Dorothy Cannell - She Shoots to Conquer

Of course the moment she was gone, I selfishly wished her back; a peek into the cubbyhole showed Judy to be asleep, breathing evenly and otherwise revealing no sign of restlessness. It was still early-only six fifteen-and the evening stretched endlessly ahead. Ben would come whether or not he was the one to bring up the meal. Mrs. Foot, Mr. Plunket, and Boris might insist on doing that, but in either case he would not linger talking because of risking disturbing Judy.

Half an hour later, Tommy put in a return appearance to check on the patient. He nodded in a satisfied way and left a couple of tablets with me that he said I should give to her at ten if she woke up, but not to disturb her if she slept on. I was struck by his new aplomb, but the boyish beam was very much in evidence when telling me he was taking Livonia back to his home for dinner.

“Mrs. Spuds is preparing something special and will stay to observe the proprieties,” he added earnestly. “As Livonia may have told you, she was not treated with greatest respect by a man named Harold, and I intend to proceed gently with her.”

Not too gently, I hoped. On his departure I put the tablets in a little dish on the chair and picked up the book that still had me on chapter one. It was by an author who was new to me and I hadn’t found it particularly gripping, but it might take off in the next fifty or so pages. I was on the bed, having read no more than three pages, when Ben came through the door empty-handed.

“Judy sleeping?” he asked in a hushed voice, with an eye to the cubbyhole.

I nodded up at him.

“Sweetheart,” he continued to whisper, “when I said I’d bring up the tray for you and Judy, Mrs. Foot looked close to tears.”

Being a woman capable of compassion, I refrained from saying that must have been a gruesome sight.

“She went on about having snapped at you earlier.”

“That,” I too kept my voice way down, “is an understatement; but she was under stress. Thumper chased Whitey up Boris’s trousers, and from the sound of it he’s going to need thrice weekly sessions with a psychiatrist.”

“Boris?”

“Whitey.” Poor Thumper…

“My poor Ellie,” he bent and kissed my cheek, “was it a terrible wrench parting with him?”

“Yes, but I have to accept that he isn’t mine. Speaking of low spirits, is Georges in the dumps now that Lord Belfrey has decided not to continue with Here Comes the Bride ? Or hadn’t you heard about that?”

Ben whispered that he had, and from what was being floated around, it sounded as though congratulations might be in order anyway. Was that an assessing glance he was giving me?

“That leaves me heartbroken.” For a moment I forgot to whisper. “I’ve always relished having a man enjoy looking at me because I remind him of the woman he loves. Oh, all right! I admit to being flattered. He’s handsome and if a woman doesn’t have some ego, she’s dead. But would I want to put him in a shopping bag and take him home? The answer is no. He doesn’t make me laugh or want to throw things at him. And I doubt he can boil an egg. Now go before you wake Judy.”

“I’ve had terrible pangs of jealousy.” He stroked my hair.

“Well, think of some way to make it up to me-some wonderful present, although I can’t for the moment think of anything I desperately want.”

“Can’t you?” Ben said on his way out the door.

I picked up my book and had read another page and a half during what length of time I did not know-my mind having wandered so far afield that I hadn’t checked my watch-when my next visitor, the least welcome by far, arrived. Mrs. Foot with a loaded tray.

“Let me help you with that-it looks heavy,” I said, jumping up.

“Mr. Plunket came down with a headache.” She allowed me to take the tray from her and watched me place it on the bed. “It’s taking up the drink after being off it so long, but I’ll get him sorted once Mucklesfeld is back to itself again.”

“I’m sure. Judy’s sleeping.”

“Is she now?” No attempt at lowering her voice. “Best thing for her, I’m sure she’ll be fine in the morning. After all, in the scheme of things, what’s a sprained ankle? If she’d watched where she fell, it shouldn’t have happened. When I picture dear Boris swinging from one trapeze to another and never a stubbed toe, bless him, my heart melts.”

One thing to be said for Mrs. Foot, I always felt dainty as a buttercup in her presence. “How is Boris?”

“Gone to bed like I said he must. A right shock he got, being attacked by that dog.”

“Did he have Dr. Rowley take a look at his arm?”

“What, go making a fuss? That’s not my Boris! Never a thought for his self when there’s others to be worried about. It’s Whitey he’s thinking on, wondering if the dear wee fellow will ever be quite right in the head again after the fright he took.”

“How’s Mr. Plunket?”

“Been crying his eyes out from going back on the bottle; got him tucked in with a hot-water bottle.”

Preferably one that didn’t leak.

“Anyway,” Mrs. Foot finally got to it, “I’m sorry I flared at you like I did this afternoon and me usually so sunny. I realized soon as you went off in a huff that it really wasn’t your fault. The dog isn’t yours; though you can’t say you haven’t encouraged him to hang around. I hope you’ll eat your meal in the spirit it was brought up in and drink the tea I put in a thermos to keep warm, though as Mr. Plunket and Boris always say, one of my cups tastes just as good cold, even better often as not. Milk and sugar’s already in. And there’s orange juice in a glass for the invalid if she has to take more of those tablets Dr. Rowley will have left for her.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Foot,” I said meekly, “and no hard feelings on either side, I hope.”

A noticeable thawing. “That’s nice of you to say. I’m sure I wish you and the lady sleeping in there,” eyes shifting toward the cubbyhole, “nothing but the best. And now I’m off-back down to my boys, the dear loves! And once I see they’re well settled, I sit down for a nice cuddle with Whitey. Nothing better than a mum’s love for putting things right if it can be done.”

Upon her none too soon departure, I sized up the tray. Ben had very sensibly sent up a meal intended to be served cold-containers of fruit, a leafy salad, asparagus vinaigrette, slivered ham, eggs mayonnaise, and crusty bread. Enough for two; there was a second plate, should Judy wake and wish to eat. Best of all, he had made another chocolate orange gateau. The Chantilly cream had been spread instead of piped into rosettes, but I wasn’t inclined to be the least picky.

Needless to say, I wasn’t about to drink Mrs. Foot’s tea. Neither did I think the orange juice the wisest accompaniment to the pills should Judy wake and need them. Heaven only knew what was floating in it. So before starting my meal, I tiptoed rapidly down to the bathroom, emptied out both thermos and glass, and having replaced the former with water, returned as fast as I could to my room. My attempt at silence was mainly due to a concern that Mrs. Malloy-a sliver of light had shown under her door-would come out to see if the patter of feet were mine.

Once safely reinstalled, I checked on Judy, found her still sleeping with apparent soundness, and settled down to my meal. Determined on keeping up my strength for what the night might bring, I ate heartily-enjoying every morsel, especially of the two slices of gateau I didn’t feel it wrong to take as my share, since there was still one good-sized piece left for Judy. Covering the plate I had arranged for her with a napkin, I placed it on the chair with the empty thermos and glass, made sure the little dish with the pills was securely positioned, and then put the tray with its remaining contents outside the door. Ben, I was sure, would return for it and assume I preferred him not to come in because of Judy.