Marrying Mary. Betty Neels

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      ‘Mrs Winton,’ he said at length in a satisfied voice, and made a note of her address. He had no doubt at all that he would discover more of the girl who had been with her—a niece, the old lady had said, and one in the habit of giving extra help and therefore to be tracked down at some future date.

      He handed the notes back to the patient nurse waiting for them and left the hospital. He was dining out with friends and anticipating a pleasant evening as well as an excellent dinner.

      Mary and her family had an excellent dinner too; the sausages and chips were greeted with whoops of joy from Polly, and even her mother, a dainty eater, welcomed them with pleasure. There was a wholesome roly-poly pudding for afters too, and a bottle of red wine, pronounced delicious by everyone.

      Her father, of course, hardly noticed what he drank, and her mother was too kind to do more than remark on its good colour. The professor, had he been there, would have poured it down the sink.

      Never mind that—it was a celebration; they were a family again without Great Aunt Thirza to meddle and complain. No one actually said that; only Polly remarked that she hoped that her great aunt wouldn’t pay them another visit for a very long time.

      ‘Well, she only comes when she wants something,’ said Polly, ‘and she’s well again now isn’t she?’

      ‘She saw a specialist the other day?’ asked her mother, who, always being in her but working at her cards, had missed the tale of Great Aunt Thirza’s hospital appointment.

      Mary, to her great annoyance, blushed. ‘Yes—he said that she was able to resume normal life again and that she was very fit for her age.’

      ‘Was he nice?’

      ‘He seemed very nice,’ said Mary cautiously.

      Polly asked, ‘What did he look like?’

      Mary longed to describe him in every small detail but that would never have done. ‘Oh, well, quite young—he was Dutch...’

      ‘But what did he look like?’ persisted Polly.

      ‘Very tall and big with gingery hair, only it was grey too, and he had very blue eyes.’ She remembered something and smiled. ‘Great Aunt Thirza called him “young man”!’

      Her father said, ‘Your aunt was always outspoken.’

      ‘Did he mind?’ asked her mother.

      ‘No, he said that he rather liked it.’

      ‘He doesn’t sound like a specialist. Do you suppose that if I’m ill he’d look after me?’ Polly looked hopeful.

      ‘Well, no—he looks after people with bad hearts.’

      ‘Supposing you broke your heart—would he look after you?’

      Mary said in a level voice, ‘No, I don’t suppose that he’s got time to waste on broken hearts, only ill ones.’ She got up from the table. ’I’ll bring the coffee in here, shall I?’

      Life settled down into its accustomed pattern once more. Mary’s days were full. Her father had dropped a pile of notes all over his study floor and it took hours of work to get them in order again; her mother floated in and out of the house, absorbed in her painting, and Polly was away most of the day.

      Mrs Blackett, free to do as she liked again, was her usual ill-tempered self, although she no longer threatened to leave, and Mary slipped back into her customary routine. And if her thoughts dwelt wistfully upon Professor van Rakesma she didn’t allow them to show; she had plenty of common sense and she was aware that day-dreams, though pleasant, had nothing at all to do with real life.

      There was Arthur too. He had been away on a course and now he was back and, though she was reluctant to do so, she had agreed to go out to dinner with him—to a nice little place in Hampstead, he had told her; they would be able to get a good meal very reasonably.

      The idea that she was only worth a reasonably priced dinner rankled with Mary, but she got out a pretty if somewhat out-of-date dress, put polish on her nails, did her face and piled her glorious hair on top of her head. She made sure that the casserole for the family supper was safely in the oven, and went to remind her father that she was going out.

      He looked up from his writing. ‘Out? Well, enjoy yourself, my dear. Have you a key?’

      She went down to the hut next. ‘I’m going out to dinner with Arthur, Mother. The supper’s in the oven; it’ll be ready at half-past seven. I’ve told Polly.’

      ‘Dear child,’ said her mother fondly, ‘go and enjoy yourself—who with?’

      ‘Arthur.’

      ‘Oh, Arthur, of course. Tell me, do you like robins on this card, or do you suppose a bunch of holly would be better?’

      ‘Robins,’ said Mary.

      Polly was in the hall. ‘I’ll see to supper, Mary. Did you feed Bingo?’

      The family cat had made himself scarce while Great Aunt Thirza had been there, only skimming in for his meals, but now he was in possession of the house once more, commandeering laps and eating heartily.

      ‘Yes—here’s Arthur...’

      Polly caught her arm. ‘Don’t say yes, Mary,’ she whispered urgently. ‘He might propose!’

      ‘Arthur has never done anything hastily in his life; he’ll have to give a proposal a lot of thought, and he’ll lead up to it so gradually that I’ll have plenty of time to think about it.’

      ‘You like him?’

      Mary said guardedly, ‘I’ve known him for a long time, love; he’s a good man but I don’t want to marry him.’ She added thoughtfully, ‘I don’t think he really wants to marry me...’

      Arthur had got out of the car and thumped the doorknocker; she kissed Polly and went to meet him.

      Arthur’s ‘Hello, old girl,’ had nothing lover-like about it. She said, ‘Hello, Arthur,’ and got into the car beside him and enquired about his course.

      Telling her about it took up the entire drive and he still hadn’t finished when they sat down at a table in the restaurant. It was a pleasant place but not, she decided, the right background for romance. Its pale green walls were too cool, and the white tablecloths and little pot of dried flowers echoed the coolness, but since Arthur obviously had no thought of romance that didn’t matter.

      Mary ate her plaice, French fries and macédoine of vegetables, chose trifle for pudding and listened to him. She was a kind girl, and it was obvious that he needed to tell someone everything which had occurred at the course. She said ‘Oh, splendid,’ and ‘Really?’ at suitable intervals, and wondered what Professor van Rakesma was doing...

      She thanked Arthur when he took her back home, offered him coffee, which he refused, and accepted his kiss on her cheek. ‘A splendid evening, Mary—we’ve had a good talk.’ He added, in a rather condescending tone which grated on her ear, ‘When I can find the time we СКАЧАТЬ