took the book from her, thanked Miss Johnson and was off.
Emma set the books neatly in their places and hoped that someone would say something. It was Phoebe who spoke.
‘The poor man. I bet he’s had a busy day, and now he’s got to spend his evening reading to a small boy. As though he hadn’t enough on his plate…’
Miss Johnson said repressively, ‘He is clearly devoted to children. Emma, make a note that the book hasn’t been checked out. Dr van Dyke will return it in due course.’
Well, reflected Emma, at least I know who he is. And on the way home, as she and Phoebe walked as far as the main street she asked, ‘Is he the only doctor here?’
‘Lord, no. There’s three of them at the medical practice, and he’s not permanent, just taken over from Dr Finn for a few months.’
Why had he stared so, and why had he said, ‘Well, well,’ in that satisfied voice? wondered Emma, saying goodnight and going back home through the quiet town.
It wouldn’t be quiet for much longer. Visitors were beginning to trickle in, most of them coming ashore from their yachts, mingling with those who came regularly early in the season, to walk the coastal paths and spend leisurely days strolling through the town. More restaurants had opened, the ice cream parlour had opened its doors, and the little coastal ferry had begun its regular trips.
Emma was pleased to see that her mother was already starting to enjoy what social life there was. She played bridge regularly with Mrs Craig and her friends, met them for coffee and occasionally did some shopping. But her gentle complaints made it clear that life in a small, off-the-beaten-track town was something she was bravely enduring, and whenever Emma pointed out that there was little chance of them ever leaving the cottage, Mrs Dawson dissolved into gentle tears.
‘You should have married Derek,’ she said tearfully. ‘We could have lived comfortably at his house. It was large enough for me to have had my own apartment…’
A remark Emma found hard to answer.
As for Emma, she hadn’t much time to repine; there was the cottage to clean, the washing and the ironing, all the small household chores which she had never had to do…At first her mother had said that she would do all the shopping, but, being unused to doing this on an economical scale, it had proved quite disastrous to the household purse, so Emma had added that to her other chores. Not that she minded. She was soon on friendly terms with the shopkeepers and there was a certain satisfaction in buying groceries with a strict eye on economy instead of lifting the phone and giving the order Mrs Dawson had penned each week with a serene disregard for expense…
And Miss Johnson had unbent very slightly, pleased to find that Emma really enjoyed her work at the library. She had even had a chat about her own taste in books, deploring the lack of interest in most of the borrowers for what she called a ‘good class of book’. As for Phoebe, who did her work in a cheerful slapdash fashion, Emma liked her and listened sympathetically whenever Phoebe found the time to tell her of her numerous boyfriends.
But Mrs Brooke-Tigh didn’t unbend. Emma was doing a menial’s job, therefore she was treated as such; she checked the cottages with an eagle eye but beyond a distant nod had nothing to say. Emma didn’t mind the cleaning but she did not like Mrs Brooke-Tigh; once the season was over she would look around for another job, something where she might meet friendly people. In a bar? she wondered, having very little idea of what that would be like. But at least there would be people and she might meet someone.
Did Dr van Dyke go into pubs? she wondered. Probably not. He wouldn’t have time. She thought about him, rather wistfully, from time to time, when she was tired and lonely for the company of someone her own age. The only way she would get to know him was to get ill. And she never got ill…
Spring was sliding into early summer; at the weekends the narrow streets were filled by visiting yachtsmen and family parties driving down for a breath of sea air and a meal at one of the pubs. And with them, one Sunday, came Derek.
Mrs Dawson was going out to lunch with one of her bridge friends, persuaded that Emma didn’t mind being on her own. ‘We will go to evensong together,’ said her mother, ‘but it is such a treat to have luncheon with people I like, dear, and I knew you wouldn’t mind.’
She peered at herself in the mirror. ‘Is this hat all right? I really need some new clothes.’
‘You look very smart, Mother, and the hat’s just right. Have a lovely lunch. I’ll have tea ready around four o’clock.’
Alone, Emma went into the tiny courtyard beyond the kitchen and saw to the tubs of tulips and the wallflowers growing against the wall. She would have an early lunch and go for a walk—a long walk. North Sands, perhaps, and if the little kiosk by the beach there was open she would have a cup of coffee. She went back into the cottage as someone banged the door knocker.
Derek stood there, dressed very correctly in a blazer and cords, Italian silk tie and beautifully polished shoes. For a split second Emma had a vivid mental picture of an elderly sweater and uncombed hair.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she wanted to know with a regrettable lack of delight.
Derek gave her a kind smile. He was a worthy young man with pleasant manners and had become accustomed to being liked and respected.
He said now, ‘I’ve surprised you…’
‘Indeed you have.’ Emma added reluctantly. ‘You’d better come in.’
Derek looked around him. ‘A nice little place—rather different from Richmond, though. Has your mother settled down?’
‘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
