An Innocent Bride

He went back downstairs and poured himself a mug of tea, and sat drinking it with the little cat curled up on his knee. What might have been the beginnings of a friendly relationship between them had become indifference on both their parts. Now and again, going through life, one met someone with whom one was incompatible, he reflected, allowing his thoughts to wander to the work waiting for him.

Presently he went quietly upstairs again and found her asleep, her hair an untidy cloud all over the pillow, her mouth a little open. There were scratches on her cheek and there was a bruise developing on one arm. She was a big girl, but now she looked like a child. The doctor studied her at some length, wondering why she chose to live so remotely. But that was none of his business.

He went back to the kitchen and later, when he heard the gate being opened, he went to open the front door.

The lady walking briskly up the path was of an indeterminable age, very tall and thin, with a narrow face and a sharp nose, wearing a no-nonsense hat and a dateless beige coat and skirt. When she was within a yard of the doctor she asked briskly, ‘And who are you, young man? I don’t expect to find strangers on my doorstep. You’re surely not a friend of Katrina’s?’

If that was a compliment it was surely a left-handed one, thought the doctor, and he stood aside to allow Miss Thirza Gibbs to enter her home.

‘No, no such thing. Your niece has had a slight accident and I happened to be the person to find her. Nothing alarming…’

‘I am not easily alarmed,’ said Miss Thirza Gibbs tartly. ‘Kindly get to the point. Presumably she is here?’

‘In her bed.’ The doctor had assumed the armour plating of his profession: an impersonal courtesy leavened with a touch of bracing sympathy. ‘Your niece was knocked off her bicycle by a motorcyclist who didn’t stop. She has a cut on her leg, is scratched and bruised and shocked. Dr Peters has been to see her and will call again. She didn’t lose consciousness.’

‘Why are you here, in my house?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Your niece is hardly in a fit condition to be left alone, Miss Gibbs. I trust that she will make a speedy recovery. Good day to you.’

Miss Gibbs went an unbecoming red. ‘I’m sure it was very kind of you,’ she began stiffly.

But she was stopped gently by his ‘Not at all, Miss Gibbs. Please give my best wishes to your niece.’

He got into his car and drove away, and she went into the house and then slowly climbed the stairs.

Katrina was still sound asleep and, despite her scratches and bruises, looked her usual healthy self. Her aunt went down to the kitchen, made herself a sandwich, laid a tray with bowl, plate and spoon, set soup to warm and sat down to wait. She had had a tiring morning, and her meeting with the strange man had upset her; she had always been in the habit of speaking her mind even at the expense of other people’s feelings, but the man had been kind. She dozed off, and when she woke, half an hour later, Katrina was sitting at the table, polishing off the last of the soup.

When her aunt opened her eyes she asked, ‘Has he gone? That man—he brought me home. I didn’t thank him properly. You saw him?’

Miss Gibbs got up and put the kettle on, for she felt the need for a cup of tea. ‘Tell me what happened, and, yes, I saw him, but only for a few minutes.’

‘Well, this motorcyclist was on the wrong side of the road—on that bend by the turnip field, you know?’ Katrina gave a matter-of-fact account of the whole business, because her aunt had no patience with emotional outpourings or embellished facts, and when she had finished she said, ‘It must have been a great nuisance for him.’

‘He is a doctor?’ Miss Thirza Gibbs frowned. ‘I’m afraid that I was a little brisk with him. Perhaps he gave his name to Peters, in which case it would be quite correct for us to write him a letter of thanks for his help.’

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ said Katrina. ‘I should think he’s forgotten all about it by now—besides, he didn’t like me.’

‘Did he say so?’

‘No, of course not, Aunt, but he was—’ she paused, seeking the right word ‘—forebearing. As though he was doing his duty and found it all a bit of a bore. I didn’t like him.’

‘In that case,’ said Miss Gibbs, ‘it is fortunate that we are unlikely to see him again.’

Katrina agreed, ignoring a sneaking feeling that even if she didn’t like him it might be nice to know a bit more about him.

But even if she were never to meet him again, at least she was to know more about him, for later that day Dr Peters came. Evening surgery was over, and he was on his way home, but he sat down for ten minutes, drank the tea Katrina offered him, and expressed the view that she was perfectly fit again although she would look a bit unsightly for a few days.

‘This man,’ said Miss Gibbs. ‘Katrina tells me that he is a doctor.’

‘A specialist. He’s a consultant at St Aldrick’s—a haematologist—a well-known one, too. He didn’t tell you? Well, he’s not a man to blow his own trumpet, I should imagine. Stayed for lunch, did he?’

Miss Thirza Gibbs looked awkward. ‘Well, no. We exchanged a few words and he drove away.’

Dr Peters shook his head at her. ‘Thirza, I suspect that you bit the man’s head off. We’re all used to you in the village, but a stranger might be taken aback.’

‘Perhaps I was a bit sharp. But now we know who he is we can write to him and express our gratitude.’ She gave Katrina an enquiring look as she spoke.

Katrina said, with a bit of a snap, ‘Aunt Thirza, we agreed that he would have forgotten us.’

‘I doubt that,’ said Dr Peters, ‘seeing that his whole day was disorganised.’

‘Well, I think we’re making a lot of fuss about nothing. I’ll write a letter if you want me to, Aunt, but I doubt if he’ll read it—he’ll have a secretary to deal with his letters—or his wife,’ she added slowly. He would be married, of course, with two children, a comfortable house in a good area of town and probably a country cottage or a villa on the Algarve. Even if she didn’t like him, that was no reason to grudge him success in life.

