two men shook hands and the boys were introduced—Teddy and Oliver, who shook hands too, and, since the two gentlemen had fallen into conversation and had fallen into step, to stroll the length of the Orangery and then back into the gardens again, Eustacia found herself with the two boys. They weren’t very old—nine years, said Teddy, and Oliver was a year younger. They were disposed to like her and within a few minutes were confiding a number of interesting facts. Half-term, they told her, and they would go back to school on Monday, and had she any brothers who went away to school?
She had to admit that she hadn’t. ‘But I really am very interested; do tell me what you do there—I don’t mean lessons…’
They understood her very well. She was treated to a rigmarole of Christmas plays, football, computer games and what a really horrible man the maths master was. ‘Well, I dare say your father can help you with your homework,’ she suggested.
‘Oh, he’s much too busy,’ said Oliver, and she supposed that he was, operating and doing ward rounds and out-patients and travelling around besides. He couldn’t have much home life. She glanced back to where the two men were strolling at her grandfather’s pace along the path towards them, deep in talk. She wondered if Sir Colin wanted to take his leave but was too courteous to say so; his wife might be waiting at home for him and the boys. She spent a few moments deciding what to do and rather reluctantly turned back towards them.
‘We should be getting back,’ she suggested to her grandfather, and was echoed at once by Sir Colin.
‘So must we. Allow me to give you a lift—the car’s by the Kew Road entrance.’
Before her grandfather could speak, Eustacia said quickly, ‘That’s very kind of you, but I daresay we live in a quite opposite direction to you: Kennington.’
‘It couldn’t be more convenient,’ she was told smoothly. ‘We can keep south of the river, drop you off and cross at Southwark.’ He gave her a gentle smile and at the same time she saw that he intended to have his own way.
They walked to the main gate, suiting their pace to that of her grandfather, and got into the dark blue Rolls-Royce parked there. Eustacia sat between the boys at the back, surprised to find that they were sharing it with a small, untidy dog with an extremely long tail and melting brown eyes. Moreover, he had a leg in plaster.
‘This is Moses,’ said Oliver as he squashed in beside Eustacia. ‘He was in the water with a broken leg,’ he explained and, since Eustacia looked so astonished, said it for a second time, rather loudly, just as though she were deaf.
‘Oh, the poor little beast.’ She bent to rub the unruly head at their feet and Sir Colin, settling himself in the driving-seat, said over his shoulder, ‘He’s not quite up to walking far, but he likes to be with us. Unique, isn’t he?’
‘But nice,’ said Eustacia, and wished she could think of a better word.
It was quite a lengthy drive; she sat between the boys, taking part in an animated conversation on such subjects as horrendous schoolmasters, their favourite TV programmes, their dislike of maths and their favourite food. She found them both endearing and felt regret when the drive was over and the car drew up before their flat. Rolls-Royces were a rarity in the neighbourhood, and it would be a talking-point for some time—already curtains in neighbouring houses were being twitched.
She wished the boys goodbye and they chorused an urgent invitation to go out with them again, and, conscious of Sir Colin’s hooded eyes upon her, she murmured non-committally, bending to stroke Moses because she could feel herself blushing hatefully.
She waited while her grandfather expressed his thanks for the ride, and then she added her own thanks with a frank look from her dark eyes, to encounter his smiling gaze.
‘We have enjoyed your company,’ he told her, and she found herself believing him. ‘The boys get bored, you know; I haven’t all that time at home and my housekeeper is elderly and simply can’t cope with them.’
‘Housekeeper? Oh, I thought they were yours.’
‘My brother’s. He has gone abroad with his wife, a job in Brunei for a few months. They are too young for boarding-school…’
They had shaken hands and he still held hers in a firm grasp.
‘They like you,’ he said.
‘Well, I like them. I’m glad I met them and Grandfather has enjoyed himself. He doesn’t get out much.’
He nodded and gave her back her hand and went to open the rickety gate, and waited while they went up the short path to the front door and opened it. Eustacia turned as they went inside and smiled at them all, before he closed the gate, got back into his car and drove away.
‘A delightful morning, my dear,’ said her grandfather. ‘I feel ten years younger—and such an interesting conversation. You are most fortunate to be working for such a man.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ said Eustacia matter-of-factly. ‘I only met him because he came down to the path lab for something. He goes to St Biddolph’s once or twice a week to operate and see his patients, and as I seldom leave the path lab except when there is a message to run we don’t meet.’
‘Yes, yes,’ her grandfather sounded testy, ‘but now that you have met you will see more of each other.’
She thought it best not to argue further; she suspected that he had no idea of the work she did. Sir Colin had been charming but that didn’t mean to say that he wished to pursue their acquaintance; indeed it was most unlikely. A pity, she reflected as she went to the kitchen to get their lunch, but they occupied different worlds—she would probably end up by marrying another bottle-washer. A sobering thought even while she laughed at the idea.
It was December in no time at all, or so it seemed, and the weather turned cold and damp and dark, and the shops began to fill with Christmas food and a splendid array of suitable presents. Eustacia did arithmetic on the backs of envelopes, made lists and began to hoard things like chocolate biscuits, strawberry jam, tins of ham and a Christmas pudding; she had little money over each week and she laid it out carefully, determined to have a good Christmas. There would be no one to visit, of course. As far as she knew they had no family, and her grandfather’s friends lived in the north of England and her own friends from school days were either married or holding down good jobs with no time to spare. From time to time they exchanged letters, but pride prevented her from telling any of them about the change in her life. She wrote cheerful replies, telling them nothing in a wealth of words.
On the first Saturday in December it was her lot to work all day. Mr Brimshaw arrived some time after she did, wished her a grumpy good morning and went into his own office, and she began on her chores. It was a dismal day and raining steadily, but she busied herself with her dishes and pots, made coffee for Mr Brimshaw and herself and thought about Christmas. She would have liked a new dress but that was out of the question—she had spent more than she could afford on a thick waistcoat for her grandfather and a pair of woollen gloves, and there was still something to be bought for their landlady, who, although kindly disposed towards them as long as the rent was paid on time, needed to be kept sweet. A headscarf, mused Eustacia, or perhaps a box of soap? She was so deep in thought that Mr Brimshaw had to bawl twice before she heard him.
‘Hurry up, girl—Casualty’s full—there’s been an accident in Oxford Street and they’ll be shouting for blood before I can take a breath. Get along with this first batch and then come back as fast as you can.’
