Waiting for Deborah

‘Mrs Dexter, how lovely to see you—it’s years …’

‘So it is,’ said her companion and reflected that Deborah’s looks hadn’t improved with the passing of time and surely she had been wearing that jacket and skirt when they had met last. ‘You must have lunch with me and tell me your news, but first I must go and see that tiresome woman in the agency. You remember old Mrs Vernon? A friend of your dear mother’s and of your grandmother’s too. She had a stroke some months ago and now she is living with her niece who simply can’t cope with her and has begged me to find someone to live in and look after her—a light post, she tells me, with a little housework and ironing and so forth. There’s help in the house anyway but Clara—the niece, you know—tells me that she herself isn’t too strong.’

Mrs Dexter drew breath and Deborah said quickly, ‘Mrs Dexter, I need a job badly, as soon as possible—would I do?’

‘You? My dear—but surely … did your stepfather not leave you provided for?’ And when Deborah shook her head, ‘And your stepbrother—I’ve forgotten his name—there must be plenty of money?’

‘I believe there is, but Walter is settling things. He’s selling the house—I’m staying there until it’s sold and then I am to find work. Only I thought I wouldn’t wait for that so I’ve got my name down at several agencies for mother’s help or something similar. I’m used to running a house and looking after invalids.’

She spoke without bitterness and Mrs Dexter patted her arm. ‘You have had more than your fair share of that, my dear. I believe that you would do very well for Mrs Vernon, especially as she has known you and your mother. We will go and see the woman inside and settle things.’

They mounted the stairs together and at the top Mrs Dexter said, ‘I forgot to tell you, they live in the depths of the country—the Cotswolds, would you mind?’

‘Mind? I shall love it, and Walter won’t know where I am …’

Mrs Dexter paused on the landing. ‘You had a stepsister too—a very pretty girl.’

‘Barbara, yes, she has a boutique somewhere near Harrods.’

‘She wouldn’t like you to live with her?’ ventured Mrs Dexter.

‘She doesn’t like me either,’ said Deborah in a voice quite empty of self-pity.

Mrs Dexter said no more but swept into the agency office, dealt briskly with the stony-eyed woman behind the desk and swept out again, Deborah in tow. ‘That’s settled,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘I shall drive you down myself the day after tomorrow. Clara will be both relieved and delighted. Did I mention your salary? No?’ She thought for a moment and mentioned a sum which Deborah, quite without money of her own for a long time, found unbelievably generous. They had coffee together in a chic little café and parted company the best of friends, Mrs Dexter to go into Liberty’s and Deborah to scour BHS for the replenishment of her meagre wardrobe. Something suitable for the companion of a bedridden old lady and some decent undies—a dressing-gown too in case she had to get up in the night and sensible shoes, for presumably if her new job was in the country she would walk in her free time. Pleased with her purchases, she took herself back to Hampstead, and over her tea counted her remaining money. There wasn’t a great deal left, but she wouldn’t need any for the first week or so. Walter would be furious when he discovered that she had used his money in such a fashion but, after all, he had given it to her … She went to bed happy for the first time in years.

She spent the next day finishing her packing and making sure that the house was as clean and tidy as she could make it. She had thought a lot about writing a note to Walter and finally composed a stiff little letter telling him that she had found work for herself, left the keys with the house agent and turned off the water. He would be annoyed, of course, but it was unlikely that he would bother to look for her. She left the note on the hall table and went to bed for the last time in the house in the plainly furnished room her stepfather had considered good enough for her. Before she went to sleep she wondered what her room would be like in Mrs Vernon’s house. Speculating happily about her future, she went to sleep.

She was to be fetched in the morning and Mrs Dexter’s chauffeur-driven car drew up before the door shortly after nine o’clock. Sitting in the back with her mother’s friend, Deborah was invited to ask any questions she wished.

‘Mrs Vernon—is she Mrs Vernon’s aunt?’