Dr Peters said, ‘I think a letter would be civil, don’t you? And by the way, he’s a professor—I looked him up in my medical directory. Simon Glenville—you could send it to the hospital. He’s got consulting rooms but I haven’t the address.’

He went presently, and as he and Miss Gibbs walked to the gate he said, ‘Katrina’s been a bit shaken; make her go gently for a couple of days. It isn’t like her to be snappy.’

Which was true enough, for she was a warm-natured and kind girl, liked by everyone in the village, always ready to give a hand where it was wanted, and, unlike her aunt, prepared to like everyone who crossed her path. All except, for some reason, the man who had come to her aid that morning. But that was no reason to be ungrateful to him. That evening Katrina sat down and composed a polite note to him. It took several attempts to get it right but, pleased with the final result, she posted it the next day and told herself that was the end of the affair.

Of course, she had to make a statement to the police, and then scour Warminster for a second-hand bike; a new one was out of the question and the pity of it was that she hadn’t been insured. But there had to be some means of transport. A bus went into Warminster each day, but bus fares were costly and she had long ago taken over the shopping, loading up once a week and going to the village stores for day-to-day needs. And they weren’t many, for she and her aunt lived frugally, growing vegetables in the garden behind the cottage, getting eggs from Lovegrove’s Farm along the road. It was amazing what a number of meals one could conjure from eggs.

Katrina wondered during the next few days about Professor Glenville; she might not have liked him, but she so seldom left the village that anyone not connected with it was of interest, however slight. But she didn’t speak of him to her aunt, and neither did that lady mention him. Her accident had been a small disruption in their quiet life, and neither she nor her aunt were given to dwelling on any mishap they might encounter.

Katrina made light of her bruises and cuts, did the bulk of the household chores, dug the garden and, once she had her new bike, shopped. The event had caused something of a stir in the village, which was so small and out of the way that anything outside its normal gentle routine was a subject for talk for several days. The people living there liked her and were vaguely sorry for her. It was no life for a pretty girl, living in that poky cottage with an elderly aunt, never meeting any young men. Several of them had hinted as much to her face, but she had fobbed them off, saying that she was very happy and had no wish for the bright lights.

‘But you’d have money to buy lovely clothes, and meet people,’ one well-wisher had reminded her.

‘But there are people here,’ Katrina had pointed out, ‘and when would I wear lovely clothes?’ And she had added in a voice which had effectively closed the conversation, ‘I’m happy here.’

Which wasn’t quite true. She wasn’t unhappy, but she was young and pretty and full of life; pretty clothes, visits to the theatre, dining out, dancing—she wished that she could sample them all, while at the same time knowing that it was most unlikely.

She had lived with Aunt Thirza since her parents had been killed in a plane crash when she was twelve years old. She had no brothers or sisters; there were numerous aunts and uncles and cousins, but Aunt Thirza was the only one of the family who had given her a home. That had been twelve years ago, before she had retired as headmistress of a girls’ school—a privately run establishment where Katrina had been educated. When Aunt Thirza had retired Katrina had been seventeen, and hopeful of going on to university. But it seemed that that wouldn’t be possible. Aunt Thirza had pointed out in her forthright way that she had only her pension, which would not stretch to it.

‘But something may turn up,’ she had said. ‘I suggest that you stay at home with me. You’re still young; a year or two won’t matter at your age. I shall write to your uncles and aunts and enlist their help. After all, they were your father’s brothers and sisters.’

However, offers of help had not been forthcoming. Did Thirza not realise that Katrina’s cousins were a constant drain on parental purses? Had she any idea what it cost to give them a start in life?

Vague offers of help in a year or two had been made, and so she had stifled her disappointment and agreed with her aunt that a year or so living at the cottage would be delightful. She had made a tentative offer to find work of some sort; she had her A levels, and she was quick and intelligent—a job in Warminster, perhaps? In a shop or as a dental assistant…

Aunt Thirza had been disapproving. ‘No niece of mine will waste her talents in a shop,’ she had said vigorously. ‘If your cousins can go to university, then so shall you. It is merely a question of waiting for a year or two.’

But the years had slipped by, and the cousins, no longer at university had still been a constant expense to their parents. The girls became engaged, and expected splendid weddings, the young men naturally needed allowances while they found their feet earning their living in something suitable.

After a few years Aunt Thirza had given up talking about university, and Katrina’s pleas to get a job had also been swept aside. She had plenty to keep her busy. She had taken over most of the household chores now that Aunt Thirza was getting on a bit, and besides, there was the garden, the Youth Club in the village, the church flowers, the various bazaars and fêtes—regular events. And she had friends, as Aunt Thirza had pointed out. Her aunt had ended by asking her if she wasn’t happy, in a voice which shook a little, and Katrina, seeing the unhappiness in the elderly face, had assured her that she was very happy.

And after that she gave up talking about jobs or university; her aunt had given her a home and affection when no one else was willing to do so, and she was deeply grateful for that. Besides, she was fond of the old lady.

Professor Glenville drove himself home, cutting across country along narrow, less used roads to Wherwell, a village tucked away in Hampshire but near enough to the motorway for him to travel to and fro to London each day, where he had consulting rooms as well as beds at St Aldrick’s. His friends and colleagues thought him crazy, living away from London, but he found the early-morning drive to his rooms a pleasant start to his day, even in bad weather, and, however late at night, he made a point of returning to Wherwell; only in an emergency would he spend the night at the small flat above his consulting rooms.