The Right Kind of Girl

That evening, sitting at supper with her mother, Emma told her of the new doctor. ‘He was nice. I expect if you were really ill he would take the greatest care of you.’

‘Elderly?’ asked Mrs Trent artlessly.

‘Something between thirty and thirty-five, I suppose. Pepper and salt hair…’

A not very satisfactory answer from her mother’s point of view.

February, tired of being winter, became spring for a couple of days, and Emma, speeding to and fro from Mrs Smith-Darcy’s house, had her head full of plans—a day out with her mother on the following Sunday. She could rent a car from Dobbs’s garage and drive her mother to Widecombe in the Moor and then on to Bovey Tracey; they could have lunch there and then go on back home through Ilsington—no main roads, just a quiet jaunt around the country they both loved.

She had been saving for a tweed coat and skirt, but she told herself that since she seldom went anywhere, other than a rare visit to Exeter or Plymouth, they could wait until autumn. She and her mother both needed a day out…

The weather was kind; Sunday was bright and clear, even if cold. Emma got up early, fed Queenie, their elderly cat, took tea to her mother and got the breakfast and, while Mrs Trent cleared it away, went along to the garage and fetched the car.

Mr Dobbs had known her father and was always willing to rent her a car, letting her have it at a reduced price since it was usually the smallest and shabbiest in his garage, though in good order, as he was always prompt to tell her. Today she was to have an elderly Fiat, bright red and with all the basic comforts, but, she was assured, running well. Emma, casting her eye over it, had a momentary vision of a sleek Rolls Royce…

They set off in the still, early morning and, since they had the day before them, Emma drove to Ashburton and presently took the narrow moor road to Widecombe, where they stopped for coffee before driving on to Bovey Tracey. It was too early for lunch, so they drove on then to Lustleigh, an ancient village deep in the moorland, the hills around it dotted with granite boulders. But although the houses and cottages were built of granite there was nothing forbidding about them—they were charming even on a chilly winter’s day, the thatched roofs gleaming with the last of the previous night’s frost, smoke eddying gently from their chimney-pots.

Scattered around the village were several substantial houses, tucked cosily between the hills. They were all old—as old as the village—and several of them were prosperous farms while others stood in sheltered grounds.

‘I wouldn’t mind living here,’ said Emma as they passed one particularly handsome house, standing well back from the narrow road, the hills at its back, sheltered by carefully planted trees. ‘Shall we go as far as Lustleigh Cleave and take a look at the river?’

After that it was time to find somewhere for lunch. Most of the cafés and restaurants in the little town were closed, since the tourist season was still several months away, but they found a pub where they were served roast beef with all the trimmings and home-made mince tarts to follow.

Watching her mother’s pleasure at the simple, wellcooked meal, Emma promised herself that they would do a similar trip before the winter ended, while the villages were quiet and the roads almost empty.

It was still fine weather but the afternoon was already fading, and she had promised to return the car by seven o’clock at the latest. They decided to drive straight home and have tea when they got in, and since it was still a clear afternoon they decided to take a minor road through Ilsington. Emma had turned off the main road on to the small country lane when her mother slumped in her seat without uttering a sound. Emma stopped the car and turned to look at her unconscious parent.

She said, ‘Mother—Mother, whatever is the matter…?’ And then she pulled herself together—bleating her name wasn’t going to help. She undid her safetybelt, took her mother’s pulse and called her name again, but Mrs Trent lolled in her seat, her eyes closed. At least Emma could feel her pulse, and her breathing seemed normal.

Emma looked around her. The lane was narrow; she would never be able to turn the car and there was little point in driving on as Ilsington was a small village—too small for a doctor. She pulled a rug from the back seat and wrapped it round her mother and was full of thankful relief when Mrs Trent opened her eyes, but the relief was short-lived. Mrs Trent gave a groan. ‘Emma, it’s such a pain, I don’t think I can bear it…’

There was only one thing to do—to reverse the car back down the lane, return to the main road and race back to Bovey Tracey.

‘It’s all right, Mother,’ said Emma. ‘It’s not far to Bovey…There’s the cottage hospital there; they’ll help you.’

She began to reverse, going painfully slowly since the lane curved between high hedges, and it was a good thing she did, for the oncoming car behind her braked smoothly inches from her boot. She got out so fast that she almost tumbled over; here was help! She had no eyes for the other car but rushed to poke her worried face through the window that its driver had just opened.

