He went back to the car and got in, and sat waiting until she had banged the door knocker and the door was opened. And then he had gone.
Mrs Trickey, the aunt’s daily housekeeper, opened the door. She was a tall, thin woman, middle-aged, with a weather-beaten face, wearing an old-fashioned pinny and a battered hat.
‘You’re early.’ She craned her neck around Theodosia and watched the tail-end of the car disappear down the lane. “Oo’s that, then?’
Mrs Trickey had been looking after the aunts for as long as Theodosia could remember and considered herself one of the household. Theodosia said cheerfully, ‘Hello, Mrs Trickey; how nice to see you. I was given a lift by someone from the hospital.’
The housekeeper stood aside to let her enter and then went ahead of her down the narrow, rather dark hall. She opened a door at its end, saying, ‘Go on in; your aunts are expecting you.’
The room was quite large, with a big window overlooking the garden at the back of the house. It was lofty-ceilinged, with a rather hideous wallpaper, and the furniture was mostly heavy and dark, mid-Victorian, and there was far too much of it. Rather surprisingly, here and there, were delicate Regency pieces, very beautiful and quite out of place.
The two old ladies got up from their places as Theodosia went in. They were tall and thin with ramrod backs and white-haired, but there the resemblance ended.
Great-Aunt Jessica was the elder, a once handsome woman with a sweet smile, her hair arranged in what looked like a bird’s nest and wearing a high-necked blouse under a cardigan and a skirt which would have been fashionable at the turn of the century. It was of good material and well made and Theodosia couldn’t imagine her aunt wearing anything else.
Great-Aunt Mary bore little resemblance to her elder sister; her hair was drawn back from her face into a neat coil on top of her head and although she must have been pretty when she was young her narrow face, with its thin nose and thin mouth, held little warmth.
Theodosia kissed their proffered cheeks, explained that she had been driven from London by an acquaintance at the hospital and would be called for on the following evening, and then enquired about the old ladies’ health.
They were well, they told her, and who exactly was this acquaintance?
Theodosia explained a little more, just enough to satisfy them and nip any idea that Mrs Trickey might have had in the bud. The fact that the professor was a professor helped; her aunts had had a brother, be-whiskered and stern, who had been a professor of something or other and it was obvious that the title conferred respectability onto anyone who possessed it. She was sent away to go to her room and tidy herself and Gustavus was settled in the kitchen in his basket. He didn’t like the aunts’ house; no one was unkind to him but no one talked to him except Theodosia. Only at night, when everyone was in bed, she crept down and carried him back to spend the night with her.
Lunch was eaten in the dining room, smaller than the drawing room and gloomy by nature of the one small window shrouded in dark red curtains and the massive mahogany sideboard which took up too much space. The old ladies still maintained the style of their youth; the table was covered with a starched white linen cloth, the silver was old and well polished and the meal was served on china which had belonged to their parents. The food didn’t live up to the table appointments, however; the aunts didn’t cook and Mrs Trickey’s culinary skill was limited. Theodosia ate underdone beef, potatoes and cabbage, and Stilton cheese and biscuits, and answered her aunts’ questions …
After lunch, sitting in the drawing room between them, she did her best to tell them of her days. Aunt Jessica’s questions were always kind but Aunt Mary sometimes had a sharp tongue. She was fond of them both; they had always been kind although she felt that it was from a sense of duty. At length their questions came to an end and the subject of Christmas was introduced.
‘Of course, you will spend it here with us, my dear,’ said Great-Aunt Jessica. ‘Mrs Trickey will prepare everything for us on Christmas Eve as she usually does and I have ordered the turkey from Mr Greenhorn. We shall make the puddings next week …’
‘We are so fortunate,’ observed Great-Aunt Mary. ‘When one thinks of the many young girls who are forced to spend Christmas alone …’ Which Theodosia rightly deduced was a remark intended to remind her how lucky she was to have the festive season in the bosom of her family.
At half past four exactly she helped Mrs Trickey bring in the tea tray and the three of them sat at a small table and ate cake and drank tea from delicate china teacups. After the table had been cleared, they played three-handed whist, with an interval so that they could listen to the news. There was no television; the aunts did not approve of it.
After Mrs Trickey had gone home, Theodosia went into the kitchen and got supper. A cold supper, of course, since the aunts had no wish to cook, and once that was eaten she was told quite kindly that she should go to bed; she had had a long journey and needed her rest. It was chilly upstairs, and the bathroom, converted years ago from one of the bedrooms, was far too large, with a bath in the middle of the room. The water wasn’t quite hot so she didn’t waste time there but jumped into bed, reminding herself that when she came at Christmas she must bring her hot-water bottle with her …
She lay awake for a while, listening to the old ladies going to their beds and thinking about the professor. What was he doing? she wondered. Did he live somewhere near Finchingfield? Did he have a wife and children with whom he would spend Christmas? She enlarged upon the idea; he would have a pretty wife, always beautifully dressed, and two or three charming children. She nodded off as she added a dog and a couple of cats to his household and woke several hours later with cold feet and thoughts of Gustavus, lonely in the kitchen.
She crept downstairs and found him sitting on one of the kitchen chairs, looking resigned. He was more than willing to return to her room with her and curl up on the bed. He was better than a hot-water bottle and she slept again until early morning, just in time to take him back downstairs before she heard her aunts stirring.
Sunday formed a well-remembered pattern: breakfast with Mrs Trickey, still in a hat, cooking scrambled eggs, and then church. The aunts wore beautifully tailored coats and skirts, made exactly as they had been for the last fifty years or so, and felt hats, identical in shape and colour, crowning their heads. Theodosia was in her winter coat and wearing the small velvet hat she kept especially for her visits to Finchingfield.
The church was beautiful and the flowers decorating it scented the chilly air. Although the congregation wasn’t large, it sang the hymns tunefully. And after the service there was the slow progress to the church porch, greeting neighbours and friends and finally the rector, and then the walk back to the house.
Lunch, with the exception of the boiled vegetables, was cold. Mrs Trickey went home after breakfast on Sundays, and the afternoon was spent sitting in the drawing room reading the Sunday Times and commenting on the various activities in the village. Theodosia got the tea and presently cleared it away and washed the china in the great stone sink in the scullery, then laid the table for the aunts’ supper. It was cold again so, unasked, she found a can of soup and put it ready to heat up.
She filled their hot-water bottles, too, and popped them into their beds. Neither of them approved of what they called the soft modern way of living—indeed, they seemed to enjoy their spartan way of living—but Theodosia’s warm heart wished them to be warm at least.
The professor arrived at exactly half past six and Theodosia, admitting him, asked rather shyly if he would care to meet her aunts, and led the way to the drawing room.
