Stormy Springtime. Бетти НилсЧитать онлайн книгу.
him awake, cringing in his box. She fed him, bathed some of the dirt and dust from him, tended his pathetically cracked paws and went to let the vet in.
They knew each other vaguely; years ago when her father had been alive there had been dogs and cats and ponies. He was a grouchy old man but a splendid vet. He examined the dog carefully, pronounced him half starved, in need of rest and bruised from his accident. ‘But he’ll live,’ he said. ‘God alone knows what breed he is, but he’s a nice enough beast. You’re looking after him?’ He looked at her enquiringly. ‘Professor Culver said that he would be here with you… He would have taken him to his home but he’s only there at the weekends; a London flat is no place for dogs.’
Meg longed to ask where the Professor lived, but she didn’t. At least she had learned something; that he had a flat in London. She listened carefully to the vet’s instructions, offered him tea, which he refused, and saw him out to his car. By the time she had settled the dog again it was tea time.
A busy day, she reflected, getting ready for bed at the end of the day. It struck her that she earned every penny of the money Mrs Culver paid her, for she had little time to call her own. She set her alarm clock half an hour earlier than usual because she would have to take the dog out and feed him before starting on the morning’s chores, and she found herself wondering what the Professor was doing. Lolling in an easy chair in a comfortable sitting-room, waited on hand and foot, she decided. Despite his kindness over the dog, her opinion of him was low.
He arrived on Sunday, expressed satisfaction at the dog’s appearance, refused refreshment and ushered his mother out to the car. He settled her in the front seat and then turned back to speak to Meg, who was standing sedately by the front door. ‘What will you call him?’ he asked.
‘Well, nothing at the moment. I thought that Mrs Culver or you…’
‘We leave it to you.’ He smiled his charming smile once more. ‘Enjoy your afternoon, Meg.’
Meg, indeed! she thought indignantly, though of course she was employed by his mother and he had every right to address her in such a fashion. Perhaps he thought it might keep her in her place. She went indoors and made up the fire in the sitting-room, gave the dog a meal, took him for a short run in the garden, and went along to the kitchen. She and Betsy had their afternoon planned; lunch on a tray for Meg and a peaceful hour or so for Betsy in her chair by the Aga. They would have an early tea too, and there might even be time to potter in the garden. It was a miserably grey day, but Meg never let the weather bother her.
The afternoon was all that she had hoped for; accompanied by the now devoted animal, she repaired to the potting shed and, tied in her sacking apron, pricked out seedlings and transplanted wallflowers. Then she went to her tea, sitting at the kitchen table with Betsy opposite her and Silky and the dog sitting in a guarded friendship on the rug before the Aga. Betsy had made a cake that morning; the mixture had been too much for the cake tin, she explained guilelessly, so that there was a plate of little cakes as well as hot buttered toast and Meg’s strawberry jam and strong tea in the brown earthenware pot which Betsy favoured.
They cleared away together; Meg fed the animals and then got into her old duffle coat and took the dog for a gentle walk. ‘You’ll have to have a name,’ she told him, suiting her pace to his still painful paws. ‘How about Lucky? Because that’s what you are, you know!’
Then she stopped to rub the rough fur on the top of his head, and he gave her a devoted look. He was beginning to look happy and he had stopped cringing. Back in the house, she settled him in the kitchen with a bone and went to tidy herself. It was time to be the housekeeper again.
The sitting-room looked charming as she went into it; she had made a good fire, there were flowers and pot plants scattered around the tables, and shaded lamps. She began to draw the curtains and saw the lights of the Rolls-Royce sweep up the drive, and she went into the hall and opened the door.
‘Oh, how nice it all looks!’ declared Mrs Culver. ‘Meg, you have no idea how happy I am to be living here—to have found such a delightful home, and you with it, too!’
She slid off her fur coat and Meg took it from her, thinking that she had done just that so many times for her mother when she had been alive and well. She glanced up and found Professor Culver’s dark eyes on her, his thoughtful look disturbing. She turned away and suggested coffee, and, ‘There’s a fire in the sitting-room,’ she pointed out.
‘No coffee, Meg—we’ll have a drink. You’ll stay a few minutes, Ralph?’
He had taken off his car coat and thrown it on to the oak settle against a wall. ‘Yes, of course.’ His eyes were still on Meg. He asked, ‘Have you named the dog?’
‘Yes, I’d like to call him Lucky. It was lucky for him when you met him…’
‘An appropriate name. I’ve never believed in luck, but I think that perhaps I have been mistaken about that. You’ve had a pleasant afternoon?’
She looked surprised. ‘Yes, thank you.’ She sought feverishly for an excuse to get away from his stare. ‘I must take Lucky out… Unless you need me for anything, Mrs Culver?’
‘No, my dear, off you go. Wrap up warmly; it’s a chilly evening.’
Meg nipped off to the kitchen, thinking that sometimes her employer talked to her as though she were her daughter. She put on the duffle coat again and encountered Betsy’s surprised look. ‘You’ve just been out with the beast,’ she pointed out, ‘’ad yer forgotten, Miss Meg?’
Meg opened the kitchen door and started off down the stone passage leading to the garden. Lucky, anxious to please, even if reluctant, trotted beside her.
‘No—it’s all right, Betsy, it’s only until the Professor’s gone.’
The remark puzzled Betsy; it puzzled Meg too. Just because one didn’t like a person it didn’t mean to say that one had to run away from them, and wasn’t she being a bit silly, trudging round the garden on such a beastly evening just because Professor Culver was ill-mannered enough to stare so?
CHAPTER THREE
TWO OR THREE DAYS passed. The weather was what was to be expected for the time of year: rain and a flurry of snow, and then a lovely day with a blue sky and an icy wind; Mrs Culver kept to the house for the first two days and then decided to accept a lunch invitation with friends in Ware. Meg phoned Noakes, the chauffeur, who now lived in the village with his wife, and watched her employer borne away before calling to Lucky and taking him for a brisk walk. It had certainly turned cold; she settled him with Silky before the kitchen fire, had bread and cheese and a great pot of tea with Betsy sitting at the kitchen table, and then went away to make up the fires and get the tea tray ready; Mrs Culver would probably be cold and tired when she got back, and a few scones might be a good idea. She returned to the kitchen and made a batch while Betsy sat by the Aga, having what she called a bit of a shut-eye.
Mrs Culver arrived back rather sooner than Meg had expected, and she didn’t look very well.
‘I’m cold,’ she complained. ‘I mean cold inside; I’d like a cup of tea…’
‘It’s quite ready, Mrs Culver,’ said Meg soothingly, ‘and there’s a lovely fire in the drawing-room. I’ll bring the tray in there.’ She drew a chair to the fire. ‘I made some scones—you’ll enjoy those.’
Only Mrs Culver didn’t; she drank several cups of tea, her nice face becoming more and more flushed, and when Meg suggested that she might like to go to her bed, she agreed without a fuss.
‘Well, you stay there for a few minutes; I’ll see to the electric blanket and warm your nightie. I won’t be long.’
She was barely ten minutes, and when she got back it was to find Mrs Culver shivering and reluctant to leave her chair. It took a good deal of coaxing to get her up the stairs and into her room, and once there Meg helped her undress and tucked her up in bed, and then proceeded to sponge off Mrs Culver’s carefully applied make-up and