Matilda's Wedding

‘Well, you go back into the garden; I’ll have a talk with him.’

Mrs Paige went back to the sitting room and had a look in the old-fashioned mirror over the fireplace. She looked all right, she decided, but it wouldn’t harm her to add a little lipstick. And perhaps a touch more powder…

Dr Lovell shook hands with his patient and drew up a chair. He said easily, ‘I’ve had all your notes from your previous doctor—Dr Grant, wasn’t it? I’ve met him; you couldn’t have been in better hands. But I’d like you to tell me how you feel now and then perhaps I might take a look at you?’

He took his time, listening patiently to Mr Paige’s vague recital of how he felt. ‘Of course, I’m aware that I may have another heart attack at any time, but I feel well; I find it most restful living here and I have my writing, and possibly later on I shall be able to assist Mr Milton from time to time should he wish it.’

Dr Lovell listened gravely and said presently, ‘Well, if I might take a look?’

That done, he sat back in his chair. ‘As far as I can judge you are in excellent shape. I shall write you up for some different pills and I advise you to take a walk each day. Well wrapped up and for half an hour. Taking reasonable precautions you should be able to enjoy a normal life.’

‘Splendid. I feel a fraud that you should visit me; I could quite well come to your surgery.’

‘Better that I look in on you from time to time, but let me know if you are worried about anything.’

‘Indeed I will; Matilda can always take a message. I hope she is proving satisfactory? She seems very happy working at your surgery. Perhaps she will meet some young people once she gets to know the village. She leads a quiet life and, of course, she is indispensable to my wife here in the house.’ Mr Paige nodded contentedly. ‘We are indeed lucky to have such a caring daughter.’

The doctor, who almost never thought of Matilda, felt a sudden pang of pity for her, destined to play the role of dutiful daughter—and why was she indispensable to her mother?

‘Your wife is an invalid?’

‘No, no, nothing like that, but she has always been delicate—her nerves.’

So the doctor was forewarned when he found Mrs Paige waiting for him in the sitting-room doorway.

She held out a hand. ‘Dr Lovell, so good of you to come. I do worry so much about my husband; it upsets me so. My wretched nerves…’ She smiled up at him. ‘I’m not at all strong and having to move here to this poky little house has upset me, too. My husband loves it and so does Matilda, so I suppose I must learn to make a new life. They are both content with so little.’

He said blandly, ‘I’m sure you will be glad to know that Mr Paige is doing well. I’ve advised him to go out for a short time each day for a brisk walk.’

‘Such a pity we gave up the car. But, of course, he doesn’t drive any more and I have never learned.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Silly me.’

‘Your daughter drives?’

‘Matilda? Oh, yes, but there was no point in keeping the car just for her. Won’t you come and sit down for a while?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t stay; I’m on my afternoon round.’ He smiled—a professional smile with no warmth—and shook hands and went out of the open door into the garden.

Matilda was still raking leaves but when she saw him she went to meet him. ‘Father? He’s all right? I won’t keep you; you are on your visits, aren’t you?’

She went with him to his car and he said, ‘He’s pretty fit. I’ll give you some pills for him and please see that he walks for a while each day. Let me know if you are worried.’ His smile was kind.

He got in and drove away with a casual nod and she watched the grey Bentley slide away down the lane. She thought about the smile; he had looked quite different for a moment. She wondered what he was really like beneath his calm, professional face. Would she ever find out? He was courteous towards her but in a cool, offhand way which daunted her; quite obviously he had no wish to add warmth to their relationship.

And quite right too, reflected Matilda that evening, nodding her sensible head. If I were engaged to marry someone I wouldn’t bother with anyone else. She wished very much that she could meet his fiancée, for, loving him as she did, it was important to her that he should be happy.

‘I am a fool,’ said Matilda, addressing Rastus, making the pastry for a steak and kidney pie. The butcher’s van called twice a week in the village and it was a meal that her father enjoyed. Rastus gave her a long, considering look and turned his back.

There was always pay day to cheer her up. She prudently paid most of her wages into the bank and crossed the street to the shop, intent on buying one or two extras for the larder. She also needed tights and toothpaste, and Mrs Simpkins stocked a certain shampoo guaranteed to bring out the highlights on one’s hair.

The shop was quite full. Matilda wasn’t the only one to be paid on a Friday, and Mrs Simpkins was doing a brisk trade, enjoying a good gossip at the same time. Matilda, waiting her turn, listened to the odd snippets of gossip. Bill Gates up at Hill Farm had had to have the vet out to one of his cows. Triplets, doing well. Time he had a bit of luck. There had been a small fire out at Pike’s place—a chip pan left on the stove. ‘And what do you expect from that Maisie Coffin? She bain’t no housewife…’ There were matronly nods all round in agreement and Matilda felt a pang of sympathy for Maisie.

