‘Dr Peters has gone, but I’ll stay until your aunt gets back. Would you like a cup of tea?’
Katrina sat up in bed and regretted it; she had the beginnings of a headache. Not surprising, really, with all the fuss… ‘I can’t think why you’re still here,’ she said rudely. ‘There’s no need. I’m not a baby and there’s nothing wrong with me at all. Do please go away. You’ve been most helpful, thank you.’
The doctor studied her face. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ he asked again, in the mildest of voices.
She nodded, her eyes closed. She was behaving badly; she opened her eyes, anxious to apologise, but he had gone.
The doctor pottered round the kitchen looking for things while the kettle boiled. It was a pleasant little room, with cheerful curtains at the window, a small table against one wall and two chairs. The cooking stove was old but immaculate, and the cupboards were models of tidiness. But there wasn’t a great deal in them—the basic necessities, no tins or packets—and no fridge, although there was an old-fashioned pantry with stone shelves, which was very cool.
He made tea, and since the cat was staring at him in an anxious manner he looked around for its food. There were no tins, but there was a covered saucepan on the stove with what looked like some kind of stew in it. He filled a saucer and offered it, found a mug and went back upstairs. A pity that Mrs Peach couldn’t see him now, he reflected—a housekeeper of the old-fashioned school, she considered that no one who employed her should lift a finger while she or Peach, her husband and his house-man, were within reach.
Katrina sat up as he went in. He put the mug down, tucked a cushion behind her and offered the tea. This time he didn’t go away, but sat on the edge of the bed, steadying the mug in her hands, which were shaking.
‘Headache getting better?’ he asked, and when she carefully nodded he added, ‘Is there anything I can do while I’m here? Phone someone?’
She said bleakly, ‘We haven’t got a phone.’ She finished the tea and felt better. ‘I’m sorry to have been so rude and ungrateful.’
‘It’s of no consequence.’
He sounded so casual she wished she hadn’t said anything. I don’t like him, she reflected crossly. He’s being kind and helpful and all that, but that’s because he’s a doctor, and it wouldn’t do if he were to jump into that great car of his and drive off.
The doctor, aware of her edginess towards him, decided that, although she was one of the prettiest girls he had seen for a long time, she had a decidedly sharp tongue and had all the obstinacy of the proverbial mule. Probably had an unhappy love affair, he thought idly, and it’s soured her. A pity.
He went back downstairs and poured himself a mug of tea, and sat drinking it with the little cat curled up on his knee. What might have been the beginnings of a friendly relationship between them had become indifference on both their parts. Now and again, going through life, one met someone with whom one was incompatible, he reflected, allowing his thoughts to wander to the work waiting for him.
Presently he went quietly upstairs again and found her asleep, her hair an untidy cloud all over the pillow, her mouth a little open. There were scratches on her cheek and there was a bruise developing on one arm. She was a big girl, but now she looked like a child. The doctor studied her at some length, wondering why she chose to live so remotely. But that was none of his business.
He went back to the kitchen and later, when he heard the gate being opened, he went to open the front door.
The lady walking briskly up the path was of an indeterminable age, very tall and thin, with a narrow face and a sharp nose, wearing a no-nonsense hat and a dateless beige coat and skirt. When she was within a yard of the doctor she asked briskly, ‘And who are you, young man? I don’t expect to find strangers on my doorstep. You’re surely not a friend of Katrina’s?’
If that was a compliment it was surely a left-handed one, thought the doctor, and he stood aside to allow Miss Thirza Gibbs to enter her home.
‘No, no such thing. Your niece has had a slight accident and I happened to be the person to find her. Nothing alarming…’
‘I am not easily alarmed,’ said Miss Thirza Gibbs tartly. ‘Kindly get to the point. Presumably she is here?’
‘In her bed.’ The doctor had assumed the armour plating of his profession: an impersonal courtesy leavened with a touch of bracing sympathy. ‘Your niece was knocked off her bicycle by a motorcyclist who didn’t stop. She has a cut on her leg, is scratched and bruised and shocked. Dr Peters has been to see her and will call again. She didn’t lose consciousness.’
‘Why are you here, in my house?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Your niece is hardly in a fit condition to be left alone, Miss Gibbs. I trust that she will make a speedy recovery. Good day to you.’
Miss Gibbs went an unbecoming red. ‘I’m sure it was very kind of you,’ she began stiffly.
But she was stopped gently by his ‘Not at all, Miss Gibbs. Please give my best wishes to your niece.’
He got into his car and drove away, and she went into the house and then slowly climbed the stairs.
Katrina was still sound asleep and, despite her scratches and bruises, looked her usual healthy self. Her aunt went down to the kitchen, made herself a sandwich, laid a tray with bowl, plate and spoon, set soup to warm and sat down to wait. She had had a tiring morning, and her meeting with the strange man had upset her; she had always been in the habit of speaking her mind even at the expense of other people’s feelings, but the man had been kind. She dozed off, and when she woke, half an hour later, Katrina was sitting at the table, polishing off the last of the soup.
When her aunt opened her eyes she asked, ‘Has he gone? That man—he brought me home. I didn’t thank him properly. You saw him?’
Miss Gibbs got up and put the kettle on, for she felt the need for a cup of tea. ‘Tell me what happened, and, yes, I saw him, but only for a few minutes.’
‘Well, this motorcyclist was on the wrong side of the road—on that bend by the turnip field, you know?’ Katrina gave a matter-of-fact account of the whole business, because her aunt had no patience with emotional outpourings or embellished facts, and when she had finished she said, ‘It must have been a great nuisance for him.’
‘He is a doctor?’ Miss Thirza Gibbs frowned. ‘I’m afraid that I was a little brisk with him. Perhaps he gave his name to Peters, in which case it would be quite correct for us to write him a letter of thanks for his help.’
‘I wouldn’t bother,’ said Katrina. ‘I should think he’s forgotten all about it by now—besides, he didn’t like me.’
‘Did he say so?’
‘No, of course not, Aunt, but he was—’ she paused, seeking the right word ‘—forebearing. As though he was doing his duty and found it all a bit of a bore. I didn’t like him.’
‘In that case,’ said Miss Gibbs, ‘it is fortunate that we are unlikely to see him again.’
Katrina agreed, ignoring a sneaking feeling that even if she didn’t like him it might be nice to know a bit more about him.
