Matilda's Wedding

‘It’s the going rate, Mother.’

‘Oh, well, it will be better than nothing—and you won’t need much for yourself.’

‘No. Most of it must go for the housekeeping; there might be enough for you to have help in the house once or twice a week.’

‘Well, if you are working for most of the day I shall need someone.’ Her mother smiled suddenly. ‘And poor little me? Am I to have something too? Just enough so that I can look like a rural dean’s wife and not some poverty-stricken housewife.’

‘Yes, Mother, we’ll work something out without disturbing Father.’

‘Splendid, dear.’ Her mother was all smiles now. ‘Let me have your wages each week and I’ll see that they are put to good use.’

‘I think I shall put them straight into Father’s account at the bank and just keep out enough for you and me.’

Her mother turned back to the mirror. ‘You always have been selfish, Matilda, wanting your own way. When I think of all I have done for you…’

Matilda had heard it all before. She said now, ‘Don’t worry, Mother, there will be enough over for you.’

She went across the small landing to her own room, where she sat down on her bed and did sums on the back of an envelope. She was well aware of the inadequacies of her father’s pension; if they lived carefully there was just enough to live on and pay the bills; anything extra had to be paid for from his small capital—smaller still now with the expense of his illness and their move.

He had received a cheque from his parishioners when he had left the vicarage, but a good deal of that had been swallowed up by carpets and curtains and having the functional bathroom turned into one in which Mrs Paige could bear to be in. The bathroom as it was had been adequate, but her father loved his wife, could see no fault in her, and since she’d wanted a new bathroom she had had it…

He was an unworldly man, content with his lot, seeing only the best in other people; he was also impractical, forgetful and a dreamer, never happier than when he could sit quietly with his books or writing. Matilda loved him dearly and, although his heart attack had led to his retirement and coming to live in straitened circumstances, she had welcomed it since it meant that he could live a quiet life. Now she had a job and could help financially she had no doubt that once her mother had got over her disappointment they would be happy enough.

She went downstairs to the small kitchen to make coffee, and while the kettle boiled she looked round her. It was a rather bare room with an old-fashioned dresser against one wall, an elderly gas cooker and the new washing machine her mother had insisted on. The table in its centre was solid and square—they had brought it with them from the vicarage—and there were four ladder-backed chairs round it. By the small window was a shabby armchair, occupied by the family cat, Rastus. Once she had a little money, decided Matilda, she would paint the walls a pale sunshine-yellow, and a pretty tablecloth and a bowl of bulbs would work wonders…

She carried the coffee into the living room and found her mother there. ‘I’ll take Father his,’ Matilda suggested, and she crossed the hall to the small, rather dark room behind the kitchen, rather grandly called the study. It was very untidy, with piles of books on the floor awaiting bookshelves, and more books scattered on the desk, which was too large for the room but Mr Paige had worked at it almost all of his life and it was unthinkable to get rid of it.

He looked up as she went in. ‘Matilda? Ah, coffee. Thank you, my dear.’ He took off his spectacles. ‘You went out this morning?’

‘Yes, Father, for an interview with Lovell who has the practice here. I’m going to work for him part-time.’

‘Good, good; you will meet some young people and get some sort of a social life, I dare say. It will not entail too much hard work?’

‘No, no. Just seeing to patients and their notes and writing letters. I shall enjoy it.’

‘And of course you will be paid; you must get yourself some pretty things, my dear.’

She glanced down at the desk; the gas bill was lying on it and there was a reminder from the plumber that the kitchen taps had been attended to.

‘Oh, I shall, Father,’ she said in an over-bright voice.

On Monday morning Matilda got up earlier than usual, took tea to her parents and retired to her room. She couldn’t turn herself into a beauty but at least she could be immaculate. She studied her face as she powdered it and put on some lipstick. She wiped it off again, though. She hadn’t worn it at the interview, and although she didn’t think that Dr Lovell had noticed her at all there was always the chance that he had. She suspected that she had got the job because she was as near alike to Miss Brimble as her youth allowed.

She had met that lady once: plain, bespectacled, clad in something dust-coloured. There had been nothing about her to distract the eye of Dr Lovell, and Matilda, unable to find anything in her wardrobe of that dreary colour, had prudently chosen navy blue with a prim white collar. Such a pity, she reflected, dragging her hair back into its French pleat, that circumstances forced her to make the least of herself.

She pulled a face at her reflection. Not that it mattered. She had as much chance of attracting him as the proverbial pig had of flying. Falling in love with a man who hadn’t even looked at you for more than a moment had been a stupid thing to do.

The surgery was at one side of the house and a narrow path led to the side door. It was already unlocked when she got there and a woman was dusting the row of chairs. Matilda bade her good morning and, obeying the instructions she had been given, went into the surgery beyond. The doctor wasn’t there; she hadn’t expected him to be for it was not yet eight o’clock.

