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‘Do sit down,’ she invited him, and, when he looked askance at Muffin the household cat, sitting in the old Windsor chair by the stove, added, ‘Take a chair at the table. It’s warm here. Anyway, I haven’t lighted the fire in the sitting room yet.’
She bent over her pastry, and presently he said stuffily, ‘You can at least leave that and listen to what I have to say, Julia.’
She put the dough on the floured board and held a rolling pin.
‘I’m so sorry, Oscar, but I really can’t leave it. I am listening, though.’
He settled himself into his chair. ‘I have given a good deal of thought to your regrettable behaviour at the dance, Julia. I can but suppose that the excitement of the occasion and the opulence of your surroundings had caused you to become so—so unlike yourself. After due consideration I have decided that I shall overlook that…’
Julia laid her pastry neatly over the meat and tidied the edges with a knife. ‘Don’t do that,’ she begged him. ‘I wasn’t in the least excited, only annoyed to be stuck on a chair in a corner—and left to find my own way in, too.’
‘I have a position to uphold in the firm,’said Oscar. And when she didn’t answer he asked, ‘Who was that man you were talking to? Really, Julia, it is most unsuitable. I trust you found your way home? There is a good bus service?’
Julia was cutting pastry leaves to decorate her pie. She said, ‘I had dinner at Wilton’s and was driven home afterwards.’
Oscar sought for words and, finding none, got to his feet. ‘There is nothing more to be said, Julia. I came here prepared to forgive you, but I see now that I have allowed my tolerance to be swept aside by your frivolity.’
Julia dusted her floury hands over the bowl and began to clear up the table. Listening to Oscar was like reading a book written a hundred years ago. He didn’t belong in this century and, being a kind-hearted girl, she felt sorry for him.
‘I’m not at all suitable for you, Oscar,’ she told him gently.
He said nastily, ‘Indeed you are not, Julia. You have misled me…’
She was cross again. ‘I didn’t know we had got to that stage. Anyway, what you need isn’t a wife, it’s a doormat. And do go, Oscar, before I hit you with this rolling pin.’
He got to his feet. ‘I must remind you that your future with the firm is in jeopardy, Julia. I have some influence…’
Which was just what she could have expected from him, she supposed. They went into the hall and he got into his coat. She opened the door and ushered him out, wished him goodbye, and closed the door before he had a chance to say more.
She told her sisters when they came home, and Monica said. ‘He might have made a good steady husband, but he sounds a bit out of date.’
‘I don’t think I want a steady husband,’ said Julia, and for a moment she thought about the Professor. She had no idea why she should have done that; she didn’t even like him…
So, during the next few days she waited expectantly for a letter from the greetings card firm, but when one did come it contained a cheque for her last batch of verses and a request for her to concentrate on wedding cards—June was the bridal month and they needed to get the cards to the printers in good time…
‘Reprieved,’said Julia, before she cashed the cheque and paid the gas bill.
It was difficult to write about June roses and wedded bliss in blustery March. But she wrote her little verses and thought how nice it would be to marry on a bright summer’s morning, wearing all the right clothes and with the right bridegroom.
A week later Thomas came one evening. He had got the job as senior registrar and, what was more, had now been offered one of the small houses the hospital rented out to their staff. There was no reason why he and Ruth shouldn’t marry as soon as possible. The place was furnished, and it was a bit poky, but once he had some money saved they could find something better.
‘And the best of it is I’m working for Professor van der Maes.’ His nice face was alight with the prospect. ‘You won’t mind a quiet wedding?’ he asked Ruth anxiously.
Ruth would have married him in a cellar wearing a sack. ‘We’ll get George to arrange everything. And it will be quiet anyway; there’s only us. Your mother and father will come?’
Julia went to the kitchen to make coffee and sandwiches and took Monica with her. ‘We’ll give them half an hour. Monica, have you any money? Ruth must have some clothes…’
They sat together at the table, doing sums. ‘There aren’t any big bills due,’said Julia. ‘If we’re very careful and we use the emergency money we could just manage.’
