Dearest Mary Jane

He nodded, smiled very kindly at his patient and went away with Sister as a young nurse took their place. The promise of a cup of tea made Mary Jane’s departure easier. She kissed the elderly cheek. ‘We’ll all be in to see you,’ she promised, and took herself off to find the taxi and its patient driver.

By the time they were back in the village and she had explained everything to Miss Emily it was far too late to open the tea-room. She made herself a pot of tea, fed Brimble, and padded around in her stockinged feet getting everything ready for the batch of scones she still had to make ready for the next day. While she did it she thought about Sir Thomas.

The operation was a success; the entire village knew about it and, since they foregathered in Mary Jane’s tea-room to discuss it, she was kept busy with pots of tea and coffee. Miss Kemble, being the rector’s sister, offered to drive to the hospital on the following day. ‘The car will take four—you will come of course, Miss Emily, and Mrs Stokes, how fortunate that she is back—and of course my brother.’

Miss Emily put down her cup. ‘It would be nice if Mary Jane could come too....’

‘Another day,’ said Miss Kemble bossily. ‘Besides, who is to look after Didums? You know she is good with Mary Jane.’

So it was agreed and the next day, encouraged by Sister’s report that Miss Mabel had had a good night, they set off. Mary Jane watched them go holding a peevish Didums under one arm. She took the dog up to the sitting-room presently and closed the door, thankful that Brimble was taking a nap on her bed and hadn’t noticed anything. She would have liked to have visited Miss Mabel and now she would have to wait until she could find someone who would give her a lift into Cheltenham.

As it turned out, she didn’t have to wait long; Mrs Fellowes popped in for a cup of tea and wanted to know why Mary Jane hadn’t gone with the others. ‘That’s too bad,’ she declared, ‘but not to worry. I’m driving the doctor to Cheltenham on Sunday—about three o’clock, we’ll give you a lift in, only we shan’t be coming back. Do you suppose you can get back here? There’s a bus leaves Cheltenham for Stratford-upon-Avon, so you could get to Broadway...’ She frowned. ‘It’s a long way round, but I’m sure there’s an evening bus to Stow-on-the-Wold from there.’

Mary Jane said recklessly, ‘Thank you very much, I’d like a lift. I’m sure I can get a bus home. I’ll have a look at the timetable in the post office.’

It was going to be an awkward, roundabout journey home and it would depend on her getting on to the bus in Cheltenham. She would have to keep a sharp eye on the time; the bus depot was some way from the hospital. All the same she would go. She wrote a postcard telling Miss Mabel that she would see her on Sunday afternoon and put it in the letterbox before she could have second, more prudent thoughts.

Miss Emily, coming to collect Didums, had a great deal to say. Her sister was doing well, Sister had said, and she was to get out of bed on the following day. ‘Modern surgery,’ observed Miss Potter with a shake of the head. ‘In my youth we stayed in bed for weeks. That nice man—he operated; Sir someone—came to see her while I was there and told me that the operation had been most successful and that dear Mabel would greatly benefit from it. Nice manners, too.’

Mary Jane muttered under her breath and offered Miss Potter a cup of tea.

She was quite busy for the rest of that week, so that she felt justified on Sunday in taking enough money from the till to cover her journey back home. If the worst came to the worst she could have a taxi; it would mean going without new winter boots, but she liked Miss Mabel.

She usually stayed open for part of Sunday, for that was when motorists tended to stop for tea, but she locked up after lunch, made sure that Brimble was safely indoors and walked through the village to the doctor’s house.

Miss Mabel was delighted to see her; she seemed to have taken on a new lease of life since her operation and she insisted on telling Mary Jane every single detail of the treatment. She had got to the momentous moment when she had been out of bed when there was a slight stir in the ward. Sir Thomas Latimer was coming towards them, indeed, he appeared to be about to pass them when he stopped at Miss Mabel’s bed.

On his bi-weekly round he had seen Mary Jane’s postcard on Miss Mabel’s locker and, without quite knowing why, he had decided to be on the ward on Sunday afternoon. It had been easy enough to give a reason — he had operated the day before on an emergency case and what could be more normal than a visit from him to see how his patient progressed? His casual, ‘Good afternoon,’ was a masterpiece of surprise.

Mary Jane’s polite response was quite drowned by Miss Mabel’s voice. ‘Is it not delightful?’ she enquired of him. ‘Mary Jane has come to visit me — Dr Fellowes gave her a lift here. She will have to return by bus, though. I’m not sure how she will manage that, it being a Sunday, but she tells me that she has everything arranged.’ She beamed at Mary Jane, who wasn’t looking. ‘I have been telling her how excellent is the treatment here. I shall recommend it to my friends.’

Just as though it were an hotel, thought Mary Jane, carefully not looking at Sir Thomas.

He stayed only a few minutes, bidding them both goodbye with casual politeness, and Mary Jane settled down to hear the rest of Miss Mabel’s experiences, until a glance at the clock told her that she would have to go at once if she were to catch the bus. Not easily done, however, for Miss Mabel suddenly thought of numerous messages for her sister so that Mary Jane fairly galloped out of the hospital to pause at the entrance to get her bearings. She wasn’t quite sure where the bus depot was and Mrs Fellowes’ kindly directions had been vague.

