miles to the town, ‘but your great-aunt is my mother’s sister, and I did promise that I’d keep an eye on her.’
‘And quite right too,’ said Beatrice stoutly. ‘Families should stick together.’
Her aunt’s house was Georgian, its front door opening on to the street which divided a square, tree-lined and ringed around by similar roomy old houses. Beatrice kissed her father goodbye, picked up her case and pulled the bell by the door. Mrs Shadwell, the sour-faced housekeeper, answered it and stood aside so that she might go in, and with a final wave to her father Beatrice went into the dim and gloomy hall.
Her aunt hadn’t returned yet; she went to her room and unpacked her few things, and went downstairs again to open the windows and the glass doors on to the garden at the back of the house; her aunt would order them all closed again the moment she came into the house, but for the moment the warm sun lit the heavily furnished room. Too nice to stay indoors, decided Beatrice, and skipped outside. The garden was quite large and mostly lawn bordered by shrubs and a few trees. She went and sat down with her back to one of them and allowed her thoughts to turn to Mr Latimer. A nice man, she decided; a thought dreamy, perhaps, and probably he had a bad temper once roused. She wondered what he did for a living—a bank manager? A solicitor? Something to do with television? Her idle thoughts were interrupted by a sudden surge of movement within the house. Her aunt had returned.
Beatrice stayed where she was; she could hear her aunt’s voice raised in umbrage and she sighed. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she were paid for her companionship—if one could call it that: finding things, running up and down stairs with knitting, books, a scarf, answering the telephone, reading aloud to her aunt until that lady dozed off, only to wake a few minutes later and demand that she should continue reading and why had she stopped? Companion, Beatrice decided after a few days of this, wasn’t the right word—there was no time to be a companion—who should have been someone to chat to and share jokes with and take little jaunts with on fine days. The word was slave.
Her aunt’s voice, demanding to know where Miss Beatrice was, got her slowly to her feet and into the drawing-room.
‘I’m here, Aunt.’ She had a nice, quiet voice and a pleasant, calm manner. ‘Did you have a good trip?’
‘No, I did not. It was a waste of my time and my money—that old fool who saw me told me that I was as sound as a bell.’
She glared at Beatrice, who took no notice, but merely asked, ‘But why don’t you believe him, Aunt?’
‘Because I know better; I am in constant pain, but I’m not one to moan and groan; I suffer in silence. You cannot possibly understand, a great healthy girl like you. I suppose you’ve been at home, idling away the days.’
‘That’s right, Aunt,’ said Beatrice cheerfully. ‘Nothing to do but help Father in the surgery, feed the animals, groom the pony and do some of the housework and the cooking…’
‘Don’t be impertinent, Beatrice! You may go upstairs to my room and make sure that Alice is unpacking my case correctly, and when you come down I wish you to get the telephone number of a heart specialist— No, on second thoughts you had better open the letters. There are bound to be answers to my advertisement.’
But from the little pile of letters Beatrice opened there were only three, and they didn’t sound at all hopeful. The first one made it a condition that she should bring her cat with her, the second stipulated that she should have every other weekend free and the third expected the use of a car.
Beatrice offered them to her aunt without comment, and after they had been read and consigned to the wastepaper basket she observed, ‘Perhaps if you offered a larger salary…?’
Her aunt’s majestic bosom swelled alarmingly. ‘The salary I offer is ample. What does my companion need other than a comfortable home and good food?’
‘Clothes,’ suggested Beatrice, ‘make-up and so on, money for presents, probably they have a mother or father they have to help out, holidays…’
‘Rubbish. Be good enough to take these letters to the post.’
A respite, even though brief; Beatrice lingered in the little town for as long as she dared, and when she got back she was rebuked for loitering. ‘And I have made an appointment with this heart specialist. I shall see him on Wednesday next and you will accompany me. He has rooms in Harley Street.’ She added in her loud, commanding voice, ‘Jenkins will drive us, and I intend to visit several of these agencies in the hope that I may find someone suitable to be my companion.’
‘What a good idea. There’s bound to be someone on their books. Will you interview them here or there, Aunt?’
‘You may safely leave such decisions to me.’ Great-Aunt Sybil turned a quelling eye upon her, only Beatrice took no notice of it; she was a sensible girl as well as a pretty one and had quickly learnt to ignore her aunt’s worse moments. There were plenty of Great-Aunt Sybils in the world and, tiresome though they were, they had families who felt it their duty to keep an eye on them. Only she hoped it wouldn’t be too long before she could go back home again, which thought led to her wondering how Miss Mead’s Nobby was doing and that led naturally to Mr Latimer. An interesting man, she reflected, if only because of his great size and good looks; she speculated as to his age and quickly married him off to a willowy blonde, small and dainty with everybody doing everything they could for her because of her clinging nature. There would be children too, a little girl and an older boy—two perhaps… She was forced to return to her prosaic world then, because her aunt wished for a glass of sherry. ‘And surely you can do that for me,’ she grumbled in her overpowering voice, ‘although you don’t look capable of anything, sitting there daydreaming.’
Beatrice poured the sherry, handed it to her aunt, then gave herself one, tossed it off and, feeling reckless, poured a second one. Great-Aunt Sybil vibrated with indignation. ‘Well, really, upon my word, Beatrice, what would your father say if he could see you now? Worse, what would that young man of yours think or say?’
‘James? He’s not my young man, Aunt Sybil, and I have no intention of marrying him, and I expect that Father would offer me a third glass,’ she answered politely and in a reasonable voice, which gave her aunt no opportunity to accuse her of impertinence…
That lady gave her a fulminating look; a paid companion would have been dismissed on the spot, but Beatrice was family and had every right to return home. She said in a conciliatory voice, ‘I dare say that you have had several opportunities to marry. You were a very pretty young girl and are still a pretty woman.’
‘Twenty-six on my last birthday, Aunt.’
Beatrice spoke lightly, but just lately faint doubts about her future were getting harder to ignore. Somehow the years were slipping by; until her sudden certainty that she couldn’t possibly marry James, she supposed that she had rather taken it for granted that she and James would marry, but now she knew that that wouldn’t do at all. She didn’t love him and she didn’t think he loved her. Perhaps she was never to meet a man who would love her and whom she could love. It was getting a bit late in the day, she thought wryly.
‘Time you were married and bringing up a family,’ declared Aunt Sybil tartly. ‘A woman’s work…’
And one which her aunt had never had to do, reflected Beatrice. Perhaps if she had had a husband and a handful of children, she might not have become such a trying old lady: always right, always advising people how to do things she knew nothing about, always criticising and correcting, expecting everyone to do what she
