A Winter Love Story. Бетти Нилс

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СКАЧАТЬ to wash her hands at the stone sink. The water was icy and her hands were grimy. She saw his look. ‘You can’t handle seedlings in gloves,’ she told him. ‘They are too small and delicate.’

      ‘You prefer them to dusting books?’ he asked as they started for the house.

      ‘Yes, though books are something I couldn’t possibly manage without. I’d rather buy a book than a hat.’

      He reflected that it would be a pity to hide that glorious hair under a hat, however becoming, but he didn’t say so.

      Her mother and Dr Willis were in the morning room again, and Mrs Ramsay said in a relieved voice, ‘Oh, there you are, dear. I expect Mr Tait-Bullen has explained…’

      ‘Yes, Mother. Do you want me to go and sit with Great-Uncle?’

      ‘He told us all to go away, so I expect you’d better wait a while. Mr Tait-Bullen is going to see him again presently, but he doesn’t want anyone else there.’ She turned as Tombs came in with the coffee tray. ‘But you’ll have coffee first, won’t you?’

      They drank their coffee while the two men sustained the kind of small talk which needed very little reply, and presently Mr Tait-Bullen went back upstairs.

      He was gone for some time and Claudia, getting impatient, got up and prowled round the room. ‘I don’t suppose he’ll come again,’ she said at length.

      ‘There is no need for him to do so, but the Colonel has taken quite a fancy to him. Mr Tait-Bullen calls a spade a spade when necessary, but in the nicest possible way. What is more, his patients aren’t just patients; they are men and women with feelings and wishes which he respects. Your great-uncle knows that.’

      Mr Tait-Bullen, driving along the narrow roads which would take him from the village of Little Planting to the M3 and thence to London, allowed his thoughts to wander. He and the Colonel had talked about many things, none of which had anything to do with his condition. The Colonel had made it clear that he intended to die in his own bed, and, while conceding that Mr Tait-Bullen was undoubtedly a splendid surgeon and cardiologist, he wished to have no truck with surgery, which he considered, at his time of life, to be quite worthless.

      Mr Tait-Bullen had made no effort to change his mind for him. True, he could have prolonged his patient’s life and allowed him to live for a period at least in moderate health, but he considered that if he had overridden the Colonel’s wishes, the old man would have died of frustration at having his wishes ignored. They had parted good friends, and on the mutual understanding that if and when Mr Tait-Bullen had a few hours of leisure he would pay another visit as a friend.

      Something he intended to do, for he wanted to see Claudia again.

      He went straight to the hospital when he reached London; he had an afternoon clinic which lasted longer than usual. He had no lunch, merely swallowed a cup of tea between patients. It was with a sigh of relief that he stopped the car outside his front door in a small tree-lined street tucked away behind Harley Street, where he had his consulting rooms.

      It was a narrow Regency house in a row of similar houses, three storeys high with bow windows and a beautiful front door with a handsome pediment, reached by three steps bordered by delicate iron railings. He let himself in quietly and was met in the hall by a middle-aged man with a craggy face and a fringe of hair. He looked like a dignified church warden, and ran Mr Tait-Bullen’s house to perfection. He greeted him now with a touch of severity.

      ‘There’s that Miss Thompson on the phone, reminding you that she expects to see you this evening. I told her that you were still at the hospital and there was no knowing when you’d be home.’ Cork lowered his eyes deferentially. ‘I trust I did right, sir.’

      Mr Tait-Bullen was looking through the post on the hall table. ‘You did exactly right, Cork. I don’t know what I would do without you.’ He glanced up. ‘Did I say I would take her somewhere this evening? It has quite slipped my mind.’

      Cork drew a deep breath through pinched nostrils. In anyone less dignified it would have been a sniff. ‘You were invited to attend the new play. The opening night, I believe.’

      ‘Did I say I’d go? I can’t remember writing it down in my diary.’

      ‘You prevaricated, sir. Said if you were free you’d be glad to accept.’

      Mr Tait-Bullen picked up his case and opened his study door. ‘I’m not free, Cork, and I’m famished!’

      ‘Dinner will be served in fifteen minutes, sir. The young lady’s phone number is on your desk.’

      Mr Tait-Bullen sat down at his desk and picked up the receiver. Honor Thompson’s rather shrill voice, sounding peevish, answered.

      ‘And about time, too. Why are you never at home? It’s so late; I’ll go on to the theatre and meet you there. The Pickerings are picking me up in ten minutes.’

      Mr Tait-Bullen said smoothly, ‘Honor, I’m so sorry, but there is absolutely no chance of me getting away until late this evening. I did tell you that I might not be free; will you make my excuses to the Pickerings?’

      They talked for a few minutes, until she said, ‘Oh, well, you’re not much use as an escort, are you, Thomas?’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I might as well give you up.’

      ‘There must be any number of men queueing up to take you out. I’m not reliable, Honor.’

      ‘You’ll end up a crusty old bachelor, Thomas, unless you take time off to fall in love.’

      ‘I’ll have to think about that.’

      ‘Well, let me know when you’ve made up your mind.’ She rang off, and he put the phone down and forgot all about her. He had a teaching round the next morning and he needed to prepare a few notes for that.

      He ate the dinner Cork set before him and went back to his study to work. He was going to his bed when he had a sudden memory of Claudia, her fiery hair in a mess, enveloped in that old jacket and a sack. He found himself smiling, thinking of her.

      The first few days of November, with their frosty mornings and chilly pale skies, had turned dull and damp, and as they faded towards winter Great-Uncle William faded with them. But although he was physically weaker there was nothing weak about his mental state. He was as peppery as he always had been, defying anyone to show sympathy towards him, demanding that Claudia should read The Times to him each morning, never mind that he dozed off every now and then.

      His faithful housekeeper’s endless efforts to prepare tasty morsels for his meals met with no success at all. And no amount of coaxing would persuade him to allow a nurse to attend to his wants. Between them, Claudia, her mother and Tombs did as much as he would allow them to. Dr Willis, inured to his patient’s caustic tongue, came daily, but it was less than a week after Mr Tait-Bullen’s visit when Great-Uncle William, glaring at him from his bed, observed in an echo of his former commanding tones, ‘I shall die within the next day or so. Tell Tait-Bullen to come and see me.’

      ‘He’s a busy man…’

      ‘I know that; I’m not a fool.’ The Colonel looked suddenly exhausted. ‘He said that he would come.’ He turned his head to look at Claudia, standing at the window, lingering after she had brought Dr Willis upstairs.

      ‘You—Claudia, СКАЧАТЬ