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‘We’d better start back,’ she said briskly. ‘You’ll want to ring your housekeeper and arrange things.’
‘Naturally. I intend to leave your father’s house in two days’ time; that will give us the opportunity to pack my things. You will, of course, drive me home.’
At the thought of eating sausages and the weekend joint again Mary sighed with relief; she would have driven her great aunt to the furthest corner of the land...
Her mother and father expressed pleasure at Mrs Wimton’s recovery, and pressed her to stay as long as she wished, unaware of Mary’s speaking glance. Mary could see her wavering. Something had to be done—and quickly. ‘Polly, fetch your recorder and play something for Great Aunt Thirza.’
A wobbly rendering of ‘Greensleeves’, followed by an unrecognisable piece full of wrong notes, which Polly assured them was ‘The Trout’ by Schubert, put an end to the old lady’s indecision; she would return home, as she had first intended, in two days’ time.
It fell to Mary’s lot, naturally enough, to pack for her aunt, and then unpack everything again because that lady suddenly remembered that she would need a particular cardigan to wear. She did it all cheerfully, quite unmoved by her aunt’s fault-finding and lack of thanks, and two days later she got the car out, loaded the cases and settled Mrs Winton on the back seat.
Her father had come out of his study to say goodbye and her mother, in her painting smock and holding a brush in her hand, had joined him on the doorstep. Polly wasn’t back from school but Mrs Blackett, obliging with an extra afternoon’s work, glowered from the kitchen window.
Great Aunt Thirza said her goodbyes graciously, omitting to thank anyone, giving the impression that she had honoured them greatly by her visit and pausing long enough in the hall to find fault with several things around the house. ‘I’m sure, though, that you did your best,’ she added, ‘and on the whole the meals were palatable.’
These remarks were met in silence. ‘I dare say I shall see improvements when I next visit you,’ she said and swept out to the car.
The Pagetts watched their daughter drive away. ‘Perhaps we should wait a little before we invite dear Aunt Thirza to stay again, my dear,’ observed Mr Pagett, and added, ‘I do hope Mary will cook something tasty for supper...’
Mrs Winton lived in Richmond in a red-brick terraced house, which was much too large for her and stuffed with mid-Victorian furniture, heavy plush curtains and a great many ornaments. Her housekeeper had been with her for a good number of years—a silent, austere woman who kept her distance, ran the house efficiently and never talked about herself, which wasn’t surprising really since Mrs Winton never asked.
She opened the door as Mary stopped the car, wished them good afternoon and took Mrs Winton’s luggage from the boot. ‘We’d like tea at once, Mrs Cox,’ said Great Aunt Thirza, and swept indoors with a brisk, ‘Come along, Mary; don’t dawdle!’
Mary wasn’t listening; she had gone back to the car to give Mrs Cox a hand with the luggage.
She hadn’t wanted to stay for tea but good manners made it necessary; she sat on an uncomfortable horsehair chair—a museum piece if ever there was one—and drank weak tea from a beautiful Minton cup and ate a dry Madeira cake which she suspected had been in the tin ever since Great Aunt Thirza’s illness.
While she ate she thought of the sausages and the mountains of chips she would cook when she got home. She had no doubt that her mother and father and Polly would enjoy them as much as she would.
Driving back presently, it wasn’t sausages and chips on her mind, it was love—the sheer excitement of it, the wonder of it, just to look at someone and know that he was the one... Her euphoria was short-lived. ‘Fool,’ said Mary. ‘You’ll never see him again—it was pure chance; besides, he didn’t even look at you.’
She edged past a slow-moving Ford Anglia, driven by an elderly man in a cloth cap. ‘He’ll be married to some gorgeous wisp of a girl who he’ll treat like fragile porcelain.’ She sighed; no one, however kindly disposed, could describe her as fragile. ‘All the same, it would be nice to find out about him.’
She was talking to herself again, waiting at traffic lights, and the driver of the car alongside hers gave her a startled look. She looked sane enough, but he couldn’t see anyone else in the car...
Professor van Rakesma, unlike Mary, wasn’t talking to himself—he was going through the notes of his patients.
‘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