‘It’s you!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, you can help. Only, please come quickly.’ Dr. Wyatt didn’t utter a word but he was beside her before she could draw another breath. ‘Mother—it’s Mother; she’s collapsed and she’s in terrible pain. I couldn’t turn the car and this lane goes to Ilsington, and it’s on the moor miles from anywhere…’

He put a large, steadying hand on her arm. ‘Shall I take a look?’

Mrs Trent was a nasty pasty colour and her hand, when he took it, felt cold and clammy. Emma, half-in, half-out of the car on her side, said, ‘Mother’s got an ulcer—a peptic ulcer; she takes alkaline medicine and small meals and extra milk.’

He was bending over Mrs Trent. ‘Will you undo her coat and anything else in the way? I must take a quick look. I’ll fetch my bag.’

He straightened up presently. ‘Your mother needs to be treated without delay. I’ll put her into my car and drive to Exeter. You follow as soon as you can.’

‘Yes.’ She cast him a bewildered look.

‘Problems?’ he asked.

‘I rented the car from Dobbs’s garage; it has to be back by seven o’clock.’

‘I’m going to give your mother an injection to take away the pain. Go to my car; there’s a phone between the front seats. Phone this Dobbs, tell him what has happened and say that you’ll bring the car back as soon as possible.’ He turned his back on Mrs Trent, looming over Emma so that she had to crane her neck to see his face. ‘I am sure that your mother has a perforated ulcer, which means surgery as soon as possible.’

She stared up at him, pale with shock, unable to think of anything to say. She nodded once and ran back to his car, and by the time she had made her call she had seen him lift her mother gently and carry her to the car. They made her comfortable on the back seat and Emma was thankful to see that her mother appeared to be dozing. ‘She’ll be all right? You’ll hurry, won’t you? I’ll drive on until I can turn and then I’ll come to the hospital— which one?’

‘The Royal Devon and Exeter—you know where it is?’ He got into his car and began to reverse down the lane. If the circumstances hadn’t been so dire, she would have stayed to admire the way he did it—with the same ease as if he were going forwards.

She got into her car, then, and drove on for a mile or more before she came to a rough track leading on to the moor, where she reversed and drove back the way she had come. She was shaking now, in a panic that her mother was in danger of her life and she wouldn’t reach the hospital in time, but she forced herself to drive carefully. Once she reached the main road and turned on to the carriageway, it was only thirteen miles to Exeter…

She forced herself to park the car neatly in the hospital forecourt and walk, not run, in through the casualty entrance. There, thank heaven, they knew who she was and why she had come. Sister, a cosy body with a soft Devon voice, came to meet her.

‘Miss Trent? Your mother in is Theatre; the professor is operating at the moment. You come and sit down in the waiting-room and a nurse will bring you a cup of tea—you look as though you could do with it. Your mother is in very good hands, and as soon as she is back in her bed you shall go and see her. In a few minutes I should like some details, but you have your tea first.’

Emma nodded; if she had spoken she would have burst into tears; her small world seemed to be tumbling around her ears. She drank her tea, holding the cup in both hands since she was still shaking, and presently, when Sister came back, she gave her the details she needed in a wooden little voice. ‘Will it be much longer?’ she asked.

Sister glanced at the clock. ‘Not long now. I’m sure you’ll be told the moment the operation is finished. Will you go back to Buckfastleigh this evening?’

‘Could I stay here? I could sit here, couldn’t I? I wouldn’t get in anyone’s way.’

‘If you are to stay we’ll do better than that, my dear. Do you want to telephone anyone?’

Emma shook her head. ‘There’s only Mother and me.’ She tried to smile and gave a great sniff. ‘So sorry, it’s all happened so suddenly.’

‘You have a nice cry if you want to. I must go and see what’s happening. There’s been a street-fight and we’ll be busy…’

Emma sat still and didn’t cry—when she saw her mother she must look cheerful—so that when somebody came at last she turned a rigidly controlled face to hear the news.

Dr Wyatt was crossing the room to her. ‘Your mother is going to be all right, Emma.’ And then he held her in his arms as she burst into tears.

CHAPTER TWO

EMMA didn’t cry for long but hiccuped, sniffed, sobbed a bit and drew away from him to blow her nose on the handkerchief he offered her.

