Betty Neels - Dearest Mary Jane

If he felt gratitude, he didn’t show it. Mary Jane watched him get into his car and pulled a face at his back as he drove away.

Oliver returned on the Tuesday morning and Mary Jane, having packed an overnight bag, got into her elderly tweed suit, consigned Brimble to Mrs Adams’s kindly hands, and opened the door to him.

He didn’t bother with a good morning, a nod seemed the best he could manage. ‘Margaret’s in the car. Drive carefully; you’ll have to fill up with petrol, there’s not enough to bring you back.’

Mary Jane gave him a limpid look. ‘Margaret has the money for that? I haven’t.’

‘Good God, girl, surely a small matter of a few gallons of petrol...’

‘Well, just as you like. I’m sure Jim at the garage will have a man who can drive Margaret—you pay by the mile I believe, and petrol extra.’

Oliver went a dangerous plum colour. ‘No one would think that we were cousins...’

‘Well, no, I don’t think that they would, I quite often forget that too.’ She smiled. ‘If you go now you’ll catch Jim—he’ll be open by now.’

Oliver gave her a look to kill, with no effect whatsoever, and took out his wallet.

‘I shall require a strict account of what you spend,’ he told her crossly, and handed her some notes. ‘Now come along, Margaret is nervous enough already.’

Margaret was tall and what she described to herself as elegantly thin. She had good features, marred by a down-turned mouth and a frown; moreover she had a complaining voice. She moaned now, ‘Oh, dear, whatever has kept you? Can’t you see how ill I am? All this waiting about...’

Mary Jane got into the car. She said, ‘Good morning, Margaret.’ She turned to look at her. ‘Before we go I must make it quite clear to you that I have no money with me—perhaps Oliver told you already?’

Margaret looked faintly surprised. ‘No, he didn’t, he said...well, I’ve enough with me for both of us.’ She added sourly, ‘It will be a nice treat for you, a couple of days in town, all expenses paid.’

Mary Jane let this pass and, since Oliver did no more than raise a careless hand to his wife, drove away. Margaret was going to sulk, which left Mary Jane free to indulge her thoughts. She toyed with the idea of sending Oliver a bill for two days’ average takings at the tea-rooms, plus the hourly wages she would earn as a waitress. He would probably choke himself to death on reading it but it was fun to think about.

‘You’re driving too fast,’ complained Margaret.

Oliver had booked them in at a quiet hotel, near enough to Wigmore Street for them to be able to walk there for Margaret’s appointment. He had thought of everything, thought Mary Jane, unpacking Margaret’s bag for her since that lady declared herself to be exhausted; a hotel so quiet and respectable that there was nothing to do and no one under fifty staying there. Her room was on the floor above Margaret’s, overlooking a blank wall, furnished with what she called Hotel Furniture. She unpacked her own bag and went back to escort Margaret to lunch.

The dining-room was solid Victorian, dimly lit, the tables laden with silverware and any number of wine glasses. She cheered up at the sight; breakfast had been a sketchy affair and she was hungry and the elaborate table settings augered well for a good meal.

Unfortunately, this didn’t turn out to be the case; lunch was elaborately presented but not very filling: something fishy on a lettuce leaf, lamb chops with a small side-dish of vegetables and one potato, and trifle to follow. They drank water and Mary Jane defiantly ate two rolls.

‘I cannot think,’ grumbled Margaret picking at her chop, ‘why Oliver booked us in at this place. When we come to town—the theatre, you know, or shopping—we always go to one of the best hotels.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Of course, I suppose he thought that, as you were coming with me, this would do.’

Mary Jane’s eyes glowed with purple fire. ‘Now, that was thoughtful of him. But you have no need to stay here, Margaret, you can get a room in any hotel, pay the bill here and I’ll drive myself back this afternoon and get someone from Jim’s garage to collect you tomorrow.’

‘You wouldn’t—how dare you suggest it? Oliver would never forgive you.’

‘I don’t suppose he would. I don’t suppose he’d forgive you either for spending his money. I dare say it won’t be so bad; you’ll be home again tomorrow.’

‘Oliver won’t be back for at least a week.’ Margaret paused. ‘Why don’t you come and stay with me until he is back? I shall need looking after—all the worry of this examination is really too much for me. I’m alone.’

‘There’s a housekeeper, isn’t there? And two daily maids and the gardener?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Since we have to walk to this place we had better go and get ready.’

‘I feel quite ill at the very thought of being examined,’ observed Margaret as they set out. She had felt well enough to make up her face very nicely and put on a fetching hat. She pushed past Mary Jane in a cloud of L’Air du Temps and told her sharply to hurry up.

Wigmore Street was quiet and dignified in the early afternoon sun and the specialist’s rooms, according to the brass plate on the door, were in a tall red-brick house in the middle of a terrace of similar houses. Mary Jane rang the bell and they were ushered into a narrow hall.

‘First floor,’ the porter told them and went back to his cubbyhole, advising them that there was a lift if they preferred.

It was very quiet on the first-floor landing, doors on either side and one at the end. ‘Ring the bell,’ said Margaret and pointed to the door on the left.

It was as Mary Jane put her finger on it that she realised something. The little plate above it was inscribed Sir Thomas Latimer! She had seen it on the doorplate downstairs as well but it hadn’t registered. She felt a little thrill of excitement at seeing him again. Not that she liked him in the least, she told herself, as the door was opened and Margaret swept past her, announcing her arrival in a condescending way which Mary Jane could see didn’t go down well with the nurse.

They were a little early. The nurse offered chairs, made polite conversation for a few moments and went across to speak to the receptionist sitting at a desk in the corner of the room.

‘I didn’t expect to wait,’ complained Margaret, ‘I’ve come a long way and I’m in a good deal of pain.’

The nurse came back. ‘Sir Thomas has many patients, Mrs Seymour, and some need more time than others.’

Five minutes later the door opened and an elderly lady, walking with sticks, came out accompanied by Sir Thomas, who shook her hand and handed her over to the nurse.

He went back into his consulting-room and closed the door and Mary Jane decided that he hadn’t noticed her.

However, he had. He put the folder on his desk and went over to the window and looked out, surprised at the pleasure he had felt at the sight of her. He went back to his desk and opened the folder; this Mrs Seymour he was to see must be a sister-in-law—she and Mary Jane came from the same village.

He went and sat down and asked his nurse over the intercom to send in Mrs Seymour.

He could find nothing wrong with her at all; she described endless symptoms in a rather whining voice; none of which he could substantiate. Nevertheless, he sent her to the X-ray unit on the floor above and listened patiently to her renewed complaints when she returned.

‘If you will return in the morning,’ he told her, ‘when the X-ray results will be ready, I hope that I will be able to reassure you. I can find nothing wrong with you, Mrs Seymour, but we can discuss that tomorrow. Shall we say ten o’clock?’