The Vicar's Daughter

He remembered—though perhaps not quite as she would have wished. His patient comfortably settled and the help of the police sought, after a friendly chat with the young doctor on call in Casualty he had been free to drive himself back to London.

He’d taken the Salisbury road, and then the rather lonely road through Stockridge until he’d reached the M3. There had been little traffic—even the city streets, when he’d reached them, had been tolerably quiet.

When he was in England he stayed with an old friend and colleague, and since his work took him to various big teaching hospitals he came and went freely, using his borrowed key. He’d stopped silently in a mews behind a terrace of townhouses, garaged his car and walked round to the street, let himself in and had gone silently to his room for the few hours of sleep left to him.

He hadn’t been tired; lack of sleep didn’t bother him unduly; it was a hazard of his profession. He had lain for a while, remembering with amusement the girl who had brought him to such a sudden halt. A small girl, totally without fear and sensible. Bossy too! He had no doubt at all that she would see her protégés safely housed. He wondered idly how she would get them to Blandford. He had no doubt that she would...

The professor had a busy week. Outpatients’ clinics where he had to deal with anxious mothers as well as sick children, small patients for whom his specialised surgery had been required to be visited in the wards and a theatre list which, however hard he worked, never seemed to grow smaller.

An urgent call came from Birmingham during the week, asking him to operate on a child with one leg inches shorter than its fellow. It was something in which he specialised, the straightening and correction of malformed bones in children and babies, and he was much in demand. Totally absorbed, he forgot Margo.

Margo was busy too, although her tasks were of a more mundane nature—lowers for the church, the last of the apples and pears to pick from the old trees behind the vicarage, getting the church hall ready for the monthly whist drive, cutting sandwiches for the Mothers’ Union annual party, driving her mother into Sturminster Newton for the weekly shopping... Unlike Professor van Kessel, however, she hadn’t forgotten.

Waiting patiently in the village shop while Mrs Drew, the village gossip, chose the cheese she liked and at the same time passed on an embroidered version of the rumpus at Downend Farm when the bull had broken loose, Margo allowed her thoughts to dwell on the man who had come into her life so abruptly and gone again without trace. She was still thinking about him as she left the shop, clutching the breakfast bacon, when she was hailed from a passing motor car.

It stopped within a few feet of her and the elderly driver called her over.

‘Margo—the very person I am on my way to see. Get in. We will go back to the house, where we can talk.’ He noticed her shopping basket. ‘Want to go home first?’

‘Well, yes, please, Sir William. Mother expects me back. Can’t we talk at home?’

‘Yes, yes, of course...’

‘I’ll not get in, then. You can park in the drive; the gate’s open.’

She crossed the narrow street and was waiting for him as he stopped by the door. Sir William Frost greeted Mrs Pearson with pleasant friendliness, accepted the offer of coffee and followed Margo into the sitting room.

‘Want to ask a favour of you, Margo. You saw Imogen in church, didn’t you?’ he asked, referring to his granddaughter. ‘Been staying with us fnr a few days. Intended to take her up to town myself, but got this directors’ meeting in Exeter. Can’t spare Tomkins; want him to stay at the house with Lady Frost. Wondered if you’d drive her up to her aunt’s place in town. Don’t care to send her by train.’

Mrs Pearson came in with the coffee and Sir William repeated himself all over again, then sat back and drank his coffee. He was a short, stout man, with a drooping moustache and a weatherbeaten face, liked by everyone despite the fact that he liked his own way with everything. And, even if from time to time he rode roughshod over someone’s feelings, his wife, a small, dainty little lady, quickly soothed them over.

He finished his coffee, accepted a second cup and said, ‘Well?’

Margo said in her sensible way, ‘Yes, of course I’ll take her, Sir William. When do you want her to go?’

‘Day after tomorrow. Get there in time for lunch. Much obliged to you, Margo.’

It was the vicar who unknowingly upset the plans. His car wouldn’t be available—he had been bidden to see his bishop on the very day Imogen was to be driven to her aunt’s house.

Sir William huffed and puffed when he was informed. ‘Then you will have to go by train. I’ll get the local taxi to take you to Sherborne. Get another taxi at Paddington. Not what I wanted, but it can’t be helped, I suppose.’

Imogen, fifteen years old, wilful, spoilt and convinced that she was quite grown-up, was delighted. Life, she confided to Margo, was boring. For most of the year she was at boarding-school while her father—something in the diplomatic service—and mother lived in an obscure and unsettled part of Europe, which meant that she was ferried to and fro between members of the family in England.