‘You’re sure? Was it a big operation? Were you in the theatre?’

‘Well, yes. It was quite a major operation but successful, I’m glad to say. You may see your mother; she will be semi-conscious but she’ll know that you are there. She’s in Intensive Care just for tonight. Tomorrow she will go to a ward—’ He broke off as Sister joined them.

‘They’re wanting you on Male Surgical, sir—urgently.’

He nodded at Emma and went away.

‘Mother’s going to get well,’ said Emma. She heaved a great sigh. ‘What would I have done if Dr Wyatt hadn’t been driving down the lane when Mother was taken ill? He works here as well as taking over the practice at home?’

Sister looked surprised and then smiled. ‘Indeed he works here; he’s our Senior Consultant Surgeon, although he’s supposed to be taking a sabbatical, but I hear he’s helping out Dr Treble for a week or two.’

‘So he’s a surgeon, not a GP?’

Sister smiled again. ‘Sir Paul Wyatt is a professor of surgery, and much in demand for consultations, lecturetours and seminars. You were indeed fortunate that he happened to be there when you needed help so urgently.’

‘Would Mother have died, Sister?’

‘Yes, love.’

‘He saved her life…’ She would, reflected Emma, do anything—anything at all—to repay him. Sooner or later there would be a chance. Perhaps not for years, but she wouldn’t forget.

She was taken to see her mother then, who was lying in a tangle of tubes, surrounded by monitoring screens but blessedly awake. Emma bent to kiss her white face, her own face almost as white. ‘Darling, everything’s fine; you’re going to be all right. I’ll be here and come and see you in the morning after you’ve had a good sleep.’

Her mother frowned. ‘Queenie,’ she muttered.

‘I’ll phone Mr Dobbs and ask him to put some food outside the cat-flap.’

‘Yes, do that, Emma.’ Mrs Trent closed her eyes.

Emma turned at the touch on her arm. ‘You’re going to stay for the night?’ A pretty, young nurse smiled at her. ‘There’s a rest-room on the ground floor; we’ll call you if there’s any need but I think your mother will sleep until the morning. You can see her before you go home then.’

Emma nodded. ‘Is there a phone?’

‘Yes, just by the rest-room, and there’s a canteen down the corridor where you can get tea and sandwiches.’

‘You’re very kind.’ Emma took a last look at her mother and went to the rest-room. There was no one else there and there were comfortable chairs and a table with magazines on it. As she hesitated at the door the sister from Casualty joined her.

‘There’s a washroom just across the passage. Try and sleep a little, won’t you?’

When she had hurried away Emma picked up the phone. Mr Dobbs was sympathetic and very helpful—of course he’d see to Queenie, and Emma wasn’t to worry about the car. ‘Come back when you feel you can, love,’ he told her. ‘And you’d better keep the car for a day or two so’s you can see your ma as often as possible.’

Mrs Smith-Darcy was an entirely different kettle of fish. ‘My luncheon party,’ she exclaimed. ‘You will have to come back tomorrow morning and see to it; I am not strong enough to cope with it—you know how delicate I am. It is most inconsiderate of you…’

‘My mother,’ said Emma, between her teeth, ‘in case you didn’t hear what I have told you, is dangerously ill. I shall stay here with her as long as necessary. And you are not in the least delicate, Mrs Smith-Darcy, only spoilt and lazy and very selfish!’

She hung up, her ear shattered by Mrs Smith-Darcy’s furious bellow. Well, she had burnt her boats, cooked her goose and would probably be had up for libel—or was it slander? She didn’t care. She had given voice to sentiments she had choked back for more than a year and she didn’t care.

She felt better after her outburst, even though she was now out of work. She drank some tea and ate sandwiches from the canteen, resisted a wish to go in search of someone and ask about her mother, washed her face and combed her hair, plaited it and settled in the easiest of the chairs. Underneath her calm front panic and fright bubbled away.

Her mother might have a relapse; she had looked so dreadfully ill. She would need to be looked after for weeks, which was something Emma would do with loving care, but they would be horribly short of money. There was no one around, so she was able to shed a few tears; she was lonely and scared and tired. She mumbled her prayers and fell asleep before she had finished them.