‘Coming this weekend, so I hear?’ said a stout matron, waiting for her bacon to be sliced. ‘Staying with Dr Lovell, of course, bringing that brother of hers with her.’

Matilda edged a little nearer, anxious not to miss anything.

‘Time they married,’ said another voice. ‘Though she is not to my liking, mind you. A real town lady; don’t want nothing to do with the likes of us.’

There was a murmur of agreement. ‘But pretty as a picture,’ said another voice.

Mrs Simpkins spoke up. ‘Men don’t want a pretty picture for a wife; they wants a wife to make an ’ome for ’im and kiddies. And ’im such a good man, too.’

There was a collective sigh of regret and Matilda wondered what the doctor would say if he could hear the gossip about him. She didn’t think that he would mind; he would be amused. And he had no need to worry; he was well liked and respected. In the eyes of the village he was on a par with the Reverend Mr Milton.

Matilda bought her tights and toothpaste and a hand cream Mrs Simpkins assured her was just the thing if she was going to do a lot of gardening. She added back bacon, a cauliflower, cooking apples and a packet of chocolate biscuits to her purchases, answered Mrs Simpkins’ questions as to life at the surgery and how her mother and father were.

‘If the weather’s all right, I hope Father will be able to come to church on Sunday,’ said Matilda. ‘And, of course, Mother will be with him. Mr Milton has kindly offered to drive them to church.’

‘You too?’

‘Well, yes, I hope so…’

Mrs Simpkins nodded. ‘Time you got around a bit and met a few of us. Church is as good a place as any.’

Matilda said that, yes, she was quite right, and went off home. It was a dry day and she would be able to get into the garden. Her mother, with the prospect of going to church on Sunday, was happy. She would meet some of the people Mrs Milton had mentioned and it was a splendid opportunity for people in the village to get to know them. She fell to wondering what she should wear until Mr Paige said gently, ‘My dear, we are going to church, not a social gathering.’ He smiled lovingly at her and turned to Matilda. ‘My dear, a man is coming to reconnect the telephone on Monday; your mother—we both feel it is a necessity.’

‘Yes, Father. Did you have a letter about it?’

‘Yes, it’s on my desk, I believe. I should have thought that it could have been done without cost for there has been a telephone here previously, but it seems there is a payment to make.’

Matilda, finding it buried under a pile of books, saw that if she had had any ideas about spending next week’s wages on anything she could forget them. And, to be on the safe side, she warned her mother that that particular bill would have to be paid at once. News which Mrs Paige took with some annoyance. ‘I was hoping that you could lend me some money; I simply must have a few things. I’ll pay you back when your father gets his pension.’

‘I’m sorry, Mother; once the bills are paid…’

‘Bills, bills, why can’t they wait? Really, Matilda, you’re nothing but a prig—too good to be true. I suppose you tell everyone that you hand over your money each week because it’s your saintly duty to do so.’

Matilda said quietly, ‘No, I don’t tell anyone, Mother.’ She sighed. ‘I expect you’re right. I’m not quite sure what a prig is exactly, but it sounds like me. I’ve been a disappointment to myself. I should have liked to have been pretty and clever and well dressed, I should have liked the chance to go dancing and have fun, but there was always some reason why I didn’t—helping Father in the parish, taking over most of the household chores so that you had more time to be the vicar’s wife and any chance I might have had to leave home and get a job is finally squashed, isn’t it?’

She saw from her mother’s face that she wasn’t really listening. She said woodenly, ‘I’m going into the garden.’

Digging the flowerbeds, cutting back overgrown shrubs, grubbing up weeds helped, and all the while she cried, tears rolling down her cheeks while she sniffed and grizzled. But she felt better presently and when she went indoors she looked very much as usual.

On Saturday morning she walked down to the village armed with the grocery list. It was a long one and she saw that she would have to supplement the housekeeping with some of her own money.

‘Let me know how much you spent,’ her mother had said. ‘I’ll let you have it back when your father gives me the month’s housekeeping.’

Matilda was walking back, with two plastic shopping bags weighing her down, and had reached the doctor’s house when its handsome door was opened and three people emerged—the doctor, a short, thick-set man, a good deal younger than he, and a young woman. A very handsome one, too, Matilda saw out of the corner of her eye. She was tall and fair and slim and dressed in the height of fashion. Not quite suitable for Much Winterlow, reflected Matilda, allowing herself to be catty, but the woman was distinctly eye-catching.

They came down the short path to the gate set in the iron railings separating the house from the street, and had reached it as Matilda drew level with it. The doctor wished her good morning. ‘Been shopping?’ he asked.