Judith. Бетти Нилс

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      He stretched out a hand and lifted the receiver and sat himself down on the edge of the doctor’s desk. He said softly: ‘Miss Golightly, you really shouldn’t slouch over that chair—you have a beautiful head and a splendid figure, and neither of them show to their best advantage if you will droop in that awkward manner.’ He took no notice of her quick breath but dialled a number and started a conversation with somebody at the other end. Judith most regrettably put her tongue out at the back of his head and flounced out of the room. She was seething enough to scorch the floor under her feet.

      The Professor finished his conversation and replaced the receiver.

      ‘Married?’ he asked casually. ‘Engaged? Having a close relationship?—that’s what they say these days, don’t they? I seem to remember my granny calling it living in sin.’

      Uncle Tom chuckled. ‘Times change, Charles, and no, Judith is heartwhole and fancy free at the moment. Which is not to say that she hasn’t been in and out of love, or fancied that she was, a great many times. She’s a handsome girl and she meets young men enough at that hospital of hers.’

      ‘And they fancy her, no doubt—let’s hope that some day soon, she’ll make one of them happy.’ He wandered to the door, then said with some concern:

      ‘She’s not here permanently, is she?’

      ‘No, no, two weeks only while Mrs Lockyer’s away. And since she’s not exactly taken to you, Charles, you needn’t worry about meeting her.’ The doctor’s tone was dry, but his eyes twinkled.

      ‘Thank God for that,’ declared the Professor in a relieved voice.

      At lunchtime Judith made no mention of the Professor, indeed, she talked animatedly about everyone and everything else, and when her uncle assured her that he had no calls to make that afternoon, and would be home to answer the telephone, she told him that she would take the Fiat and drive over to Coniston and look round the village and visit Ruskin’s house there. “‘Mountains are the beginning and the end of all natural scenery,’” she quoted rather vaguely. ‘I expect he was inspired by the view from his house.’

      ‘And what about Wordsworth—only a step across the street to the school he attended, my dear, as well you know, not to mention the cottage where he lodged.’

      ‘Oh, I haven’t forgotten him, Uncle—only I thought a little drive round might be nice.’

      ‘Of course, my dear. Why not go on to Rydal and take a look at Wordsworth’s house? Although perhaps you might save that for another day.’

      ‘Yes, I think I will.’ For some reason she wanted to be out of the village away from the chance of meeting Professor Cresswell. She hoped most devoutly that he wasn’t going to spoil her stay at Hawkshead, but if he really was writing a book perhaps he would stay in his house all day…

      She set off after their lunch, going slowly, for it was but two miles to Coniston. Once there, she parked the car and set off for the John Ruskin Museum, then wandered off to inspect his grave in a corner of the churchyard, and then on to Brantwood to make a leisurely inspection of Ruskin’s house. And after that she had to decide whether to have a cup of tea or drive on to Tarn Hows. She decided on the later, and was rewarded by the magnificent views of the mountains when she got there. She stopped the car for ten minutes and sat back, enjoying it all, and then drove on again, past white Cragge Gardens and through Clappergate and so back to Hawkshead, just in nice time to get her uncle his tea.

      Next week, she reflected as she boiled the kettle, she would go to Ferry Nab and across Lake Windermere to Bowness, and there was Hill Top, Beatrix Potter’s home and Kendal…all easy runs in the Fiat, and if she had the chance, she could go walking—there were paths to the top of the Old Man, towering over Coniston, as well as less strenuous walks through the Grizedale Forest. It was a wonderful place for a holiday; it was a pity that Professor Cresswell’s face, so heartily disliked, should interfere with her musings.

      Not that she had much time to muse—Uncle Tom, called away to an emergency, left her to keep his evening patients happy until he returned, and by that time, there was little of the evening left.

      The gentle routine of her days suited her very well; she was busy enough, but there was always time to stop and chat in the village shops, or spend half an hour with her uncle while he drank his coffee and checked his list of visits. It was several days later when he suggested that Judith might like to go to Kendal directly after breakfast. Mrs Lockyer went once a month, he explained, sometimes more often, and there were several things he wanted—books, a particular tobacco which the village didn’t stock, and his whisky was getting low. Nothing loath, Judith agreed happily, made sure that things would go smoothly while she was away, made a neat list of things to be bought, and went to her room to put on something other than the denim skirt and blouse she had been wearing. She hadn’t brought many clothes with her; she chose a silk shirtwaister in a pleasing shade of blue, brushed her hair smooth, found her handbag and went round the back to get the Fiat. She was in front of the house, with the engine running, waiting for Uncle Tom to give her some last-minute instructions about the books she was to fetch, when Professor Cresswell put his head through the window beside her.

      Judith frowned. She hadn’t met him since their first encounter—well, church, of course, but one couldn’t count that. He had been in a pew on the other side of the aisle from Uncle Tom and her and she had been careful not to look at him, but all the same she had been very aware of him, for he sang all the hymns in a loud, unselfconscious baritone voice. And after church, by dint of engaging old Mr Osborne the chemist in a long-winded conversation she had been able to avoid him.

      ‘Going into Kendal?’ he wanted to know, without a good morning, and at her frosty nod. ‘Splendid, you can give me a lift.’

      ‘I’m going shopping—I’m not sure how long I shall be there.’

      It was a pity that Uncle Tom should choose that moment to come out of the house, exclaiming cheerfully: ‘You’ll be back for lunch, won’t you, Judith? I want to go out to Lindsays’ farm early this afternoon.’ He glanced across at the Professor. ‘Giving Charles a lift? In that case bring him back for a sandwich.’ He beamed across the little car. ‘Judith makes a splendid beef sandwich.’

      ‘Thanks, Tom, but Mrs Turner’s doing something she calls giving the house a good do and I can’t possibly work until she subsides again.’ He opened the Fiat’s door and inserted himself into the seat beside Judith; the result was overcrowding but there was nothing to be done about that. She waved her uncle goodbye and drove off.

      She had intended to go to Sawry and take the ferry to Bowness on the other side of Lake Windermere and then drive the eight or nine miles to Kendal. There would probably be delays on the ferry, although the season was only just beginning, but the alternative was a much longer drive round the head of the lake; besides, she particularly wanted to go that way and she saw no need to tell her unwanted passenger.

      They drove in silence until they reached Sawry, and Judith instinctively slowed down, because it was here that Beatrix Potter had lived and she had promised herself a visit to Hill Top Farm before she went back home; if it had been anyone else with her, she would have had something to say about it, but the Professor hadn’t uttered a word, which, she told herself was exactly as she wanted it. They drove on to Far Sawry and joined the short queue for the ferry and he still had said nothing at all, and the eight miles on the other side were just as silent. They were actually in Kendal before he spoke.

      ‘Go through Highgate,’ he told her. ‘Into Stricklandgate—you can park the car there.’

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