An Apple from Eve

‘Sorry to hear about your father.’ The brusqueness hid sympathy. ‘He was a splendid man.’ Sir Richard went over to the window and stood with his back to her, looking out at the dreary side street it over-looked. ‘Dr Bell mentioned that you were thinking of letting the house for a while—seems a good idea—very nice place you’ve got there, ideal for someone who wants peace and quiet. As a mater of fact I’ve mentioned it to someone, he’ll probably get in touch…’

Euphemia addressed the elderly back, aware that Sir Richard was feeling uncomfortable and probably afraid that she might burst into tears.

‘That’s very kind of you, sir, and I’m very grateful. It seems the best thing to do until we’ve had time to discuss things…’ She wasn’t going to tell him that it was in fact the only thing to do. ‘I think Father would have approved—there’s no one to run the house at present and it would be a shame for it to stay empty.’

Her companion went to the door. ‘You’re probably right. You’re a sensible young woman.’ He coughed. ‘No use being sentimental, glad to see you taking it so well.’ He opened the door. ‘I’ll be half an hour later for next week’s round, by the way.’

Euphemia went and sat at her desk, for the moment oblivious of the ward just outside the door.

He had believed her, she thought; no one need know that there wasn’t a penny piece in the family kitty and that the house was mortgaged up to the chimeypots. For the first time since her father’s death she felt cheerful. They would all miss their home abominably, but they were all young; Ellen was barely twenty and would certainly marry and the boys—well, their education at least was safe, and Nicky would go into the Army, probably Billy would too. As for herself… A knock on the door and her staff nurse’s head poked round it stopped her brooding: old Mr Steele was a very nasty colour and would Sister take a look at him?

The days dragged, although they were busy too. She had deliberately changed her days off so that she could work, but now she was free for two days, and just as deliberately she had arranged to go and see Ellen on the first of them and then spend the night at home before embarking on the task of packing up their personal possessions. She had heard no more about a possible tenant; she would have to go to a house agent and put it in their hands.

She was sitting in her office making out the Kardex before she went off duty when one of the student nurses knocked on the door, said: ‘There’s someone to see you, Sister,’ and went away again. Euphemia, head bowed over her report, muttered: ‘OK—who is it?’ and then looked up blankly at Dr van Diederijk’s suave voice: ‘You will forgive me, Sister, but we have an urgent matter to discuss and I am a busy man.’

‘I’m quite busy too,’ observed Euphemia promptly, ‘and I’m going off duty at any minute now.’

This contradictory remark caused him to smile thinly, but he didn’t waste words on it. ‘I should like to rent your house; I hear from Sir Richard Blake that you propose to let it for a period. If you will let me have the name of your solicitor and the rent you are asking the matter should be settled without delay.’

She reviewed mixed feelings. Relief that here was a chance to rent the house quickly and offer respite from the foreclosure of the mortgage, surprise at seeing the man again, and a deep annoyance that it should be he who wanted to live in her home. ‘Why the hurry?’ she asked matter-of-factly.

He gave her an impatient look. ‘It is hardly your business, is it? But since you are curious enough to ask…I come very frequently to London; I am a consultant in several hospitals here and I need somewhere quiet to live. Does that satisfy you?’

Euphemia said sweetly: ‘If it satisfies my solicitor, it will satisfy me.’

‘What rent had you in mind?’

She stared at him silently; she had no idea. After a few moments she said so, and seethed at the thin smile he gave her. ‘Perhaps that should be left for your solicitor to decide?’ he suggested. ‘I had thought…’ He named a sum which made her catch her breath—more than enough to cover the mortgage repayments; almost twice as much as she had hoped to get.

She said sharply: ‘Isn’t that a great deal too much?’ and got another mocking smile.

‘You may be an excellent nurse, Miss Blackstock, but I fear you are no business woman. Your house is worth that amount to me and I think that your solicitor will not dispute that.’

‘But you said you weren’t going to live there all the time?’

‘My home is in Holland, nevertheless I prefer to have a second home here, at least for the foreseeable future. I intend to marry shortly and it will be convenient—I can hardly expect my wife to live in hotels.’

She was diverted by the idea of him marrying; he wasn’t all that young—late thirties, she judged, perhaps younger, it was difficult to tell. She had thought of him as married and had felt vaguely sorry for his wife. She wondered what his fiancée was like, tall and slim and ethereal and as cool as he was, probably… She was recalled to her surroundings by his voice, impatient again. ‘I take it that you have no objection if I view the house.’

‘None at all.’

‘Then may I come tomorrow? In the afternoon, if possible, and it would be convenient if you were there, so that any small problems could be dealt with at once.’

‘It’s my day off…’

‘I know.’ His tone implied that she had made a silly remark.

It would be lovely, she thought, to tell him that she had changed her mind and wasn’t going to rent her home after all. She dismissed the idea immediately; it didn’t really matter who lived there, just as long as her home remained in the family. She said quietly: ‘Very well, Doctor, would three o’clock suit you?’

He went then, after a brief goodbye. The little room seemed very empty, but then he was such a very large man.

CHAPTER TWO

EUPHEMIA MADE short work of the Kardex, handed over to Sue Baker, her staff nurse, and hurried off duty. She would have to change her plans; she would go home straight away, polish, dust and Hoover and arrange a vase or two of flowers. She supposed she would have to give Dr van Diederijk tea; that would mean cleaning the silver tea service and getting out the china tea things they only used on great occasions. Well, it was hardly a great occasion, she argued to herself as she flung off her uniform, but she had no intention of allowing even the faintest whiff of poverty to reach the doctor’s splendid nose.