‘No, no—Robert Vernon is her nephew. He and Clara have three children: two boys and a girl—let me see, they must be between ten and fourteen years old now, Robin, Ruth and Laurie. Clara has a busy life; Robert is a successful solicitor and has his office in the nearest town but they live near a small village four miles or so north of there. Eastleach—it’s really two hamlets on either side of the road.’

‘Is Mrs Vernon completely bedridden?’

‘I believe so. From what Clara told me she remains in bed. The local nurse has been coming each day to attend to her but Clara has found it impossible to get her out of bed which is what the doctor recommends.’ Mrs Dexter cast a rather worried look at Deborah. ‘I hope that you will be strong enough, dear …’

‘I nursed Mother for almost a year and when my stepfather became ill I nursed him too. He was a difficult patient,’ added Deborah without rancour, remembering the disturbed nights, the constant complaining and the lack of freedom. She had tackled Walter once about getting someone to relieve her occassionally so that she might have a few hours to herself and had been lectured at length on the subject of her ingratitude. What did she expect? Had she not a cook and a housemaid to do everything for her? Was she not fed and clothed? Had she not a comfortable roof over her head?

She had allowed his tirade to flow over her head and thought her own thoughts.

Since they travelled for a good part of the way on the M4, turning off at Swindon and going north to Lechlade, the journey took little more than two and a half hours. As they left the town behind them and took a narrow country road Deborah felt the first pangs of doubt. Supposing the old lady didn’t like her? Or her niece for that matter? Well, she had burnt her boats now and there was no turning back. Her spirits lifted a little at Mrs Dexter’s kind, ‘You will be so welcome, my dear, and I am sure that you will be happy here.’

The car turned into a short drive and drew up before a lovely old Cotswold house, its walls and roof of honey-coloured Cotswold stone, its windows with stone mullions and leaded panes. Deborah got out of the car and looked around her with delight; there were daffodils massed in beds on either side of the house and clumps of them dotted around the well-kept lawns surrounding the house. It seemed like heaven after the house at Hampstead.

In answer to Mrs Dexter’s tug on the bell-pull the door was opened by a stout little woman with a round smiling face and twinkling eyes, enveloped in a print overall. She wished them good day in a soft country voice and stood aside for them to go on ahead.

‘It’s Mrs Dexter and the young lady, isn’t it?’ She beamed at them both. ‘Mrs Vernon’s in the drawing-room—this way.’

The hall was pleasant and immaculate and so was the room into which they were shown, flowers everywhere, cushions well shaken, silver photo frames gleaming, and the woman crossing the room to greet them was as immaculate. Dressed in a well cut tweed skirt and a cashmere sweater and just the right amount of gold jewellery, she looked less than her years, her face skilfully made-up and her golden hair cut by a masterly hand. She was good-looking but she wore a discontented air as she kissed the air by Mrs Dexter’s cheek.

‘Aunt Phyllis, you have no idea how delighted I am to see you!’ She glanced at Deborah. ‘And this is Miss Everett?’

She smiled at Deborah but didn’t shake hands and her blue eyes held no warmth. Deborah’s heart sank. She doesn’t like me, she reflected, and then decided that she had been mistaken when Mrs Vernon said, ‘It is such a relief to me that I shall have help with my aunt. It is a light post and you will have plenty of time to yourself, but I lead a busy life with the children and various social commitments and I rely upon you to take good care of her at all times.’ She smiled, though again the smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Do leave your things in the cloakroom and we will have lunch, then I can take you to my aunt.’

The dining-room was as pristine as the drawing-room and rather chilly. A grumpy-looking maid served lamb chops and vegetables and then jellied fruit and custard and Mrs Vernon and Mrs Dexter chatted lightly, careful to include Deborah in the conversation. They had their coffee at the table and presently Mrs Dexter said that she must go again. ‘I must be back in town in good time,’ she explained. ‘I’m dining early, for I’m going to the theatre with friends.’ She smiled kindly at Deborah. ‘My dear, I’m sure that you will be happy here—do write and tell me how you are getting on, won’t you? I am so glad that we met at such a fortuitous time.’

