Emma’s Wedding

‘Yes. Why are you here?’

‘I wanted to see you, Emma. To talk. If you would change into a dress we could have lunch—I’m staying at the other end of the town.’

‘We can talk here. I’ll make cheese sandwiches…’

‘My dear girl, you deserve more than a cheese sandwich. We can talk over lunch at the hotel.’

‘What about?’

‘Something which will please you…’

Perhaps something they hadn’t known anything about had been salvaged from her father’s estate…She said slowly, ‘Very well. You’ll have to wait while I change, though, and I must be back before four o’clock. Mother’s out to lunch.’

While she changed out of trousers and a cotton top into something suitable to accompany Derek’s elegance, she wondered what he had come to tell her. Mr Trump had hinted when they had left their home that eventually there might be a little more money. Perhaps Derek had brought it with him.

When she went downstairs he was standing by the window, watching the people strolling along the path.

‘Of course you can’t possibly stay here. This poky little place—nothing to do all day.’

She didn’t bother to answer him, and he said impatiently, ‘We shall have to walk; I left the car at the hotel.’

They walked, saying little. ‘I can’t think why you can’t tell me whatever it is at once,’ said Emma.

‘In good time.’ They got out of the road onto the narrow pavement to allow a car to creep past. Dr van Dyke was sitting in it. If he saw her he gave no sign.

The hotel was full. They had drinks in the bar and were given a table overlooking the estuary, but Derek ignored the magnificent view while he aired his knowledge with the wine waiter.

I should be enjoying myself, reflected Emma, and I’m not.

Derek talked about his work, mutual friends she had known, the new owner of her old home.

Emma polished off the last of her trifle. ‘Are you staying here on holiday?’

‘No, I must return tomorrow.’

‘Then you’d better tell me whatever it is.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘It’s half past two…’

He gave a little laugh. ‘Can’t get rid of me soon enough, Emma?’

He put his hand over hers on the table. ‘Dear Emma, I have given much thought to this. The scandal of your father’s bankruptcy has died down; there are no debts, no need for people to rake over cold ashes. There is no likelihood of it hindering my career. I have come to ask you to marry me. I know you have no money and a difficult social position, but I flatter myself that I can provide both of these for my wife. In a few years the whole unfortunate matter will be forgotten. I have the deepest regard for you and you will, I know, make me an excellent wife.’

Emma had listened to this speech without moving or uttering a sound. She was so angry that she felt as though she would explode or burst into flames. She got to her feet, a well brought up young woman who had been reared to good manners and politeness whatever the circumstances.

‘Get stuffed,’ said Emma, and walked out of the restaurant, through the bar and swing doors and into the car park.

She was white with rage and shaking, and heedless of where she was walking. Which was why she bumped into Dr van Dyke’s massive chest.

She stared up into his placid face. ‘The worm, the miserable rat,’ she raged. ‘Him and his precious career…’

The doctor said soothingly, ‘This rat, is he still in the hotel? You don’t wish to meet him again?’

‘If I were a man I’d knock him down…’ She sniffed and gulped and two tears slid down her cheeks.

‘Then perhaps it would be a good idea if you were to sit in my car for a time—in case he comes looking for you. And, if you would like to, tell me what has upset you.’

He took her arm and walked her to the car. He popped her inside and got in beside her. ‘Have a good cry if you want to, and then I’ll drive you home.’

He gave her a large handkerchief and sat patiently while she sniffed and snuffled and presently blew her nose and mopped her face. He didn’t look at her, he was watching a man—presumably the rat—walking up and down the car park, looking around him. Presently he went back into the hotel and the doctor said, ‘He’s a snappy dresser, your rat.’

She sat up straight. ‘He’s gone? He didn’t see me?’

‘No.’ The doctor settled back comfortably. ‘What has he done to upset you? It must have been something very upsetting to cause you to leave Sunday lunch at this hotel.’

‘I’d finished,’ said Emma, ‘and it’s kind of you to ask but it’s—it’s…’

‘None of my business. Quite right, it isn’t. I’ll drive you home. Where do you live?’

‘The end cottage along Victoria Quay. But I can walk. It is at the end of Main Street and you can’t drive there.’

He didn’t answer but backed the car and turned and went out of the car park and drove up the narrow road to the back of the town. It was a very long way round and he had to park by the pub.

As he stopped Emma said, ‘Thank you. I hope I haven’t spoilt your afternoon.’

It would hardly do to tell her that he was enjoying every minute of it. ‘I’ll walk along with you, just in case the rat has got there first.’

‘Do you think he has? I mean, I don’t suppose he’ll want to se me again.’ She sniffed. ‘I certainly don’t want to see him.’

The doctor got out of the car and opened her door. It was a splendid car, she noticed, a dark blue Rolls-Royce, taking up almost all the space before the pub.

‘You have a nice car,’ said Emma, feeling that she owed him something more than thanks. And then blushed because it had been a silly thing to say. Walking beside him, she reflected that although she had wanted to meet him she could have wished for other circumstances.

Her mother wasn’t home and Emma heaved a sigh of relief. Explaining to her mother would be better done later on.

The doctor took the key from her and opened the door, then stood looking at her. Mindful of her manners she asked, ‘Would you like a cup of tea? Or perhaps you want to go back to the hotel—someone waiting for you…?’

She was beginning to realise that he never answered a question unless he wanted to, and when he said quietly that he would like a cup of tea she led the way into the cottage.

‘Do sit down,’ said Emma. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ And at the same time run a comb through her mop of hair and make sure that her face didn’t look too frightful…

It was tear-stained and pale and in need of powder and lipstick, but that couldn’t be helped. She put the kettle on, laid a tray, found the cake tin and made the tea. When she went back into the sitting room he was standing in front of a watercolour of her old home.

‘Your home?’ he wanted to know.

‘Until a month or so ago. Do you take milk and sugar?’

He sat down and took the cup and saucer she was offering him. ‘Do you want to talk about the—er—rat? None of my business, of course, but doctors are the next best thing to priests when one wishes to give vent to strong feelings.’

Emma offered cake. ‘You have been very kind, and I’m so grateful. But there’s nothing—that is, he’ll go back to London and I can forget him.’