Hilltop Tryst. Betty Neels
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back, my dear? Mrs Thorpe will be waiting for him… I want to see him in two weeks, so make an appointment, will you?’
She bore Shakespeare away to his doting mistress, made an appointment in her neat hand and went back to the surgery where a small boy was standing, clutching a pet rat. She didn’t care for rats or mice, but years of helping her father had inured her to them. All the same, she shuddered slightly as she took the animal from its anxious owner. There was nothing much wrong; advice as to diet and a few words of encouragement, and the small boy went away happy to be replaced by Major Digby with his Labrador. Since he and her father were old friends, a good deal of time was spent in talking about the good fishing locally, the chances against Farmer Bates planting sugar beet instead of winter greens and the vagaries of the weather. Beatrice, aware that she was no longer needed, left the two gentlemen, tidied the waiting-room and went along to the kitchen, where her mother was putting a batch of loaves to rise.
‘I wonder where he lives?’ she asked as Beatrice walked in. ‘I have no idea, Mother. London, I would suppose, since that was where Great-Aunt Sybil went to see him. Probably he likes driving long distances.’
Beatrice spoke rather tartly, and Mrs Browning gave her a quick look.
‘Oh, well,’ she observed, ‘we aren’t likely to see him again.’
She was wrong. It was exactly a week later that Mr Browning had a heart attack—very early in the morning, on his way back from checking Lady Lamborne’s pet donkey. Beatrice, coming down to make early morning tea, found him lying at the kitchen door. He was conscious, but cold and clammy and a dreadful grey colour, and when she felt for his pulse it was fast and faint. She wasn’t a girl to lose her head in an emergency; she put a cushion under his head, covered him with the old rug which was draped over one of the Windsor chairs, told him bracingly that he was going to be all right and went to phone Dr Forbes, fetched her mother and then went back to crouch beside her father.
Dr Forbes was there within ten minutes, listened to Beatrice’s calm voice, examined his old friend and told her to ring for an ambulance. ‘We’ll have to go to Salisbury,’ he told Mrs Browning. ‘I’ll give him an injection and we’ll keep him on oxygen.’ He patted her arm. ‘I think he’ll do, but it’s hard to tell for the moment. Thank heaven that Beatrice found him when she did.’
‘You stay with him while I put some things in a bag for him,’ said Beatrice. Her voice was quite steady, but her hands shook. ‘You’ll go with him? I’ll stay and sort things out here.’
She was back with the bag within minutes, and urged her mother to get what she needed, ready to go in the ambulance. Her father was quiet now, but he looked so ill that she felt sick with fright, although nothing showed of that upon her pale face. She held one limp hand in hers, and stared down at her father, oblivious of everything else, so that she didn’t see Dr Latimer get out of his car at the same time as the ambulance drew up.
A large, gentle hand on her shoulder made her look up. ‘Tell me what has happened, Beatrice.’ His voice was calm and matter of fact, so that she answered him readily.
‘Father—I found him here—Dr Forbes says he’s had a coronary thrombosis.’ She saw the ambulance for the first time. ‘He’s to go to Salisbury. Mother’s going with him.’
Her voice had been steady enough, only it didn’t sound like hers.
Dr Forbes had been talking to the ambulancemen; now he came to his patient. He paused when he saw Dr Latimer. ‘We’ve met,’ he said at once. ‘You gave a talk at the seminar in Bristol last year… Latimer—Dr Latimer, isn’t it?’
He launched into a brief description of Mr Browning’s collapse, and Dr Latimer said, ‘Do you mind if I come to Salisbury and take a look? I know Dr Stevens, we were students together…’
‘I’ll be glad of your advice—I suppose Dr Stevens will be in charge of him?’
‘Oh, yes, but Mr Browning is a friend…’
He bent down and plucked Beatrice on to her feet to make way for the ambulancemen with their stretcher. ‘Beatrice, find your mother, will you? I’ll drive her into Salisbury; we’ll get there ahead of the ambulance. Will you stay here?’
She said in a wispy voice, ‘I must let several people know—farmers, mostly. The small stuff I can manage on my own…Will—will you telephone me if you go to the hospital with Father? I expect Mother will want to stay there.’
‘As soon as we know what’s happening I’ll give you a ring, but stay here, Beatrice, until you hear from me.’
She nodded and went upstairs to find her mother. Mrs Browning, usually so matter of fact and competent, had gone to pieces for the moment. Beatrice took off the pinny she was wearing, got a jacket from the wardrobe, found her handbag and shoes and tidied her hair. ‘Dr Latimer is here, he’s driving you to the hospital so that you’ll be there when Father gets there. He knows the consultant there too, so Father is going to get the best possible care.’
Her mother gave her a blank look. ‘Your father’s never been ill in his life. It’s like a dream—a bad dream.’
Beatrice agreed silently and led her downstairs. The ambulance was just about ready to leave, and Dr Forbes was getting into it to be with his patient. Dr Latimer was waiting patiently at the door, and as they reached him Beatrice said urgently, ‘You will let me know?’
‘Yes. Come along, Mrs Browning.’ He put an arm round her shoulders as he smiled at Beatrice and walked to the dark grey Rolls-Royce parked to one side of the drive. He opened its door and urged Mrs Browning inside, got in himself and, with a wave of the hand, was gone.
Beatrice went slowly inside. There was a great deal to do, but just for a minute she was bewildered by the speed of it all, and the suddenness. It was a blessing that Ella had spent the night with a schoolfriend, but she would have to let Carol and Kathy know. As she went into the house, Mrs Perry, the elderly woman who came each morning to help in the house, caught up with her.
‘I saw an ambulance, Miss Beatrice. ‘as one of them dogs bitten your dad?’
‘Dogs?’ Beatrice gave her a blank look. ‘Dogs—oh, no, Mrs Perry, my father has had a heart attack. My mother has gone with him to the hospital.’
‘Oh, you poor love. I’ll make a cuppa, it’ll pull you together. And don’t you fret, he’ll be fine—them doctors are clever old fellows.’
She bustled into the kitchen and Beatrice went along to her father’s study and opened his appointments book. Miss Scott, who acted as his receptionist-cum-secretary, would be in presently, but in the meantime there were several people expecting him that morning—farmers mostly. They would just have to get hold of another vet.
She began to telephone, drank the tea Mrs Perry brought her, and went along to the surgery. Her father’s practice was mostly widespread among the estates and farms round the village, but there was always a handful of family pets needing pills or injections and occasionally a stitch. The small patients in the surgery now were easily dealt with, and she attended to them with her usual calm; she had helped her father for years and no one thought of disputing her skill. The last patient, old Miss Thom’s elderly cat with ear trouble, was borne away, and Beatrice put the surgery to rights, tidied the waiting-room and started off towards her father’s study. Miss Scott would be there by now and she would have to talk to her. The phone ringing stopped her, and she raced back to the waiting-room and snatched up the receiver.
The voice at the other end sounded reassuring and, at the same time, bracing. ‘Beatrice? Your father’s in intensive care and is holding his own nicely. Don’t leave the house, I’ll be with you in half an hour.’
He rang off before she could say a word. Just as well, as she found that she was crying.
She felt better after a good weep, and with a washed face, well made-up to cover her red nose and puffy eyelids, she went to find Miss Scott. That lady was sensible and middle-aged and could be relied upon to cope with any emergency,