Christmas Wishes (43 page)

However, she found she could not ruin her friends’ pleasure by absconding on the day of the sledging party, so she decided not to tell Jason Slocombe that she meant to join him and laid her plans accordingly.

The train began to slow as it approached a small station and Gillian glanced at her wristwatch. They would have found her letter by now; probably they would be discussing it, deciding that Gillian had fled because she had been mean to her sister. She had engineered the row with her twin regretfully, for she knew Joy would be upset, but she told herself that it was just one of those things. She had to have a reason for her flight and could not tell anyone the truth, but at least she had left them an explanatory letter of sorts. Hopefully, by the time they managed to contact the Dodmans she would have arrived there and thought up some story that would satisfy the old couple and even soothe the worried breasts of her father and sister. Of course if she changed her mind and decided to dump Keith and take up with Jason Slocombe properly, there would be a great deal of difficult explanation to be done, but in her heart she knew that ‘taking up’ was a two-edged sword. Jason, the mature, experienced doctor, would not want to ‘take up’ with a girl of her age, who had no earning capacity to speak of.

The train slid to a stop at the platform and the porter hurried alongside, beginning to bawl out the name of the station. Gillian opened the magazine which lay on her lap and began to leaf through the pages. Presently she would be arriving in Barnstaple, finding accommodation, booking herself in for bed and breakfast … and her little holiday would begin!

Gillian descended from the train when it reached Barnstaple in a flurry of snow, alight with excited anticipation. She went straight to the infirmary and asked for Dr Slocombe, but to her disappointment the receptionist knew no one of that name either attached to the infirmary or about to take up a position there. Gillian explained that the young doctor, Jason Slocombe, had been in practice with his father, Dr Richard Slocombe, but had been offered a post – or so she believed – at this very hospital and was due to start work here the very next day.

The receptionist was charming and helpful. She summoned nurses and doctors and questioned them about a mysterious Dr Jason Slocombe who had told this young lady he had accepted a job as registrar in this very hospital. Unfortunately, though they racked their brains, no member of staff had so much as heard of a Dr Slocombe, either in their own area or in a neighbouring one. It was only when Gillian suddenly recognised both pity and embarrassment in their eyes that she realised she was making a fool of herself.

Jason was not here, never had been here, had no intention of coming here. If she had accompanied him as he had at first suggested, he would probably have told her that he would not start work until after she had left for Liverpool once more.

She left the infirmary as the snow eased, with many expressions of gratitude, and on impulse went down to the station, where she learned some indisputable facts. An elderly porter remembered the arrival the previous day of a handsome young fellow who had asked him to recommend a lodging. ‘Cheap and cheerful,’ the young man had said. ‘I’m starting work here as chauffeur at Huntingdon Hall, but the job doesn’t begin till Monday, so I’ll need a roof over my head for tonight and tomorrow night too.’

The porter had recommended his sister-in-law, whose house was only a hundred yards from the station, and as he had heaved up the young man’s suitcase had noticed the name upon the label. Jason Crawford, the label had said, c/o Mr Driscoll, Huntingdon Hall, Barnstaple, Devon.

So Jason wasn’t even a doctor, but a chauffeur! What a stupid, blind fool I’ve been, Gillian told herself, thanking the porter in a choked voice and setting off in the direction in which he had pointed. Not that she had the slightest intention of calling on Jason …

‘Hello there! So you decided to come after all; welcome to Barnstaple, my dear. I take it you’ve just descended from the train now pulling out of the station?’

It was Jason, urbane and smiling, in a white shirt and dark overcoat, a few snowflakes scattered on his shoulders. He was as immaculate as though he really were a doctor going off to visit his new hospital, and not a confidence trickster who had practised his wiles upon an innocent girl a dozen years younger than himself.

Gillian jumped and felt her heart give a tremendous leap, but replied as coolly as possible. ‘Oh, it’s you, Jason. Yes, I came after all, but you’ll be relieved to know I shan’t be staying. I am on my way to visit relatives and when the train stopped at Barnstaple I remembered you were starting work here … as a chauffeur, I believe?’

