LITMIR.BIZ

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Lucy, and need he have reminded her that her hair was mousy? She almost exploded when he added kindly: ‘Even if it is mousy it is always clean and shining. Don’t ever give it one of those rinses—my young sister did and ended up with bright red streaks in all the wrong places.’

      ‘Have you got a sister?’ she was surprised into asking.

      ‘Lord, yes, and years younger than I am. You sound surprised.’

      He was working his way towards the M3 and she looked out at the river as they crossed Putney Bridge and swept on towards Richmond. She said slowly, not wishing to offend him even though she didn’t think she liked him at all: ‘Well, I am, a bit… I mean when one gets—gets older one talks about a wife and children…’

      ‘But I have neither, as I have already told you. You mean perhaps that I am middle-aged. Well, I suppose I am; nudging forty is hardly youth.’

      ‘The prime of life,’ said Lucy. ‘I’m twenty-three, but women get older much quicker than men do.’

      He drove gently through the suburbs. ‘That I cannot believe, what with hairdressers and beauty parlours and an endless succession of new clothes.’

      Probably he had girl-friends who enjoyed these aids to youth and beauty, reflected Lucy; it wasn’t much use telling him that student nurses did their own hair, sleeping in rollers which kept them awake half the night in the pursuit of beauty, and as for boutiques and up-to-the-minute clothes, they either made their own or shopped at Marks & Spencer or C.&A.

      She said politely: ‘I expect you’re right’ and then made a banal remark about the weather and presently, when they reached the motorway and were doing a steady seventy, she closed her eyes and went to sleep.

      She woke up just before midday to find that they were already on the outskirts of Sherborne and to her disjointed apologies he rejoined casually: ‘You needed a nap. We’ll have coffee—is there anywhere quiet and easy to park?’

      She directed him to an old timbered building opposite the Abbey where they drank coffee and ate old-fashioned currant buns, and nicely refreshed with her sleep and the food, Lucy told him about the little town. ‘We don’t come here often,’ she observed. ‘Crewkerne is nearer, and anyway we can always go into Beaminster.’

      ‘And that is a country town?’ he asked idly.

      ‘Well, it’s a large village, I suppose.’

      He smiled. ‘Then let us go and inspect this village, shall we? Unless you could eat another bun?’

      She assured him that she had had enough and feeling quite friendly towards him, she climbed back into the car and as he turned back into the main street to take the road to Crewkerne she apologised again, only to have the little glow of friendliness doused by his casual: ‘You are making too much of a brief doze, Lucy. I did tell you that you could sleep all the way if you wished to.’ He made it worse by adding: ‘I’m only giving you a lift, you know, you don’t have to feel bound to entertain me.’

      A remark which annoyed her so much that she had to bite her tongue to stop it from uttering the pert retort which instantly came to her mind. She wouldn’t speak to him, she decided, and then had to when he asked: ‘Just where do I turn off?’

      They arrived at the Rectory shortly before two o’clock and she invited him, rather frostily, to meet her family, not for a moment supposing that he would wish to do so, so she was surprised when he said readily enough that he would be delighted.

      She led the way up the short drive and opened the door wider; it was already ajar, for her father believed that he should always be available at any time. There was a delicious smell coming from the kitchen and when Lucy called: ‘Mother?’ her parent called: ‘Home already, darling? Come in here—I’m dishing up.’

      ‘Just a minute,’ said Lucy to her companion, and left him standing in the hall while she joined her mother. It was astonishing what a lot she could explain in a few seconds; she left Mrs Prendergast in no doubt as to what she was to say to her visitor. ‘And tell Father,’ whispered Lucy urgently, ‘he’s not to know that I’m going to Holland.’ She added in an artificially high voice: ‘Do come and meet Mr der Linssen, Mother, he’s been so kind…’

      The subject of their conversation was standing where she had left him, looking amused, but he greeted Mrs Prendergast charmingly and then made small talk with Lucy in the sitting room while her mother went in search of the Rector. That gentleman, duly primed by his wife, kissed his youngest daughter with affection, looking faintly puzzled and then turned his attention to his guest. ‘A drink?’ he suggested hospitably, ‘and of course you will stay to lunch.’

      Mr der Linssen shot a sidelong glance at Lucy’s face and his eyes gleamed with amusement at its expression. ‘There is nothing I should have liked better,’ he said pleasantly, ‘but I have an appointment and dare not stay.’ He shot a look under his lids at Lucy as he spoke and saw relief on her face.

      Her mother saw it too: ‘Then another time, Mr der Linssen—we should be so glad to give you lunch and the other children would love to meet you.’

      ‘You have a large family, Mrs Prendergast?’

      She beamed at him. ‘Five—Lucy’s the youngest.’

      The rector chuckled. ‘And the plainest, poor child—she takes after me.’

      Lucy went bright pink. Really, her father was a darling but said all the wrong things sometimes, and it gave Mr der Linssen the chance to look amused again. She gave him a glassy stare while he shook hands with her parents and wished him an austere goodbye and added thanks cold enough to freeze his bones. Not that he appeared to notice; his goodbye to her was casual and friendly, he even wished her a pleasant holiday.

      She didn’t go to the door to see him off and when her mother came indoors she tried to look nonchalant under that lady’s searching look. ‘Darling,’ said her mother, ‘did you have to be quite so terse with the poor man? Such a nice smile too. He must have been famished.’

      Lucy’s mousy brows drew together in a frown. ‘Oh, lord—I didn’t think—we did stop in Sherborne for coffee and buns, though.’

      ‘My dear,’ observed her mother gently, ‘he is a very large man, I hardly feel that coffee and buns would fill him up.’ She swept her daughter into the kitchen and began to dish up dinner. ‘And why isn’t he to know that you’re going to Holland?’ she enquired mildly.

      Lucy, dishing up roast potatoes, felt herself blushing again and scowled. ‘Well, if I’d told him, he might have thought…that is, it would have looked as though… Oh, dear, that sounds conceited, but I don’t mean it to be, Mother.’

      ‘You don’t want to be beholden to him, darling,’ suggested her mother helpfully.

      Lucy sighed, relieved that her mother understood. ‘Yes, that’s it.’ She took a potato out of the dish and nibbled at it. ‘Is it just the three of us?’

      ‘Yes, love—the others will come in this evening, I hope—the boys just for the night to see your godfather. Kitty’s visiting Agnes’—Agnes was a bosom friend in Yeovil—‘but she’ll be back for supper and Emma will come over for an hour while Will minds the twins.’

      ‘Oh, good—then I’ll have time to pack after dinner.’

      She hadn’t many clothes and those that she had weren’t very exciting; she went through her wardrobe with a dissatisfied frown, casting aside so much that she was forced to do it all over again otherwise she would have had nothing to take with her. In the end she settled for a jersey dress and jacket, a swimsuit in case it was warm enough to swim, a tweed skirt she really rather hated because she had had it for a couple of years now, slacks and a variety of shirts and sweaters. It was September now and it could turn chilly and she would look a fool in thin clothes. She had two evening dresses, neither of them of the kind to turn a man’s head, even for a moment. It was a pity that both her sisters were tall shapely girls. She

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