Thomas was to take up his new job in three weeks’ time: the best of reasons why he and Ruth should marry, move into their new home and have a few days together first. Which meant a special licence and no time at all to buy clothes and make preparations for a quiet wedding. Julia and Monica gave Ruth all the money they could lay hands on and then set about planning the wedding day. There would be only a handful of guests: Dr Goodman and his wife, George, and the vicar who would take the service, Thomas’s parents and the best man.
They got out the best china and polished the tea spoons, and Julia went into the kitchen and leafed through her cookery books.
It was a scramble, but by the time the wedding day dawned Ruth had a dress and jacket in a pale blue, with a fetching hat, handbag, gloves and shoes, and the nucleus of a new wardrobe suitable for a senior registrar’s wife. Julia had assembled an elegant buffet for after the ceremony, and Monica had gone to the market and bought daffodils, so that when they reached the church—a red-brick mid-Victorian building, sadly lacking in beauty—its rather bleak interior glowed with colour.
Monica had gone on ahead, leaving Julia to make the last finishing touches to the table, which took longer than she had expected. She had to hurry to the church just as Dr Goodman came for Ruth.
She arrived there a bit flushed, her russet hair glowing under her little green felt hat—Ruth’s hat, really, but it went well with her green jacket and skirt, which had been altered and cleaned and altered again and clung to, since they were suitable for serious occasions.
Julia sniffed appreciatively at the fresh scent of the daffodils and started down the aisle to the back views of Thomas and his best man and the sprinkling of people in the pews. It was a long aisle, and she was halfway up when she saw the Professor sitting beside Mrs Goodman. They appeared to be on the best of terms and she shot past their pew without looking at them. His appearance was unexpected, but she supposed that Thomas, now a senior member of the team, merited his presence.
When Ruth came, Julia concentrated on the ceremony, but the Professor’s image most annoyingly got between her and the beautiful words of the simple service. There was no need for him to be there. He and Thomas might be on the best of terms professionally, but they surely had different social lives? Did the medical profession enjoy a social life? she wondered, then brought her attention back sharply to Thomas and Ruth, exchanging their vows. They would be happy, she reflected, watching them walk back down the aisle. They were both so sure of their love. She wondered what it must feel like to be so certain.
After the first photos had been taken Julia slipped away, so as to get home before anyone else and make sure that everything was just so.
She was putting the tiny sausage rolls in the oven to warm when Ruth and Thomas arrived, closely followed by everyone else, and presently the best man came into the kitchen to get a corkscrew.
‘Not that I think we’ll need it,’ he told her cheerfully. ‘The Prof bought half a dozen bottles of champagne with him. Now that’s what I call a wedding gift of the right sort. Can I help?’
‘Get everyone drinking. I’ll be along with these sausage rolls in a minute or two.’
She had them nicely arranged on a dish when the Professor came into the kitchen. He had a bottle and a glass in one hand.
He said, ‘A most happy occasion. Your vicar has had two glasses already.’
He poured the champagne and handed her a glass. ‘Thirsty work, heating up sausage rolls.’
She had to laugh. Such light-hearted talk didn’t sound like him at all, and for a moment she liked him.
She took her glass and said, ‘We can’t toast them yet, can we? But it is a happy day.’And, since she was thirsty and excited, she drank deeply.
The Professor had an unexpected feeling of tenderness towards her; she might have a sharp tongue and not like him, but her naïve treatment of a glass of Moet et Chandon Brut Imperial he found touching.
She emptied the glass and said, ‘That was nice.’
He agreed gravely. ‘A splendid drink for such an occasion,’ and he refilled her glass, observing prudently, ‘I’ll take the tray in for you.’
The champagne was having an effect upon her empty insides. She gave him a wide smile. ‘The best man— what’s his name, Peter?—said he’d be back…’
‘He will be refilling glasses.’ The Professor picked up the tray, opened the door and ushered her out of the kitchen.
Julia swanned around, light-headed and lighthearted. It was marvellous what a couple of glasses of champagne did to one. She ate a sausage roll, drank another glass of champagne, handed round the sandwiches and would have had another glass of champagne if the Professor hadn’t taken the glass from her.
‘They’re going to cut the cake,’ he told her, ‘and then we’ll toast the happy couple.’Only then did he hand her back her glass.