Sir Paul Wyatt, coming to check his patient’s condition at two o’clock in the morning and satisfied with it, took himself down to the rest-room. If Emma was awake he would be able to reassure her…

She was curled up in the chair, her knees drawn up under her chin, the half of her face he could see tearstained, her thick rope of hair hanging over one shoulder. She looked very young and entirely without glamour, and he knew that when she woke in the morning she would have a job uncoiling herself from the tight ball into which she had wound herself.

He went and fetched a blanket from Casualty and laid it carefully over her; she was going to be stiff in the morning—there was no need for her to be cold as well. He put his hand lightly on her hair, touched by the sight of her, and then smiled and frowned at the sentimental gesture and went away again.

Emma woke early, roused by a burst of activity in Casualty, and just as Sir Paul Wyatt had foreseen, discovered that she was stiff and cramped. She got up awkwardly, folding the blanket neatly, and wondered who had been kind during the night. Then she went to wash her face and comb her hair.

Even with powder and lipstick she still looked a mess—not that it mattered, since there was no one to see her. She rubbed her cheeks to get some colour into them and practised a smile in the looking-glass so that her mother would see how cheerful and unworried she was. She would have to drive back to Buckfastleigh after she had visited her and somehow she would come each day to see her, although at the moment she wasn’t sure how. Of one thing she was sure—Mrs Smith-Darcy would have dismissed her out-of-hand, so she would have her days free.

She drank tea and polished off some toast in the canteen, then went to find someone who would tell her when she might see her mother. She didn’t have far to go— coming towards her along the passage was Sir Paul Wyatt, immaculate in clerical grey and spotless linen, freshly shaved, his shoes brilliantly polished. She wished him a good morning and, without waiting for him to answer, asked, ‘Mother—is she all right? May I see her?’

‘She had a good night, and of course you may see her.’

He stood looking at her, and the relief at his words was somewhat mitigated by knowing that her scruffy appearance seemed even more scruffy in contrast to his elegance. She rushed into speech to cover her awkwardness. ‘They have been very kind to me here…’

He nodded with faint impatience—of course, he was a busy man and hadn’t any time to waste. ‘I’ll go to Mother now,’ she told him. ‘I’m truly grateful to you for saving Mother. She’s going to be quite well again, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, but you must allow time for her to regain her strength. I’ll take you up to the ward on my way.’

She went with him silently, through corridors and then in a lift and finally through swing-doors where he beckoned a nurse, spoke briefly, then turned on his heel with a quick nod, leaving her to follow the nurse into the ward beyond.

Her mother wasn’t in the ward but in a small room beyond, sitting up in bed. She looked pale and tired but she was smiling, and Emma had to fight her strong wish to burst into tears at the sight of her. She smiled instead. ‘Mother, dear, you look so much better. How do you feel? And how nice that you’re in a room by yourself…’

She bent and kissed her parent. ‘I’ve just seen Sir Paul Wyatt and he says everything is most satisfactory.’ She pulled up a chair and sat by the bed, taking her mother’s hand in hers. ‘What a coincidence that he should be here. Sister told me that he’s a professor of surgery.’

Her mother smiled. ‘Yes, love, and I’m fine. I really am. You’re to go home now and not worry.’

‘Yes, Mother. I’ll phone this evening and I’ll be back tomorrow. Do you want me to bring anything? I’ll pack nighties and slippers and so on and bring them with me.’

Her mother closed her eyes. ‘Yes, you know what to bring…’

Emma bent to kiss her again. ‘I’m going now; you’re tired. Have a nap, darling.’

It was still early; patients were being washed and tended before the breakfast trolley arrived. Emma was too early for the ward sister but the night staff nurse assured her that she would be told if anything unforeseen occurred. ‘But your mother is most satisfactory, Miss Trent. The professor’s been to see her already; he came in the night too. He’s away for most of the day but his registrar is a splendid man. Ring this evening, if you like. You’ll be coming tomorrow?’

Emma nodded. ‘Can I come any time?’

‘Afternoon or evening is best.’

Emma went down to the car and drove herself back to Buckfastleigh. As she went she planned her day. She would have to go and see Mrs Smith-Darcy and explain that she wouldn’t be able to work for her any more. That lady was going to be angry and she supposed that she would have to apologise…She was owed a week’s wages too, and she would need it.