She opened a window, checked the desk to make sure that there was all that he might need there, and went back to the waiting room where her desk stood in one corner. The appointments book was on it—he must have put it there ready for her and she set to, collecting patients’ notes from the filing cabinet by the desk. She had arranged them to her satisfaction when the first patient arrived—old Mr Trimble, the pub owner’s father. He was a silent man with a nasty cough and, from his copious notes, a frequent visitor to the surgery. He grunted a greeting and sat down, to be joined presently by a young woman with a baby. Neither the mother nor the baby looked well, and Matilda wondered which one was the patient.

The room filled up then and she was kept busy, aware of the curious looks and whispers. Miss Brimble had been there for so many years that a newcomer was a bit of a novelty and perhaps not very welcome.

Dr Lovell opened his surgery door then, bade everyone a brisk good morning, took Mr Trimble’s notes from Matilda and ushered his patient inside. He ushered him out again after ten minutes, took the next lot of notes from her and left her to deal with Mr Trimble’s next appointment.

It wasn’t hard work but she was kept busy, for the phone rang from time to time, and some of the patients took their time deciding whether the appointments offered them were convenient, but by the time the last person had gone into the surgery Matilda was quite enjoying herself. True, Dr Lovell had taken no notice of her at all, but at least she’d had glimpses of him from time to time…

She dealt patiently with the elderly woman who was the last to go for she was rather deaf and, moreover, worried about catching the local bus.

‘My cats,’ she explained. ‘I don’t like to leave them for more than an hour or two.’

‘Oh, I know how you feel,’ said Matilda. ‘I have a cat; he’s called Rastus…’

The door behind her opened and Dr Lovell said, with well-concealed impatience, ‘Miss Paige…’

She turned and smiled at him. ‘Mrs Trim has a cat, and so have I. We were just having a chat about them.’

She bade Mrs Trim goodbye, shut the door behind her and said cheerfully, ‘I’ll tidy up, shall I?’

He didn’t answer, merely stood aside for her to follow him back into the surgery. As they went in, the door leading to the house opened and a tall, bony woman came in with a tray of coffee.

Matilda bade her good morning. ‘How nice—coffee, and it smells delicious.’

The doctor eyed her with an inscrutable face. Matilda had seemed so meek and quiet during her interview. He said firmly, ‘While you drink your coffee, please make a note of various instructions I wish to give you.’

She didn’t need to look at him to know that she had annoyed him. She said, ‘I talk too much,’ and opened her notebook, her nose quivering a bit at the aroma from the coffee pot.

‘Be good enough to pour our coffee, Miss Paige. I should point out that, more frequently than not, you may not have time for coffee. This morning was a very small surgery and normally I depart the moment the last patient has gone, leaving you to clear up and lock the door and the cabinets. I should warn you that the evening surgery is almost always busy.’

He opened a drawer and handed her a small bunch of keys. ‘If I am held up then I rely upon you to admit the patients and have everything ready, or as ready as possible, for me. Miss Brimble was most efficient; I hope that you will be the same.’

Matilda took a sip of coffee. Strange, she mused, that, of all the millions of men in the world, she should have fallen in love with this coldly polite man with cold blue eyes and, for all she knew, a cold heart as well.

‘I shall do my best to be as like Miss Brimble as possible,’ she told him, and after he had given her a list of instructions she asked, ‘Do you want me for anything else, Doctor? Then I’ll just tidy the waiting room and lock up.’

He nodded, not looking up from the pile of notes on his desk. ‘I shall see you this evening, Miss Paige.’ He glanced up then. ‘This is not a job where one can watch the clock too closely.’

She got up and went to the door, where she said in a quiet little voice, ‘I expect you miss Miss Brimble. We must hope for the best, mustn’t we?’

She closed the door quietly behind her and the doctor stared at it, surprise on his handsome face. But presently he allowed himself to smile. Only fleetingly, though. Miss Paige must conform to his ways or find another job.

Matilda went home, donned an apron and began to load the washing machine. Her father was in the study; her mother was getting coffee in the kitchen.

‘Well, how did you get on?’ she asked. ‘I don’t suppose it was hard work. Is he nice? Your father has to see him within the next few days. Such a nuisance that he has to see the doctor so often; I should have thought that once he had got over his heart attack he would have been cured.’

‘Well, he is cured, Mother, but it’s possible to have another attack unless a doctor keeps an eye on him. He’s feeling fine, though, isn’t he? This is the ideal life for him…’

Mrs Paige said fiercely, ‘Oh, it’s perfect for him but what about me? There’s nothing to do here in this poky little village…’