After Ruth and Thomas had driven away, and everyone else was going home, she realised that the Professor had gone too, taking the best man with him.
‘He asked me to say goodbye,’ said Monica as the pair of them sat at the kitchen table, their shoes off, drinking strong tea. ‘He took the best man with him, said he was rather pressed for time.’
Julia, still pleasantly muzzy from the champagne, wondered why it was that the best man had had the time to say goodbye to her. If he’d gone with the Professor, then surely the Professor could have found the time to do the same? She would think about that when her head was a little clearer.
Life had to be reorganised now that Ruth had left home; they missed her share of the housekeeping, but by dint of economising they managed very well.
Until, a few weeks later, Monica came into the house like a whirlwind, calling to Julia to come quickly; she had news.
George had been offered a parish; a small rural town in the West country. ‘Miles from anywhere,’ said Monica, glowing with happiness, ‘but thriving. Not more than a large village, I suppose, but very scattered. He’s to go there this week and see if he likes it.’
‘And if he does?’
‘He’ll go there in two weeks’ time. I’ll go with him, of course. We can get married by special licence first.’ Then she danced round the room. ‘Oh, Julia, isn’t it all marvellous? I’m so happy…!’
It wasn’t until later, after they had toasted the future in a bottle of wine from the supermarket, that Monica said worriedly, ‘Julia, what about you? What will you do? You’ll never be able to manage…’
Julia had had time to have an answer ready. She said cheerfully, ‘I shall take in lodgers until we decide what to do about this house. You and Ruth will probably like to sell it, and I think that is a good thing.’
‘But you?’ persisted Monica.
‘I shall go to dressmaking classes and then set up on my own. I shall like that.’
‘You don’t think Oscar will come back? If he really loved you…?’
‘But he didn’t, and I wouldn’t go near him with a bargepole—whatever that means.’
‘But you’ll marry…?’
‘Oh, I expect so. And think how pleased my husband will be to have a wife who makes her own clothes.’
Julia poured the last of the wine into their glasses. ‘Now tell me your plans…’
She listened to her sister’s excited voice, making suitable comments from time to time, making suggestions, and all the while refusing to give way to the feeling of panic. So silly, she told herself sternly; she had a roof over her head for the time being, and she was perfectly able to reorganise her life. She wouldn’t be lonely; she would have lodgers and Muffin…
‘You’ll marry from here?’ she asked.
‘Yes, but very quietly. We’ll go straight to the parish after the wedding. There’ll be just us and Ruth—and Thomas, if he can get away. No wedding breakfast or anything.’ Monica laughed. ‘I always wanted a big wedding, you know—white chiffon and a veil and bridesmaids—but none of that matters. It’ll have to be early in the morning.’
Monica’s lovely face glowed with happiness, and Julia said, ‘Aren’t you dying to hear what the vicarage is like? And the little town?You’ll be a marvellous vicar’s wife.’
‘Yes, I think I shall,’ said Monica complacently.
Presently she said uncertainly, ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right, Julia? There has always been the three of us…’
‘Of course I’ll be fine—and how super that I’ll be able to visit you. Once I get started I can get a little car…’
Which was daydreaming with a vengeance, but served to pacify Monica.
After that events crowded upon each other at a great rate. George found his new appointment very much to his liking; moreover, he had been accepted by the church wardens and those of the parish whom he had met with every sign of satisfaction. The vicarage was large and old-fashioned, but there was a lovely garden… He was indeed to take up his appointment in two weeks’ time, which gave them just that time to arrange their wedding—a very quiet one, quieter even than Ruth’s and Thomas’s, for they were to marry in the early morning and drive straight down to their new home.
Julia, helping Monica to pack, had little time to think about anything else, but was relieved that the girl who was to take over Monica’s job had rented a room with her: a good omen for the future, she told her sisters cheerfully. Trudie seemed a nice girl, too, quiet and studious, and it would be nice to have someone else in the house, and nicer still to have the rent money…
She would have to find another lodger, thought Julia, waving goodbye to George’s elderly car and the newly married pair. If she could let two rooms she would be able to manage if she added the rent to the small amounts she got from the greetings card firm. Later on, she quite understood, Ruth and Monica would want to sell the house, and with her own share she would start some kind of a career…
She went back into the empty house; Trudie would be moving in on the following morning and she must make sure that her room was as welcoming as possible. As soon as she had a second lodger and things were running smoothly, she would pay a visit to Ruth.