The Rolls-Royce whispered to a halt beside her and its door opened.

‘Get in,’ said Sir Thomas. ‘I’m going through your village.’

‘I’m catching a bus.’

‘Very unlikely. The Sunday service leaves half an hour earlier—I have that from the head porter, who is never wrong about anything.’ He added gently, ‘Get in, Miss Seymour, before we are had up for loitering.’

‘But I’m not...’ she began, and caught his eye. ‘All right.’ She sounded ungracious. ‘Thank you.’

She fastened the seatbelt and sat back in luxury and he drove off without saying anything. Indeed, he didn’t speak at all for some time, and then only to observe that Miss Mabel would be returning home very shortly. Mary Jane replied suitably and lapsed into silence once more for the simple reason that she had no idea what to talk about, but as they neared the village she made an effort. ‘Do you live near here?’

‘No, in London. I have to live near my work.’

‘Then why are you here?’

‘I visit various hospitals whenever it is found necessary.’

A most unsatisfactory answer. She didn’t say anything more until he drew up before the tea-room.

He got out before she could open her door and opened it for her, took the old-fashioned key from her and opened the cottage door.

It was dusk now and he found the switch and turned on the lights before standing aside to let her pass him.

‘Thank you very much,’ said Mary Jane once again, and bent to pick up Brimble who had rushed to meet her.

Sir Thomas leaned against the half-open door in no hurry to go. ‘Your cat?’

‘Yes, Brimble. He’s—he’s company.’

‘You live alone?’

‘Yes.’ She peered up at him. ‘You’d better go, Sir Thomas, if you’re going all the way to London.’

Sir Thomas agreed meekly. He had never, he reflected, been told to go by a girl. On the contrary, they made a point of asking him to stay. He wasn’t a conceited man but now he was intrigued. He had wanted to meet her again, going deliberately to the hospital when he knew that she would be there, wanting to know more about her. The drive had hardly been successful. He bade her a pleasantly impersonal goodbye. They were unlikely to meet again. He dismissed her from his thoughts and drove back to London.

CHAPTER TWO

SEPTEMBER was almost over and the weather was changing. Fewer and fewer tourists stopped for coffee or tea although Mary Jane still did a steady trade with the village dwellers—just enough to keep the bills paid. Miss Mabel made steady progress and Mary Jane, graciously offered a lift in the rectory car, visited her again. Sir Thomas had been again, she was told, and Miss Mabel was to return home in a week’s time and see him when he came to the hospital in six weeks’ time. ‘Such a nice man,’ sighed Miss Mabel, ‘a true gentleman, if you know what I mean.’

Mary Jane wasn’t too sure about that but she murmured obligingly.

Miss Mabel’s homecoming was something of an event in a village where one day was very like another. The ambulance brought her, deposited her gently in her home, drained Mary Jane’s teapots and ate almost all the scones, and departed to be replaced by Miss Kemble, Mrs Stokes and after an interval Dr Fellowes, who tactfully sent them all away and made sure that the Misses Potter were allowed peace and quiet. Mary Jane, slipping through the village with a plate of teacakes as a welcome home gift, was prevailed upon to stay for a few minutes while Miss Mabel reiterated her experiences. ‘I am to walk each day,’ she said proudly, ‘but lead a quiet life.’ She laughed and Miss Emily laughed too. ‘Not that we do anything else, do we, Mary Jane?’

Mary Jane smilingly agreed; that she had dreams of lovely clothes, candlelit dinners for two, dancing night after night and always with someone who adored her, was something she kept strictly to herself. Even Felicity, on the rare occasions when she saw her, took it for granted that she was content.

The mornings were frosty now and the evenings drawing in. The village, after the excitement of Miss Mabel’s operation, did settle down. Mary Jane baked fewer scones and some days customers were so few it was hardly worth keeping the tea-room open.

She was preparing to close after an unprofitable Monday when the door was thrust open and a man came in. Mary Jane, wiping down the already clean tables, looked up hopefully, saw who it was and said in a neutral voice, ‘Good evening, Oliver.’

Her cousin, Uncle Matthew’s heir.

She had known him since her schooldays and had disliked him from the start, just as he had disliked her. She had been given short shrift when her uncle had died and for her part she hadn’t been able to leave fast enough, for not only did Oliver dislike her, his wife, a cold woman, pushing her way up the social ladder, disliked her too. She stood, the cloth in her hand, waiting for him to speak.

‘Business pretty bad?’ he asked.

‘It’s a quiet time of the year. I’m making a living, thank you, Oliver.’

She was surprised to see that he was trying to be friendly, but not for long.

‘Hope you’ll do something for me,’ he went on. ‘Margaret has to go to London to see some specialist or other about her back. I have to go to America on business and someone will have to drive her up and stay with her.’ He didn’t quite meet her eyes. ‘I wondered if you’d do that?’ He laughed. ‘Blood’s thicker than water and all that...’

‘I hadn’t noticed,’ said Mary Jane coldly. ‘Margaret has family of her own, hasn’t she? Surely there is someone with nothing better to do who could go with her?’