She made no secret of her boredom while staying with her grandparents—but the aunt in London offered the delights of theatres and shopping. Imogen, recovering from a severe attack of measles, intended to enjoy her sick leave before going back to school.

Of course, she disliked the idea of being taken to her aunt’s as though she were a child, but she got on quite well with Margo and it was nice to have someone to see to the boring things like tickets and taxis.

They made the journey together more or less in harmony, although Margo had to discourage her from using a particularly vivid lipstick and eyeliner the moment the taxi was out of her grandfather’s gates.

‘Why not wait until you are in London?’ suggested Margo, being tactful. ‘You will be able to consult one of those young ladies behind a cosmetic counter and get the very best and the latest.’

Imogen reluctantly agreed. ‘You could do with some decent make-up yourself,’ she observed with youthful candour. ‘But I suppose that as you’re the vicar’s daughter it doesn’t matter how you look.’

Margo, trying to think of the right answer to this, gave up and said nothing.

It was quite a lengthy ride from Paddington to Imogen’s aunt’s house—a substantial town residence in a terrace of well-maintained homes.

Strictly for the wealthy, reflected Margo, getting out of the taxi to pay the cabby. It would be interesting to see inside...

They were admitted by a blank-faced butler who informed them that they were expected and showed them into a small room furnished with little gilt chairs which looked as though they would collapse if anyone sat on them, a hideous marble-topped table and an arrangement of flowers on a tall stand.

‘Lady Mellor will be with you presently,’ they were told, and were left to perch uneasily on the chairs. But only for a few minutes. Suddenly the door was thrust open and Lady Mellor made a brisk entry.

‘Dearest child,’ she exclaimed in a penetrating voice, and embraced her niece before adding, ‘And your companion. Your grandfather said that you would have suitable company for your journey.’

She smiled briefly at Margo, then turned to Imogen and said, ‘Your little cousin is rather poorly. The specialist is with him at the moment, but as soon as he has gone we will have lunch together and a good chat.’ She turned back to Margo. ‘If you’d care to wait in the hall I’ll arrange for some refreshment for you before you return home. I’m sure I am much obliged to you for taking care of Imogen.’

Margo murmured politely that refreshment would be welcome, as breakfast had been at a very early hour. She sat down in the chair indicated by Lady Mellor and watched her walk away with Imogen. She had been thanked and forgotten.

Her stomach rumbled and she hoped for a sandwich at least.

She had been sitting there for five minutes or more when she heard the murmur of voices, and two men, deep in talk, came down the staircase slowly. One was an elderly man who looked tired, and with him was Professor van Kessel. They stood in the hall, murmuring together, with the butler hovering in the background, ready to show them out.

They were on the point of leaving the house when Professor van Kessel, glancing around him, saw Margo. He bade his colleague goodbye and crossed the hall to - her.

‘Miss Pearson. So we meet again—although rather unexpectedly.’

She didn’t try to hide her delight at seeing him again. ‘I brought Imogen—Sir William’s granddaughter—up to London to stay with her aunt. I’m going back again very shortly, but I’m to have some kind of meal first. I was told to wait here.’

‘I have an appointment now, but I shall be free in an hour,’ said the professor. ‘Wait here; I’ll drive you back. I’ m going that way,’ he added vaguely.

‘Well, thank you, but won’t they mind? I mean, can I just sit here until you come?’

‘I don’t see why not. I shall be here again probably before you have had your lunch.’ He smiled down at her. ‘Whatever you do, don’t go away.’

‘No, all right, I won’t. If you’re sure...’

‘Quite sure,’ he told her placidly. ‘I’ll see you within the hour.’

She watched him go, and the butler closed the door behind him and went away.

It was all right at first. It was quiet and pleasantly warm and her chair was comfortable; the minutes ticked away and she thought longingly of coffee and sandwiches. At any moment, she told herself, someone would come and lead her to wherever she was to have the refreshments offered to her.

No one came. Fifteen minutes, half an hour went past, and although from time to time she heard a door open or close no one came into the hall. If she hadn’t promised Professor van Kessel that she would wait for him she would have left the house. Margo, used to the willing hospitality of the vicarage, felt in an alien world. The magnificent long-case clock across the hall struck half past one, almost drowning the sound of the doorbell, and as though waiting for his cue the butler went to answer it.

Professor van Kessel came into the hall unhurriedly. ‘I’ve not kept you waiting?’ he wanted to know cheerfully. ‘You’ve finished your lunch?’

Margo stood up, her insides rumbling again. ‘I haven’t had lunch,’ she said with asperity. ‘I have been sitting here...’ She gave the butler a nasty look.