A week went by. It was disappointing that there had been no replies to her advertisement; she would have to try again in a week or so, and put cards in the windows of the row of rather seedy shops a few streets away. In the meantime she would double her output of verses.
Trudie had settled in nicely, coming and going quietly, letting herself in and out with the key Julia had given her. Another one like her would be ideal, reflected Julia, picking up the post from the doormat.
There was a letter from the greetings card firm and she opened it quickly; there would be a cheque inside. There was, but there was a letter too. The firm was changing its policy: in future they would deal only with cards of a humorous nature since that was what the market demanded. It was with regret that they would no longer be able to accept her work. If she had a batch ready to send then they would accept it, but nothing further.
Julia read the letter again, just to make sure, and then went into the kitchen, made a pot of tea and sat down to drink it. It was a blow; the money the firm paid her was very little but it had been a small, steady income. Its loss would be felt. She did some sums on the back of the envelope and felt the beginnings of a headache. It was possible that Oscar was behind it… She read the letter once again; they would accept one last batch. Good, she would send as many verses as she could think up. She got pencil and paper and set to work. Just let me say on this lovely day…she began, and by lunchtime had more than doubled her output.
She typed them all out on her old portable and took them to the post. It would have been satisfying to have torn up the letter and put it in an envelope and sent it back, but another cheque would be satisfying too.
The cheque came a few days later, but still no new lodger. Which, as it turned out, was a good thing…
Thomas phoned. Ruth was in bed with flu, could she possibly help out for a day or two? Not to stay, of course, but an hour or two each day until Ruth was on her feet. There was a bus, he added hopefully.
It meant two buses; she would have to change halfway. The hospital wasn’t all that far away, but was awkward to get to.
Julia glanced at the clock. ‘I’ll be there about lunch-time. I must tell Trudie, my lodger. I’ll stay until the evening if that’s OK.’
‘Bless you,’ said Thomas. ‘I should be free about five o’clock.’
Trudie, summoned from a horde of toddlers, was helpful. She would see to Muffin, go back at lunchtime and make sure that everything was all right, and she wasn’t going out that evening anyway. Julia hurried to the main street and caught a bus.
The house was close to the hospital, one of a neat row in which the luckier of the medical staff lived. The door key, Thomas had warned her, was under the pot of flowers by the back door, and Julia let herself in, calling out as she did so.
It was a very small house. She put her bag down in the narrow hall and went up the stairs at its end, guided by the sound of Ruth’s voice.
She was propped up in bed, her lovely face only slightly dimmed by a red nose and puffy eyes. She said thickly, ‘Julia, you darling. You don’t mind coming? I feel so awful, and Thomas has to be in Theatre all day. I’ll be better tomorrow…’
‘You’ll stay there until Thomas says that you can get up,’ said Julia, ‘and of course I don’t mind coming. In fact it makes a nice change. Now, how about a wash and a clean nightie, and then a morsel of something to eat?’
‘I hope you don’t catch the flu,’ said Ruth later, drinking tea and looking better already, drowsy now in her freshly made bed, her golden hair, though rather lank, it must be admitted, neatly brushed. All the same, thought Julia, she looked far from well.
‘Has the doctor been?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Dr Soames, one of the medical consultants.
Someone is coming with some pills…’
Thomas brought them during his lunch hour. He couldn’t stop, his lunch ‘hour’ being a figure of speech. A cup of coffee and a sandwich was the norm on this day, when Professor van der Maes was operating, but he lingered with Ruth as long as he could, thanked Julia profusely and assured her that he would be back by five o’clock. ‘I’ll be on call,’ he told her, ‘but only until midnight.’
‘Would you like me to keep popping in for a few days, until Ruth is feeling better?’
‘Would you? I hate leaving her.’
He went then, and Julia went down to the little kitchen, made another hot drink for Ruth and boiled herself an egg. Tomorrow she would bring some fruit and a new loaf. Bread and butter, cut very thin, was something most invalids would eat.