Mrs Vernon went with her to the car and Deborah sat where she was in the hall. Her case had been taken upstairs; she supposed that she would be shown her room and given time to unpack.

Mrs Vernon came back into the house, brisk and businesslike. ‘We will go to my aunt now,’ she said. ‘You can unpack later.’

Deborah followed her up the carpeted staircase, along a corridor and then up another flight of stairs at the back of the house. Here the thick carpeting had given way to a serviceable matting and the windows overlooking the country beyond were curtained in a useful beige material. The passage they were in was narrow and had several doors, the end one of which Mrs Vernon opened.

‘Well, here is your charge,’ she told Deborah.

The room was large, low-ceilinged and sparsely furnished. There was a long latticed window and facing it a narrow bed, its occupant lying flat under its blankets; an old lady, her eyes open, watching them.

Mrs Vernon spoke rather loudly. ‘Aunt Emma, here is your companion. Her name is Deborah; she will wash you and feed you and make your bed and make sure that you are comfortable. I shall show her her room now and then she will come back here to you.’

The old lady closed her eyes and Mrs Vernon said impatiently, ‘Of course, we aren’t sure if she understands what we are saying. Now come and see your room.’

It was separated from the old lady’s by a bathroom, a small room, its narrow bed against a wall. There was a small table beneath the window, a chair by it and a basket chair by the bed beside a side-table with a lamp upon it. The bedspread was candlewick in the same serviceable shade of beige. A depressing little room, but Deborah reminded herself that it was hers, that she had a job and, if she saved her money, security for the foreseeable future.

‘You can unpack later,’ said Mrs Vernon carelessly. ‘Go down to the kitchen at four o’clock and Cook will give you a tray. Aunt Emma has a drink then and you can have your tea at the same time.’

‘Am I to have my meals here?’ asked Deborah.

‘She doesn’t wake early; you can go down to the dining-room at half-past seven and have your breakfast then; I’ll get Florrie—the housemaid—to keep an eye on Aunt Emma while you have your lunch and supper. You will have to arrange whatever free time you want but please don’t expect me to relieve you. I’m completely worn out after weeks of looking after my aunt.’

‘Is she to be left at all?’

‘If she’s sleeping there’s no reason why you shouldn’t get out for a time, I suppose; you’ll discover when is best for yourself.’

Mrs Vernon went away and Deborah went back into the room. The old lady’s eyes were still closed. She crossed to the window and pulled back the curtains and the pale sunshine lighted the room. ‘A few flowers,’ said Deborah, talking to herself, ‘and surely Mrs Vernon would be more comfortable with another pillow.’

She went to the bed and studied the elderly face, one side drawn down a little by reason of the stroke. It must have been good-looking in earlier years and the untidy white hair curled prettily around it. Mrs Vernon opened her eyes, staring up at Deborah, who picked up one of the flaccid hands on the counterpane and held it gently.

‘Hello,’ she said in her pretty voice, ‘I’m Deborah, come to look after you. I’ll do my best to make you comfortable and I’m sure we’ll get on well together. You niece wasn’t sure if you understood her. If you understand me, will you wink?’

It was a nice surprise when the old lady winked. ‘Oh, good,’ said Deborah, ‘that’s an excellent start. I can ask you things and you can wink your answers. One wink for yes and two for no …’

It was a slow business but it worked. Within the next half-hour Deborah had turned her patient over on to her other side, peered into the other rooms along the passage until she found a soft pillow and settled the elderly head upon it and then, armed with a basin and water from the bathroom, freshened her face and hands.

The old eyes stared at her and Mrs Vernon’s mouth made tiny movements although there was no sound.

Deborah pulled up a chair and took a hand in hers. ‘Look, I don’t know much about it, but I’m quite sure that you will be able to move and speak again, but you have to wait for your head to get better. I’ll do all that I can to help you; we’ll think up a routine for you and really work at it.’

She was heartened by the emphatic wink she had in answer.