She got into a cotton dress and packed the expensive cotton jersey she had bought only last month and then rummaged in her cupboard to find the sandals that went with it, her mind busy with the chores which lay ahead of her. She must ring Ellen before she left the hospital and put off seeing her until the following day, and if there was enough of everything in the larder, she might make some little cakes for tea.

She toyed with the idea of bribing Mrs Cross to come over and serve it, but perhaps that would be a bit obvious—one could try too hard.

Polishing the hall table a couple of hours later, she found herself glad to have so much to do. She had been dreading coming home to a house without her father, but she had had no time to sit and broad. The nice old place had a neglected air with no one living in it, already it was beginning to come alive again, although there was still a good deal to be done. Euphemia had opened all the windows the moment she got in and Hoovered like mad because she had the feeling that he was the kind of man to ask her, ever so politely, to open this or that door so that he might see what was behind it. There were several bedrooms which hadn’t been used for months, so she raced around making them presentable with counterpanes and a brisk dusting. Several of the cupboards were stuffed with the boys’ things, too, as well as Ellen’s and her last year’s clothes, but these she decided, he would have to accept; they could be cleared out later.

She went to bed late after a sketchy supper and was up betimes, arranging flowers, polishing once more, turning the shabby rugs to hide the threadbare patches. Breakfast was as sketchy as her supper had been because she still had the cakes to make. She finished her housework, spent half an hour searching for the back door key, which no one had ever bothered about, and went to the kitchen to do her baking. There was time to make a fruit cake too and everything she needed to make it with. With everything safely in the oven she went upstairs, changed into the pale green jersey and the sandals, did her hair in a rather careless knot at the back of her head, made up her pretty face and went downstairs once more. The little cakes were done, and very nice they looked too. Euphemia made herself some coffee while she waited for the fruit cake to bake to perfection, arranged it on the Spode china plate, and walked across the green to the pub, where she ate fish and chips in the basket with a splendid appetite before going back to put the final touches to the tea tray.

She had planned to be in the garden, sitting at her ease with a book, when the doctor arrived, but she was doing her face once again when he thumped the knocker. He was early—wanting to catch her out, she thought crossly as she raced downstairs to open the door, so that her ‘Good afternoon, Dr van Diederijk’ was coldly said.

‘I’m early,’ his eyes searched her face, ‘and you’re annoyed about it. Would you like me to go away for half an hour?’

She pinkened with embarrassment. ‘No, of course not—it doesn’t matter in the least. Please come in,’ and because she felt guilty of bad manners she pointed out the torn carpet in a kindly way.

He stepped over the hole neatly. ‘I had noticed it,’ he told her. ‘A good carpet too—a Moorfields, isn’t it? You could have it repaired.’

She didn’t choose to answer this; anything could be repaired provided there was the money to pay for it. She asked haughtily: ‘Where would you like to start?’

He didn’t answer her at once but crossed the hall to take a leisurely look at the portrait hanging on the father wall. It had been done years previously as a surprise Christmas present for her father—her mother, Ellen, the boys and herself, painted in a charming group against the background of the oak-panelled wall in the sitting room.

The doctor said, to surprise her: ‘I hope you will leave that—it belongs to the house, doesn’t it?’

‘Well, if you don’t mind, I will—I haven’t anywhere to hang it…’

He turned to look at her. ‘I understand from Sir Richard that your sister will be living with an aunt—do you intend to do the same?’

It really wasn’t any business of his, but if she annoyed him he might not rent the house from her. ‘No, I shall stay at the hospital,’ and to forestall the next question: ‘The boys will go to my aunt for their holidays.’ She opened the drawing-room door, because that was the grandest room in the house even if shabby. She had polished and dusted and put flowers in the vases and it looked charming and welcoming too. The doctor wandered in and strolled around, asking none of the questions she had expected. ‘It’s an open fire,’ she pointed out unnecessarily, ‘and there’s a radiator under the end window—the central heating isn’t very modern, but it works.’

He nodded, went past her and opened the door on to the garden. He stood on the patio outside, still not speaking, and her heart sank. The garden was large, hedged with beech, its flower beds a riot of colour; it was also unkempt, its grass too long, weeds everywhere. Euphemia said quickly: ‘The garden will be tidied up before you—that is—if you take the house.’

‘Did I not make it plain that I would rent it from you?’ He gave her a cool enquiring look. ‘I will arrange for a gardener. Is there anyone who will housekeep? Perhaps you know of a good woman?’

‘There’s Mrs Cross, she came in each day while my…she’s a widow and lives just across the green, she’s got a sister who lives close by—she came in to help with spring-cleaning. I daresay she might work for you as well—it’s a large house for one, although I don’t suppose you’ll be using all the rooms.’

He wasn’t going to answer that either, but turned from the door. ‘Perhaps we might look at them?’

She showed him the sitting-room, shabbier than any other room in the house because they had all used it whenever they were at home, and then her father’s study and lastly the morning-room which was in fact a repository for fishing rods, tennis racquets, an elderly sewing machine and a catholic selection of books on the shelves which ran along one wall.

‘I shall clear all this away,’ said Euphemia, and he nodded.

The kitchen with the pantry beyond, a stillroom and what had once been the game larder was inspected quickly; he merely stood in the middle of the floor and observed: ‘If Mrs Cross is satisfied with this, I need not bother too much. Upstairs?’

She led him up the staircase and in and out of the bedrooms, most of them agreeably roomy, the smaller ones at the back of the house making up for their lack of size by their plain washed walls and plaster cornices. They were sparsely furnished, but what there was was old and graceful and, thanks to Euphemia’s hard work, beautifully polished.