although it’s rather early days to know for certain that he’s taken no harm. A nice little chap.’
She shivered. ‘If you hadn’t seen him and stopped…’
‘We must try and find the mother.’ He glanced sideways at her. ‘I hope I haven’t disrupted your morning too much.’
She said, ‘Oh, no,’ much too quickly, so that he looked at her for a second time, but her face was quite calm.
All the same, when they reached the house he said, ‘I’ll come in with you.’
She had her hand on the car door. ‘Oh, really, there’s no need, you must be busy…’
He took no notice, but got out of the car and went round to her door. He opened it for her and they walked up the path to the side door. ‘We don’t use the front door much,’ she explained matter-of-factly. ‘It makes a lot of extra work.’
She opened the side door on to a flagstoned passage, and prayed silently that he would go before Joyce discovered that she was back home. Prayers aren’t always answered—Joyce’s voice, strident with ill temper, came from an open door at the end of the passage.
‘So you’re back, and high time, too! You can go straight upstairs and see to the children, and if you think you’re going to have your breakfast first, you are very much mistaken.’ The door flung wide open and Joyce appeared. ‘You little…’ She stopped short. The change in her manner was ludicrous as she caught sight of the doctor behind Katherine.
‘There you are, dear.’ She smiled widely as she spoke, ‘Do run upstairs and see if the children are ready, will you? I’ve been so busy.’
Katherine didn’t say anything to this, but held out her hand to the doctor. It was engulfed in a firm grasp which was very comforting, and just for a moment she wanted to weep because she wouldn’t see him again, only be left with a delightful dream.
‘Thank you for bringing me back, and for my breakfast, Dr Fitzroy. I hope the little baby will find someone to love him.’
He looked down at her gravely. ‘It is I who thank you, Miss Marsh. Your help undoubtedly helped to save his life. Be sure we shall try and find his mother, and if not, get him adopted.’
She looked up into his face, learning it by heart, for the memory of it was all she would have of him. ‘Goodbye,’ she said, as she went away, past Joyce, into the hall and up the stairs to where Robin and Sarah could be heard wailing and shouting.
They were unlovable children, largely because their mother had no patience with them, and their father, a schoolmaster, had no time for them. They had been thrust into Katherine’s care when she had gone to live with her brother two years ago, after her mother died, with the frequently expressed opinion on his part that, since he was giving her a home, she might as well keep herself occupied by looking after the children. It was something she had been unable to dispute, for she had left school to nurse her mother, and when she died she had been glad to go to her brother’s home. She had been nineteen then, with vague ideas about training for a job and being independent, but now, two years later, without money and with very little time to herself, she was no nearer that. She had made several efforts to leave his house, but somehow she never managed it. The children fell ill with measles, or Joyce took to her bed, declaring that she was too ill to be left. On her last attempt, her brother had reminded her in his cold way that she owed everything to him, and the least she could do was to remain with the children until they were old enough to go to school. Almost two years still to go, she reflected, opening the nursery door on to a scene of chaos. The pair of them had got out of their beds, and were running round, flinging anything they could lay their hands on at each other.
Katherine suppressed a sigh. ‘Hello, dears. Who’s going to get dressed? And what would you like for breakfast?’
They had wet their beds, so she stripped the bedclothes off, caught the children in turn and took off their sopping nightclothes, then bathed and dressed them. Shutting the door on the muddle she would have to sort out presently, she took them down to the kitchen.
Joyce was in the hall, pulling on her gloves. ‘I’m going to the hairdressers. If I’m not back, get lunch, will you? Oh, and take them out for a walk.’
The day was like all her other days: Robin and Sarah to feed and care for, unending ironing and the washing machine in everlasting use, beds to make, the nursery to keep tidy. She went steadily ahead with her chores; she was a girl with plenty of common sense, and months earlier she had realised that self-pity got her nowhere. She was fed and clothed, albeit as cheaply as possible, and she had a roof over her head. Unemployment, her brother had reminded her on a number of occasions, was high; she had no chance of getting a job, not even an unskilled one. When she had protested that she could train as a typist, or get a job in some domestic capacity, he had told her that the chance of a job for a newly qualified typist would be slender, and the training a complete waste of money. And, as for domestic work, what was she thinking of? No sister of his was going to be anyone’s servant!
‘But I would at least get paid,’ she had told him with quiet persistence, in consequence of which he hadn’t spoken to her for several days.
Apart from her lack of money, and the heavy-handed persuasion of her brother, Katherine couldn’t bring herself to leave because of the children. They had no affection for her, nor she for them, but she was sorry for them. Other than herself, no one bothered much about them. Joyce was out a great deal, sitting on a variety of committees in the cause of charity, leaving the running of the house to Katherine and the spasmodic assistance of Mrs Todd from the farm cottages down the road, who came each day to dust and vacuum and, occasionally, when she felt like it, to polish the furniture or wash the flagstone floors in the hall and kitchen. She was a bad-tempered woman, and she disliked the children, so Katherine did her best to keep them out of her way.
In the afternoon, Mrs Todd had signified her intention of washing the kitchen floor, provided those dratted children were out of the way, so Katherine prudently dressed them warmly and took them for a walk. Sarah was still too small to walk far; it meant taking the pushchair and, since Robin declared that he was tired, she pushed them both back from the village, thankful to find when they got in that Mrs Todd had gone, leaving a tolerably clean kitchen and a terse note, reminding Joyce that she was owed two weeks’ wages. Katherine left the note where it was, got the children’s tea and, since there was no sign of Joyce, began to make preparations for the evening meal. Joyce came back just as she was finished with cleaning the vegetables, slammed a parcel down on the kitchen table, said, ‘Sausages,’ and turned to go out of the kitchen again.
‘There’s a note from Mrs Todd,’ Katherine pointed out, ‘and it’s either sausages or children—which do you want to do?’
Joyce cast her a look of dislike. ‘I have never met such an ungrateful, lazy girl—’ she began and caught Katherine’s mildly surprised eyes. ‘Oh, I’ll cook the supper, I suppose, since there’s no one else. Really, too much is expected of me! Here am I, busy all day with Oxfam and Save the Children and that jumble sale for the primary school, and you’ve been at home, doing nothing…’
Katherine let that pass; she had heard the same thing on any number of occasions. She collected the children and bore them off to their baths. While she got them ready for their beds, she thought about Dr Fitzroy. He would be married, of course, to a pretty wife, and there would be children, well-behaved, loving children, and they would live in one of those nice old houses close to the cathedral in Salisbury. Pure envy shot through her at the thought, and was instantly stifled.
Robin,
