all that distance away, but too far to walk with the cats and her bag, and this evening she was later than usual.
She reached the end of Meadow Road and not a taxi in sight, although there was more chance of one in Stamford Street. She paused on the corner by the few rather tatty shops and looked hopefully in either direction. Traffic streamed past but every taxi was occupied; she would have to try for a bus if one came along, although the nearest stop to the station was several minutes away from the station itself.
She didn’t see the Rolls, going the other way, slow, do a U-turn and slide to a halt beside her.
‘Get in quickly,’ begged Mr van Borsele, ‘I’m breaking any number of regulations.’ He had nipped out smartly, taken the basket from her and put it on the back seat, and hurried her round the car into the seat beside his. ‘Where to?’
Claribel caught her breath. ‘Waterloo Station. My goodness, you do pop up in unexpected places, don’t you?’ She added quickly, like a small girl who had forgotten her manners, ‘Thank you very much. I haven’t much time to catch my train.’
Mr van Borsele grunted and joined the steady stream of traffic, weaving in and out of slower vehicles in a rather unnerving fashion.
‘You’re going very fast,’ Claribel pointed out severely.
He said irritably, ‘I was under the impression that you wished to catch a train, or was that just an excuse to get a lift?’
Claribel drew such a deep breath she almost exploded.
‘Well, of all the nerve…’ She remembered suddenly to whom she was speaking; one showed a proper respect towards consultant surgeons. ‘You stopped the car and told me to get in.’
‘Indeed I did. I don’t remember inviting you to criticise my driving.’
She gave his unfriendly profile an almost motherly look. He was touchy; had a tiff with his girlfriend, perhaps. With a brother only a few years younger than herself she was familiar with the sudden snappish reply.
She said reasonably, ‘I’m not criticising you at all, Mr van Borsele—I’m very grateful to you.’
He grunted again. Hardly a sparkling conversationalist, she reflected, and prepared to get out as he pulled in at the station’s main entrance. She still had almost ten minutes but there would be a queue for tickets. She had a hand on the door handle when he said, ‘Wait,’ and got out and opened the door, retrieving the cats and her bag from the back of the car and strode into the station. Outside the vast ticket office he asked, ‘Where to?’
‘Oh, Tisbury.’ She put out a hand for the basket and her bag and found she was holding them both and watching his vast back disappearing into the queue. Her protesting, ‘Mr van Borsele,’ fell on deaf ears.
He was back within five minutes, which left three minutes to get on to the train. He took the cats and her bag from her, bustled her past the platform gate, found her an empty seat opposite two respectable matrons, put the cats on the floor beside her with her bag on the rack, wished her a coldly polite goodbye and had gone while she was on the point of thanking him yet again. She remembered then that he had paid for her ticket and she had forgotten to repay him. What must he think of her? She went pink at the thought and the matrons eyed her with interest, no doubt scenting romance.
She would have to pay him when she got back on Monday; better still, she could put the money in the consultant’s letter rack with a polite note. Not that he deserved any politeness. Not a man to do things by halves, she mused as the train gathered speed between the rows of smoke-grimed houses; she had been handled as efficiently as an express parcel. And with about as much interest.
She occupied the train journey composing cool observations to Mr van Borsele when next they met, calculated to take him down a peg.
Less than two hours later she was on the platform at Tisbury station being hugged by her father and then hurried to the family car, an elderly estate car in constant use, for he was a solicitor of no mean repute and much in demand around the outlying farms and small estates. Enoch and Toots were settled in the back with Rover, the family labrador, and Mr Brown, without loss of time, drove home.
His family had lived in the same house for some considerable time. It was a typical dwelling of the district: mellowed red brick, an ancient slate roof and plenty of ground round it. A roomy place, with a stable converted to a garage and a couple of rather tumbledown sheds to one side, it stood a mile outside the little town, its garden well tended. It had never had a name but was known locally as Brown’s place.
Its owner shot up the short drive and Claribel jumped out to fling open the door and hurry inside, leaving her father to bring in the animals. Mrs Brown came out of the kitchen as she went in; a smaller version of Claribel, her fair hair thickly silvered but with a still pretty face.
Mother and daughter embraced happily and Claribel said: ‘Oh, it’s marvellous to be home again. What’s for supper?’
‘My potato soup, shepherd’s pie and upside-down pineapple pudding.’ She eyed her daughter. ‘Been working hard, darling? We’ll have a glass of sherry, shall we? Here’s your father.’
Enoch and Toots were used to their weekend trips; they ate the food put ready for them and sat themselves down before the Aga while Rover settled close by and Claribel and her parents sat at the kitchen table drinking their sherry and catching up on the news.
‘Sebastian has a new girlfriend,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘She’s a nurse, not finished her training yet. He brought her down for the weekend—we like her, but of course he’s young yet…’
‘He’s been qualified for a year, Mother.’
‘Yes, dear, I know, but he seems so much younger than you.’
‘Well, he is—three years, almost.’
There was a small silence. Claribel had had her share of young men but she had never been serious with any one of them; her mother, without saying a word, nevertheless allowed her anxiety to show. Her beautiful daughter was twenty-eight years old and it was inconceivable that she wouldn’t marry. Each time Claribel went home, her mother contrived to bring the talk round to the young men she had met and always Claribel disappointed her.
To change the trend of her parent’s obvious thoughts, Claribel said cheerfully, ‘I almost missed the train. Luckily the orthopaedic man who is standing in for Mr Shutter happened to drive past and gave me a lift.’
‘Nice?’ asked her mother hopefully.
‘No. Very terse and rude. He’s Dutch.’
‘What does he… Is he nice-looking?’ asked Mrs Brown.
‘Very. In an arrogant sort of way.’
‘I don’t see that his looks matter as long as he got Claribel to the station. Very civil of him,’ observed her father.
He hadn’t been civil, but Claribel let that pass. She finished her sherry and they went across the stone-flagged hallway to the dining-room, handsomely furnished in a shabby way with massive pieces inherited from her mother’s family. The talk was all of local events while they ate and when they had washed up and had coffee, Claribel took herself off to bed; it had been a long day, rather more tiring than usual.
‘I
