Emma’s Wedding. Betty Neels

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      ‘Yes, I shall be sorry to leave…’

      ‘Not yet?’

      His heavy-lidded eyes gleamed. ‘No, no. I’m looking forward to the summer here.’ He put down his cup and saucer. ‘Thank you for the tea. If you’re sure there is nothing more I can do for you, I’ll be off.’

      Well, he had no reason to stay, thought Emma. She was hardly scintillating company. Probably there was someone—a girl—waiting impatiently at the hotel for him.

      ‘I hope I haven’t hindered you.’

      ‘Not in the least.’

      She stood in the doorway watching him walking away, back to his car. He must think her a tiresome hysterical woman, because that was how she had behaved. And all the fault of Derek. She swallowed rage at the thought of him and went back to clear away the tea tray and lay it anew for her mother.

      Mrs Dawson had had a pleasant day; she began to tell Emma about it as she came into the cottage, and it wasn’t until she had had her tea and paused for breath that she noticed Emma’s puffy lids and lightly pink nose.

      ‘Emma, you’ve been crying. Whatever for? You never cry. You’re not ill?’

      ‘Derek came,’ said Emma.

      Before she could utter another word her mother cried, ‘There—I knew he would. He’s changed his mind, he wants to marry you—splendid; we can leave here and go back to Richmond…’

      ‘I would not marry Derek if he was the last man on earth,’ said Emma roundly. ‘He said things—most unkind things—about Father…’

      ‘You never refused him?’

      ‘Yes, I did. He took me to lunch and I left him at the table. I met one of the doctors from the health centre and he brought me home. Derek is a rat and a worm, and if he comes here again I shall throw something at him.’

      ‘You must be out of your mind, Emma. Your future—our future—thrown away for no reason at all. Even if Derek upset you by speaking unkindly of your father, I’m sure he had no intention of wounding you.’

      ‘I’m not going to marry Derek, Mother, and I hope I never set eyes on him again.’

      And Emma, usually soft-hearted over her mother’s whims and wishes, wouldn’t discuss it any more, despite that lady’s tears and gentle complaints that the miserable life she was forced to lead would send her to an early grave.

      She declared that she had a headache when they got back from evensong, and retired to bed with a supper tray and a hot water bottle.

      Emma pottered about downstairs, wondering if she was being selfish and ungrateful. But, even if she were, Derek was still a worm and she couldn’t think how she had ever thought of marrying him.

      Mrs Dawson maintained her gentle air of patient suffering for the rest of the following week, until Emma left the house on Saturday morning to clean the cottage. The week’s tenants had had a large family of children and she welcomed the prospect of hard work. As indeed it was; the little place looked as though it had been hit by a cyclone. It would take all her time to get it pristine for the next family.

      She set to with a will and was in the kitchen, giving everything a final wipe-down, when the cottage door opened and Mrs Brooke-Tigh came in, and with her Dr van Dyke and a pretty woman of about Emma’s own age.

      Mrs Brooke-Tigh ignored her. ‘You’re so lucky,’ she declared loudly, ‘that I had this last-minute cancellation. Take a quick look round and see if it will suit. The next party are due here in half an hour but the girl’s almost finished.’

      ‘The girl’, scarlet-faced, had turned her back but then had to turn round again. ‘Miss Dawson,’ said Dr van Dyke, ‘what a pleasant surprise. This is my sister, who plans to come for a week with her children.’

      He turned to the woman beside him. ‘Wibeke, this is Emma Dawson; she lives here.’

      Emma wiped a soapy hand on her pinny and shook hands, wishing herself anywhere else but there, and listened to Wibeke saying how pleased she was to meet her while Mrs Brooke-Tigh, at a loss for words for once, tapped an impatient foot.

      Presently she led them away to see round the cottage, and when they were on the point of leaving Mrs Brooke-Tigh said loudly, ‘I’ll be back presently to pay you, Emma. Leave the cleaning things at my back door as you go.’

      The perfect finish for a beastly week, thought Emma, grinding her splendid teeth.

      And Mrs Brooke-Tigh hardly improved matters when she paid Emma.

      ‘It doesn’t do to be too familiar with the tenants,’ she pointed out. ‘I hardly think it necessary to tell you that. Don’t be late on Wednesday.’

      Emma, who was never late, bade her good afternoon in a spine-chilling voice and went home.

      It would have been very satisfying to have tossed the bucket and mop at Mrs Brooke-Tigh and never returned, but with the bucket and mop there would have gone sixty pounds, not forgetting the tips left on the dressing table. She would have to put up with Mrs Brooke-Tigh until the season ended, and in the meantime she would keep her ears open for another job. That might mean going to Kingsbridge every day, since so many of the shops and hotels closed for the winter at Salcombe.

      Too soon to start worrying, Emma told herself as she laid out some of the sixty pounds on a chicken for Sunday lunch and one of the rich creamy cakes from the patisserie which her mother enjoyed.

      To make up for her horrid Saturday, Sunday was nice, warm and sunny so that she was able to wear a jersey dress, slightly out of date but elegant, and of a pleasing shade of blue. After matins, while her mother chatted with friends, a pleasant young man with an engaging smile introduced himself as Mrs Craig’s son.

      ‘Here for a few days,’ he told her, and, ‘I don’t know a soul. Do take pity on me and show me round.’

      He was friendly and she readily agreed. ‘Though I have part time jobs…’

      ‘When are you free? What about tomorrow morning?’

      ‘I must do the shopping…’

      ‘Splendid, I’ll come with you and carry the basket. We could have coffee. Where shall I meet you?’

      ‘At the bakery at the bottom of Main Street, about ten o’clock?’

      ‘Right, I’ll look forward to that. The name’s Brian, by the way.’

      ‘Emma,’ said Emma. ‘Your mother is waiting and so’s mine.’

      ‘Such a nice boy,’ said her mother over lunch, and added, ‘He is twenty-three, just qualified as a solicitor. He’s rather young, of course…’ She caught Emma’s eye. ‘It is a great pity that you sent Derek away.’

      Emma quite liked shopping, and she enjoyed it even more with Brian to carry her basket and talk light-heartedly about anything which caught his eye. They lingered over coffee and then went back through the town to collect sausages from the butcher. His shop СКАЧАТЬ