There was an infinitesimal pause before Jason’s mobile brows shot upwards and he grinned lopsidedly. ‘Well, well, well! Quite the little detective, aren’t you? I admit I exaggerated the position I should hold at the infirmary, but …’

‘Don’t bother with any more inventions, Jason; I’ve been to the infirmary and very soon realised that you’d lied to me from the word go,’ Gillian said wearily. ‘You were Dr Slocombe’s chauffeur, weren’t you? You had the flat above the surgery and acted as security when you weren’t driving the doctor. In fact you were a general handyman, emptying the dustbins, cleaning the car and brushing down the yard, right?’ Light suddenly dawned. ‘Why, it was
you
that my sister met on the train, not Dr Slocombe, and you were telling her a pack of lies when you pretended to be the doctor! I don’t understand why you did it, because she had nothing you wanted … why, if she’d taken you up on your suggestion that she should visit Dr Slocombe’s surgery you’d have been properly in the cart.’

Her companion grinned. ‘So she
was
your sister, that kid in the train! I’d not realised … but you’re right, my impersonation added a spice of danger to a rather mundane existence. Mine, that is, not your sister’s. What’s wrong with that? I wasn’t hurting anyone, if that’s what you think.’

Gillian laughed. ‘Of course it’s what I think, you stupid, conceited little man! You made a fool of me all right, but I’m wise to you now. I suppose Dr Slocombe found out that you had been using his name and dismissed you.’

‘I left,’ Jason Crawford said stiffly. Gillian watched as a tide of red crept up his neck and invaded his face, and realised that the words to which he objected must have been ‘conceited little man’. It had flicked him on the raw, for she guessed no one had ever called him that before. He took a step towards her, retribution flaming in his suddenly narrowed eyes, but before she could turn away to run from him for the second time a fat little woman in a floral apron came panting along the pavement and seized his arm. ‘Oh, Mr Crawford, sir, there’s a Dr Slocombe on the phone for you, something about a reference,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Can you come?’

Gillian had the satisfaction of seeing her adversary’s face go the colour of a Wensleydale cheese. Sweat had broken out on his forehead, and with one last glare at Gillian he turned and followed the woman who had accosted him. Gillian realised she had been holding her breath and let it go in a long whistle of relief, then set out once more in the direction of the station.

Chapter Sixteen

Gillian had not doubted that she would be welcomed with open arms by the Dodmans, but their unfeigned delight was balm to her pride. She arrived in the early evening, having splashed out on a taxi from Barnstaple station, and when she paid the driver and approached the once well-known front door she feared for a moment that there was no one at home, for no light showed. However, just as she raised her hand to knock a light bloomed in the sitting-room window, and she remembered Mrs Dodman’s little economies, which included not lighting the lamps until it was almost too dark to see one’s hand before one’s face, and handing out one’s bedroom candle with the injunction to snuff it if there was moonlight enough.

So Gillian completed the movement and knocked with the familiar dah, dah, dee, dah, dah which she and her sister had always used on the rare occasions when they had come to the front door. She would have gone to the back, where the door opened straight into the kitchen, but because she had not written to warn of her arrival she felt it would be an intrusion. And now she could hear shuffling footsteps approaching the front door and remembered, rather guiltily, how they had teased Mr Dodman when he had said front doors were only used for weddings and funerals.

There was a grating of bolts, long unused, being drawn back and then a quavering voice spoke. ‘Who be that? If you’re after my hubby, he be here all right. He’s been shootin’ rabbits; still got his gun cocked and ready.’

Gillian giggled, but sobered up at once. ‘It’s all right, Mrs D, it’s only me, Gillian. I meant to write and tell you I would be coming …’

The rest of her sentence was drowned as the bolts screeched back and the hinges groaned a protest as the door was pushed open. Gillian moved forward but was forestalled by Mrs Dodman, still clutching the lamp. She gathered her unexpected guest up in a hard hug, exclaiming tearfully: ‘Oh, Gilly, Gilly, Gilly, ’bain’t this the best surprise anyone could have? Come in, come in! My, how you’ve growed, my lover.’ She pulled Gillian into the tiny sitting room, then looked past her, holding the lamp high and peering out into the gathering dusk. ‘But where’s my little Joy? Joy? Don’t ee hide from me.’

