it is necessary that I tell you too. He is of the opinion that the diet may be increased—broth, Bovril, weak tea, fruit juices—and he suggests that she might tolerate a nourishing milky food: Complan. You know of it?’
Deborah said that yes, she did, reflecting on the countless times she had prepared it for her stepfather.
‘He also agrees with me that gentle massage would be of great benefit. Five minutes or so each day on the limbs.’
Young Mrs Vernon spoke, ‘Of course none of this is going to cure her—but it might make her more comfortable, I suppose.’ She peered down at her aunt, who lay with her eyes shut. ‘She must be very weak by now.’ She added quickly, ‘Poor dear old thing.’ Then gave Dr Benson a sad smile.
‘You have done all—more than enough for her,’ he told her. ‘You are quite worn out—you need a few weeks’ rest.’ He glanced at Deborah. ‘I should suppose that this young lady—Deborah?—is capable of taking over your duties as well as her own for a short period?’
Deborah, assuming her most capable expression, pondered the fact that Dr Benson, who was probably a nice man, clever enough and kind to his patients, should have been taken in so completely by Mrs Vernon. Probably Sir James felt the same way; she was by no means beautiful but she was skilfully made up and wore beautiful clothes; besides, she had mastered the art of being charming …
Dr Benson rambled on. ‘You husband is still away? In London? What could be better? Allow yourself to relax, Mrs Vernon, enjoy yourself, go and join him, go out and about; you will return refreshed.’
Any woman, thought Deborah, listening to this, would be refreshed by a few theatres, dinners out and the kind of shopping Mrs Vernon would do. She wondered about Mr Vernon, apparently away on business. His wife spoke of him in capital letters so presumably he was her loving slave …
She caught the tail-end of what Mrs Vernon was saying. ‘To leave my dear aunt with servants … I should never forgive myself if anything should happen while I was away.’
‘My dear lady, your aunt may linger for some time; on the other hand she may die very shortly—she is very weak as you can see. Even with this diet which Sir James has suggested and massage … they are merely a means of bringing your aunt more comfort.’
‘You think so?’ Mrs Vernon sounded eager. ‘Then perhaps I will go away for a week or so. But supposing she should die while I am away …?’
‘My dear Mrs Vernon, no one is going to question your absolute devotion to your aunt and, in any case, she is unaware of anyone or anything.’
Deborah was standing where she could see her patient’s face. She winked at it and had an answering wink. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Dr Benson that his patient was listening to every word. She had her mouth open to utter when she received two winks and such a glare from the elderly eyes that she could only close her mouth again.
Dr Benson and Mrs Vernon went away presently and Deborah perched on the side of the bed so that the old lady could see her clearly.
‘Nothing could be better,’ she observed in her practical way. ‘We shall have a week or more … I’ll massage you and feed you up with chicken broth and beef tea and anything else that will go down. And don’t take any notice of what they say. I know you are going to get better.’ She added to clinch the matter, ‘Sir James told me so.’
Mrs Vernon didn’t go at once; she came every morning now to enquire as to her aunt’s condition and Deborah told her each time that her patient had had a quiet night and was taking her feeds. What she didn’t tell was that she had seen old Mrs Vernon’s toes twitch when she had been washing her in bed. It was exciting and she was bursting to tell someone, preferably Sir James, but that wouldn’t be possible; it would have to be Dr Benson and then only after she had made sure that she hadn’t fancied it or given way to wishful thinking.
Young Mrs Vernon went at last, driven away in a taxi loaded with enough luggage for a month although she had told Deborah that she would return in a week, or ten days at the latest. She had also told Deborah not to force her aunt to take her feeds. ‘We must allow the dear old thing to die peacefully,’ she told Deborah. ‘You are to let me know if you think that she is failing. Dr Benson will be away for a week or so, by the way, but really it is not necessary for the doctor to call. In an emergency you may telephone Dr Ferguson at Lechlade who understands the situation.’ As an afterthought she added, ‘You will be paid at the end of the month with the servants.’
A remark which Deborah found it unnecessary to reply to—just as well for rage at such rudeness was choking her.
For the first few days Mrs Vernon telephoned each evening. Then, since Deborah’s report was always the same, she decided to telephone less often. ‘Dr Benson will contact me immediately should I be needed,’ she said and Deborah forbore from reminding her that Dr Benson was away …
It was four days after young Mrs Vernon had left that her aunt’s fragile foot moved. Deborah watched it and tried not to get over-excited.
‘Your foot—it’s moving, can you feel it doing that? You can? Oh, Mrs Vernon, splendid. Look, I’m going to prop you up a little and then I’m going to let the doctor know. He’ll tell me what to do. Dr Benson is still away but I can phone this other man—he’ll want to see you.’
She went downstairs and shut herself in the drawing-room and phoned Dr Ferguson. Who wasn’t there. ‘He is on his rounds; no idea when he’ll be back.’ The voice was impatient.
‘Has he a car phone? Will you try it please; it’s urgent.’
‘That’s what they all say,’ said the voice. ‘Hang on.’
Deborah hung on, bursting with impatience until the voice told her that there wasn’t an answer. ‘He’s not in his car, is he, then? Lord knows where he is. You’re wasting your time. Try somewhere else or ring 999.’
Deborah replaced the receiver and stood thinking for a moment. Mrs Vernon had a desk in the sitting-room; perhaps there might be a telephone book on it, even a directory. Both were there amidst a litter of letters, bills and catalogues and right on the top was a small pad with a phone number scribbled on it and underneath the words ‘Sir James Marlow’.
Deborah didn’t wait; she made up her mind what to do and dialled the London number and almost at once an elderly voice said, ‘Sir James Marlow’s residence.’
‘Can I speak to him, please? It’s urgent—tell him it’s about Mrs Vernon.’ She added, ‘Tell him it’s Miss Everett.’
His quiet voice sounded in her ear. ‘Miss Everett, how can I help?’
‘Look,’ said Deborah not bothering with the niceties of polite manners, ‘Mrs Vernon’s moving her foot—it began with a twitch but now it’s actually moving and Dr Benson is away and the doctor I’m supposed to get if I need one is out on his rounds—they tried his car phone but of course he’s not in his car. What shall I do?’
‘Are you alone in the house?’
‘No, no—I mean Mrs Dodd is here and so is Cook. Mrs Vernon—young Mrs Vernon—is in London and I don’t know quite where, she said she would telephone. She’s gone for a week or ten days so I expect she’ll ring soon; she’s been there four days.’
‘Go back to your patient,
