who came quietly into the kitchen. ‘Dr Bowring is out on a baby case. Shall I go up?’
Serena gave him a tired ‘Hello.’ She was both tired and very worried, her hair hanging down her back in a brown cloud, her face pale. She was wrapped in an elderly dressing gown and she had shivered a little in the early-morning air as he had opened the door. She led the way upstairs and stood quietly while he and Nurse Sims bent over her father. Presently he straightened up.
He said gently, ‘Would you like to stay with your father? It won’t be very long, I’m afraid.’ When she nodded, he drew up a chair for her. ‘I’ll sit over here, if I may?’ He moved to the other end of the room. ‘I’m sure Nurse Sims would like a little rest?’
Mr Lightfoot died without regaining consciousness; Serena, sitting there holding his hand, bade him a silent farewell. He had never liked her, and she, although she had looked after him carefully, had long ago lost any affection she had had for him. All the same, she was sad…
Mr van Doelen eased her gently out of her chair. ‘If you would fetch Nurse Sims? And perhaps telephone your brothers? And I’m sure we could all do with a cup of tea.’
He stayed until her brothers came, dealt with Henry’s officious requests and questions, and then bade her a quiet goodbye. ‘Dr Bowring will be along presently,’ he told her, ‘and I’m sure your brothers will see to everything.’
She saw him go with regret.
The next few days didn’t seem quite real. Henry spent a good deal of time at the house, sorting out his father’s papers, leaving her lists of things which had to be done.
‘You’ll need to be kept busy,’ he told her, and indeed she was busy, for the writing of notes to her father’s few friends, preparing for their arrival and the meal they would expect after the funeral fell to her lot, on top of the usual housekeeping and the extra meals Henry expected while he was there. Not that she minded; she was in a kind of limbo. Her dull life had come to an end but the future was as yet unknown.
At least, not quite unknown. Gregory had come to see her when he had heard the news and, while he didn’t actually propose, he had let her see that he considered their future together was a foregone conclusion. And he had been kind, treating her rather as though she were an invalid, telling her that she had always been a dutiful daughter and now she would have her reward. She hadn’t been listening, otherwise she might have wondered what he was talking about.
Not many people came to the funeral, and when the last of them had gone old Mr Perkins led the way into the drawing room. Henry and Matthew and their wives made themselves comfortable with the air of people expecting nothing but good news. Serena, who didn’t expect anything, sat in the little armchair her mother had always used.
Mr Perkins cleaned his spectacles, cleared his throat and began to read. Mr Lightfoot had left modest sums to his sons, and from the affronted look with which this was received it was apparent that, despite the fact that they had expected nothing, they were disappointed.
‘The house and its contents,’ went on Mr Perkins in a dry-as-dust voice, ‘are bequeathed to a charity, to be used as a home for those in need.’ He coughed. ‘To Serena, a sum of five hundred pounds has been left, and here I quote: “She is a strong and capable young woman, who is quite able to make her own way in the world without the aid of my money”. I must add that I did my best to persuade your father to reconsider this will, but he was adamant.’
He went presently, after assuring them that he was at their service should he be needed, and taking Serena aside to tell her that he would see that she had a cheque as soon as possible. ‘And if I can help in any way…’
She thanked him, kissing his elderly cheek. ‘I’ll be all right,’ she assured him. ‘I don’t need to move out at once, do I?’
‘No, no. It will be several weeks before the necessary paperwork can be done.’
‘Oh, good. Time for me to make plans.’ She smiled at him so cheerfully that he went away easier in his mind.
Serena went back to the drawing room. Her brothers were discussing their inheritance, weighing the pros and cons of investments, while their wives interrupted with suggestions that the money would be better spent on refurbishing their homes and wardrobes. They broke off their discussions when she joined them, and Henry said gravely that of course the money would be put to good use.
‘I have heavy commitments,’ he pointed out, ‘and the children to educate.’ That they were at state schools and not costing him a penny was neither here nor there. Serena could see that he was anxious to impress upon her that she couldn’t expect any financial help from him.
It was Matthew who asked her what she intended to do. ‘For I am surprised at Father leaving you so ill provided for. Perhaps we could—?’
His wife interrupted smoothly, ‘Serena is bound to find a good job easily; such a practical and sensible girl, and only herself to worry about. I must admit that I—we are very relieved to have inherited something. It will be just enough to have central heating put in—the house is so damp…’
‘I thought the Church Council, or whatever it is, paid for things like that,’ said Serena.
Her sister-in-law went red. ‘We might have to wait for months—years, even—while they decide to have it done.’ She added sharply, ‘Matthew’s income is very small.’
Serena reflected that Matthew had a private income from a legacy both brothers had received from an old aunt years ago. Neither of them needed to worry about money, but there was no point in reminding them of that! She offered coffee and sandwiches and presently bade them goodbye. They would keep in touch, they told her as they drove away.
She cleared away the cups and saucers and plates, fed Puss and sat down to have a think about her future. She was a practical girl, and for the moment she put aside her own vague plans. They were to be allowed to take personal property and gifts before the house was handed over, and the house would need to be left in good order. She would need to get the cases and trunks down from the attic so that their possessions could be packed. There were bills to be paid, too, and people to notify. Only when that was done could she decide what she would do.
At the back of her mind, of course, was the reluctant thought that Gregory might want to marry her. It was an easy solution for her future but, tempting though it was to have the rest of her life settled without effort on her part, she was doubtful. It was, of course, the sensible thing to do, but under her practical manner there was the hope, romantic and deeply buried, that one day she would meet a man who would love her as dearly as she would him. And that man wasn’t Gregory.
She went to bed presently, with Puss for company, and since it had been a busy and rather sad day, she went immediately to sleep.
Gregory had been at the funeral, but he hadn’t come to the house afterwards, pleading an appointment he had been unable to cancel. He would come, he had assured her, on the following evening.
‘We have a great deal to talk about,’ he had told her, smiling and looking at her with what she’d decided was a proprietary look.
She hadn’t minded that, for yesterday she had been feeling in need of cherishing. Now, in the cold light of early morning, common sense took over. Gregory might not be the man of her dreams, but if he loved her she might in time learn to love him, too. She liked him, was even a little fond of him, but she had the wit to know that that was because she hadn’t had the