Perhaps Mr Dobbs would let her hire the car each day just for the drive to and from the hospital; it would cost more than bus fares but it would be much quicker. She would have to go to the bank too; there wasn’t much money there but she was prepared to spend the lot if necessary. It was too early to think about anything but the immediate future.

She took the car back to the garage and was warmed by Mr Dobbs’s sympathy and his assurance that if she needed it urgently she had only to say so. ‘And no hurry to pay the bill,’ he promised her.

She went home then, and fed an anxious Queenie before making coffee. She was hungry, but it was past nine o’clock by now and Mrs Smith-Darcy would have to be faced before anything else. She had a shower, changed into her usual blouse, skirt and cardigan, did her face, brushed her hair into its usual smoothness and got on to her bike.

Alice opened the door to her. ‘Oh, miss, whatever’s happened? The mistress is in a fine state. Cook says come and have a cup of tea before you go up to her room; you’ll need all your strength.’

‘How kind of Cook,’ said Emma. ‘I think I’d rather have it afterwards, if I may.’ She ran upstairs and tapped on Mrs Smith-Darcy’s door and went in.

Mrs Smith-Darcy wasted no time in expressing her opinion of Emma; she repeated it several times before she ran out of breath, which enabled Emma to say, ‘I’m sorry if I was rude to you on the phone, Mrs Smith-Darcy, but you didn’t seem to understand that my mother was seriously ill—still is. I shall have to go to the hospital each day until she is well enough to come home, when I shall have to look after her until she is quite recovered—and that will take a considerable time.’

‘My luncheon party,’ gabbled Mrs Smith-Darcy. ‘You wicked girl, leaving me like this. I’m incapable…’

Emma’s efforts to behave well melted away. ‘Yes, you are incapable,’ she agreed. ‘You’re incapable of sympathy or human kindness. I suggest that you get up, Mrs Smith-Darcy, and see to your luncheon party yourself. I apologised to you just now—that was a mistake. You’re everything I said and a lot more beside.’

She went out of the room and closed the door gently behind here. Then she opened it again. ‘Will you be good enough to send my wages to my home?’ She closed the door again on Mrs Smith-Darcy’s enraged gasp.

She was shaking so much that her teeth rattled against the mug of tea Cook offered her.

‘Now, don’t you mind what she says,’ said Cook. ‘Nasty old lady she is, too. You go on home and have a good sleep, for you’re fair worn out. I’ve put up a pasty and one or two snacks, like; you take them home and if you’ve no time to cook you just slip round here to the back door—there’s always a morsel of something in the fridge.’

The dear soul’s kindness was enough to make Emma weep; she sniffed instead, gave Cook a hug and then got on her bike and cycled home, where she did exactly what that lady had told her to do—undressed like lightning and got into bed. She was asleep within minutes.

She woke suddenly to the sound of the door-knocker being thumped.

‘Mother,’ said Emma, and scrambled out of bed, her heart thumping as loudly as the knocker. Not bothering with slippers, she tugged her dressing-gown on as she flew downstairs. It was already dusk; she had slept for hours—too long—she should have phoned the hospital. She turned the key in the lock and flung the door open.

Professor Sir Paul Wyatt was on the doorstep. He took the door from her and came in and shut it behind him. ‘It is most unwise to open your door without putting up the chain or making sure that you know who it is.’

She eyed him through a tangle of hair. ‘How can I know if I don’t look first, and there isn’t a chain?’ Her half-awake brain remembered then.

‘Mother—what’s happened? Why are you here?’ She caught at his sleeve. ‘She’s worse…’

His firm hand covered hers. ‘Your mother is doing splendidly; she’s an excellent patient. I’m sorry, I should have realised…You were asleep.’

She curled her cold toes on the hall carpet and nodded. ‘I didn’t mean to sleep for so long; it’s getting dark.’ She looked up at him. ‘Why are you here, then?’

‘I’m on my way home, but it has occurred to me that I shall be taking morning surgery here for the next week or two. I’ll drive you up to Exeter after my morning visits and bring you back in time for evening surgery here.’

‘Oh, would you? Would you really do that? How very kind of you, but won’t it be putting you out? Sister said that you were taking a sabbatical, and that means you’re on holiday, doesn’t it?’

‘Hardly a holiday, and I’m free to go in and out as I wish.’

‘But you live in Exeter?’

‘No, but not far from it; I shall not be in the least inconvenienced.’