Once For All Time. Betty Neels

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СКАЧАТЬ get over it,’ observed Clotilde comfortably ‘they all do in time, after all, he never encourages them.’ ‘Men don’t like to be chased’, declared a small dark girl at the end of the table. Mary Evans was the acknowledged chaser in St Alma’s and the table erupted in laughter.

      Clotilde went home two days later. She hadn’t seen Bruce since their few hours together in the evening, but she hadn’t expected to. He had no time to himself when he was on call; it was a state of affairs to which she had become accustomed. She drove herself, leaving early in the morning. The sky was dull and grey and it wasn’t quite light, because there was a touch of winter about October already, but the traffic wasn’t too heavy and she pushed the Mini ahead, making for the A11. Once clear of the city traffic and with Epping behind her, she sent the little car along at a good speed. She would be home in time for coffee for the journey was less than fifty miles. She and Rosie would sit at the kitchen table and gossip, then while her lunch was cooking she would take Tinker, the old retriever, for a walk. There had been a card from her mother the previous evening. Clotilde smiled, thinking of the ecstatic remarks about the Swiss Lakes, and the wonderful time they were having. She would have to see that she had days off when they got home so that she could be there with Rosie to welcome them.

      She was through Bishop’s Stortford by now, nearing the turning to Wendens Ambo. Saffron Walden was only two miles further on; perhaps she would go there tomorrow and have a look for a dress, something pretty for the occasional evening out she spent with Bruce.

      The village, even under a grey sky, looked charming. Most of the cottages were whitewashed and thatched, their small gardens full of chrysanthemums and last snapdragons and roses. Clotilde turned off the lane to the church and went slowly along an even narrower lane and then through an open gateway, to stop before a fair-sized house, whitewashed too but with a lovely tiled roof and a handful of out-buildings. She got out of the car, to be greeted by a delighted Tinker and then by Rosie, throwing open the door, already talking. Coffee wouldn’t be a minute, and what a lovely surprise, and had Clotilde heard from her mother and father?

      ‘I had a card this morning,’ Rosie declared, leading the way indoors. ‘Having a lovely time, by all accounts, but it’ll be nice to have them back. You’ll stay the night?’

      ‘Two,’ said Clotilde contentedly. ‘I’m not on until one o’clock, so I can go up in the morning after breakfast. Rosie, its lovely to be home, and I’m famished!’

      She put her things down on the oak settle in the hall and followed Rosie into the kitchen, where for the next hour they sat gossiping.

      ‘And when will you marry, Miss Tilly?’ asked Rosie at length.

      ‘As soon as Bruce can find the practice he likes.’ Clotilde frowned a little. ‘The thing is to find the right one—it’s got to be in a good neighbourhood you see.’

      Bruce was adamant about that; how else was he going to be successful as a surgeon? he had wanted to know reasonably, after he had rejected several partnerships in small suburban practices; he had no intention of filling his days with run-of-the-mill patients on the NHS. Sir Oswald was the senior in a large partnership; it would be wonderful if he were to offer Bruce a job, thought Clotilde wistfully. She sometimes wondered if that was what Bruce was hoping for. He had turned down one or two quite good partnerships which would have enabled them to marry. His excuses had been flimsy ones and Clotilde had argued hotly with him each time. He had smoothed her down, though, and made her see how sensible he was being.

      She passed her mug for more coffee and twisted the diamond ring on her finger. It was a solitaire, not big, but good. When they had bought it Bruce had said laughingly that it had to be presentable so that when he was established as a well known consultant surgeon, she wouldn’t need to feel ashamed of it. Clotilde, who wasn’t keen on diamonds, chose the ring he pointed out. It was impossible to tell him that she would never be ashamed of his ring, even if it was brass and glass.

      She drank her coffee, helped to tidy away the mugs and went up to her room. It was a pretty place, furnished with an assortment of furniture she had chosen for herself years ago—a small brass bedstead, a dressing table of yew and a triple mirror she had discovered in the attics. The small crinoline chair had come from the attics too, and her mother had had it upholstered in the same chintz which covered the bed and draped the window. Everything was a little shabby now after so many years, but the furniture shone with Rosie’s vigorous polishing and the carpet, worn in places, was an original Moorfields. She put away the few things in her overnight bag, brushed her hair in a perfunctory fashion, and went downstairs, to whistle Tinker, call to Rosie that she was going for a walk, and leave the garden by the wicket gate in the high stone wall which separated it from the fields beyond.

      There was a thin mist shrouding the distance and the grass was damp underfoot, but it was heaven after the narrow crowded streets round St Alma’s. Clotilde took the footpath away from the village and then circled round to return past the church, call at the stores to buy the chocolate Rosie loved, and go back home to steak and kidney pudding and lashings of vegetables, followed by one of Rosie’s treacle tarts.

      ‘I’ll get fat,’ smiled Clotilde contentedly.

      ‘A great strapping girl like you, Miss Tilly? There’s enough of you to carry a few pounds more. Your dear ma always wanted to be a big girl.’

      ‘Oh, well, she had me instead; goodness knows I’m big enough for the two of us. Rosie, when we’ve washed up I’m going into Saffron Walden. Do you want to come? And if you don’t, is there anything you want?’

      ‘Some more of that wool I’m using for my niece’s sweater. I’ll put my feet up while you’re gone and we’ll have a nice tea when you get back.’

      Saffron Walden was bustling in a gentle way. Clotilde parked the car, bought the wool and then did a little shopping on her own account—tights and toothpaste and make-up and a crêpe blouse which would go rather well with the velvet skirt she sometimes wore when she and Bruce went out for the evening. She searched, not very hard, for a dress and then decided that she would wait until she went shopping in London, then since the dull day was fast turning into a thickening twilight, she drove back home to eat Rosie’s scones round the fire in the comfortable sitting room. Rosie hadn’t wanted to share her tea, she was old-fashioned and had strong views about keeping her place, but Clotilde wheedled her into the sitting room into the chair opposite hers and switched on the TV. There she ate almost all the scones and encouraged Rosie to talk about her youth, while Tinker lay with his head across her feet. She hadn’t felt so content and happy for a long time. St Alma’s seemed to be in another world, even Bruce seemed a vague figure, an outsider in the cosiness of the room. Nonsense, of course, she told herself briskly. He was very much part of her life, and when they were married they would come to her home together and sit round the fire and eat scones and talk…

      ‘A nice cheese omelette for your supper,’ Rosie’s voice stopped her dreaming, ‘and there’s a trifle. It’s nice to have someone to cook for.’

      ‘You’re spoiling me, Rosie. I hope you cook for yourself when you’re here alone.’

      ‘Course I do—and your ma told me to have Mrs Grimshaw from the Post Office up for supper whenever I want to.’

      Clotilde woke the next morning to the smell of frying bacon and it was so tantalising that she got up at once, dressed in an elderly pleated skirt and a jersey and went down to the kitchen. Rosie looked up from the Aga.

      ‘I guessed that would bring you down smart like, Miss Tilly—just you sit down and we’ll have breakfast.’ She opened the door and Tinker came rushing in, damp from the drizzle outside. ‘Not СКАЧАТЬ