely in the East End; not the type of place which, since she had insisted on taking up nursing, a Creed or a Wren should choose. But Jenny had had her own way, for despite her pretty face she was a determined girl with a quite nasty temper to go with her hair, and she had done her three years general training, followed it with a midwifery certificate and now held the post of Junior Theatre Sister. Her family still smiled tolerantly at the idea of her having a career, thinking no doubt of Toby Blake waiting in the wings, as it were; sure that very soon now she would realise that to be married to him would be pleasant and suitable and what was expected of her. But Jenny had other ideas, although she wasn’t able to clarify them, even to herself.