Hastily, Gillian interrupted. ‘Oh, Mrs D, I’m so sorry but Joy isn’t here. The fact is I was supposed to be visiting friends in Barnstaple, only when I got there they were called away. I had meant to come on here to see you after spending a couple of days with my pals, but I was going to warn you by letter or telegram first. Only as it happens there simply wasn’t time. As soon as I arrived they had to leave, so I decided to come straight to you.’ She laughed. ‘It never occurred to me for one moment that you might not be here.’

Mrs Dodman laughed too, then shivered. ‘’Tes mortal cold in here, my lover,’ she observed, and Gillian saw her breath puff out like steam from a railway engine. ‘Best you come wi’ I into the kitchen where ’tes warm, for the stove don’t never go out so the kettle’s hoppin’ on the hob. We’ll have a nice cup of tea and tell each other all our news.’

Following her hostess into the cosy kitchen, Gillian was presently sitting on one of the creaky wooden chairs with a cup of tea before her and a plate of shortbread awaiting her attention. For a moment, sheer pleasure brought tears to her eyes. The mingled smells of the oil which fuelled the lamp, the scent of the bowl of hyacinths on the windowsill and those other, indefinable but well-remembered smells of the Dodmans’ kitchen brought nostalgia and a longing for the old days winging back. Then she shook herself; this was no time for indulging in reminiscences. She was going to need all her wits about her if she was to keep her visit to Jason Crawford a secret.

But Mrs Dodman was gazing at her with bright-eyed curiosity and Gillian decided delaying tactics were required. ‘Oh, Mrs Dodman, I really don’t want to have to tell everything twice,’ she said apologetically. ‘What time will Mr Dodman be home?’

The old lady glanced at the clock on the mantel. ‘It ’bain’t his turn for the milkin’ so he’ll be back in half an hour,’ she said, pushing the plate of shortbread towards her guest. ‘Help thyself; ’tes a long cold way from Barnstaple to here, as I should know since Mrs Goody and meself stand a market there from time to time.’

By the time Mr Dodman returned, Gillian knew exactly what she was going to say. She had decided to tell the Dodmans that she and Joy had quarrelled. ‘I was horrible to her, and I think it was because we are too close,’ she said. ‘When she was at the London School for the Blind she was only home at holiday times, but now she’s home all the time. She takes it for granted that I will go everywhere with her and do everything for her, in fact have no life of my own, and it was beginning to get me down.’

‘That don’t sound much like the little Joy we knew …’ Mr Dodman began doubtfully, but Gillian shook her head at him.

‘She doesn’t realise that she relies on me so heavily,’ she explained. ‘And when I try to tell her, she either laughs and says it’s my imagination or takes the huff and accuses me of no longer loving her. So I felt it would benefit us both to have some time apart. I knew, though, that if I said I was coming to see you Joy would have insisted on accompanying me, which was the last thing I wanted.’ She gazed wryly from face to face. ‘Did I do wrong?’

‘Yes, I reckon you did,’ Mr Dodman said. ‘If you want the wood without the bark, I reckon you’ve prettied up what happened so as to make yourself look better. You always were a one for stories; now let’s have the truth.’

Gillian tried to smother a giggle but failed. ‘Well, maybe what I told you wasn’t entirely true,’ she admitted. ‘But Joy
is
too reliant on me, and anyway she’s in work now and couldn’t have got away.’

‘That’s more like it,’ Mr Dodman said sagely. ‘But what about these young fellers you and Joy mention in your letters? What about them, eh?’

Gillian sighed. She might have known that there was no sense in trying to pull the wool over Mr Dodman’s eyes, though his wife was far more gullible. ‘Keith, d’you mean? And Edward? They’re nice young fellows, but … look, I’ll tell you what really happened if you’ll swear on the Bible never to tell a living soul.’

Mr Dodman grunted but his wife said eagerly: ‘I’ll fetch the Holy Book and we’ll put our hands on it.’

‘We shall do no such thing; that’s blasphemy, that is,’ Mr Dodman said sharply. ‘We’ll just promise not to tell.’ He turned to Gillian. ‘Will that suit your ladyship?’

Gillian agreed that it would, and began her sorry tale; she no longer thought of it as anything but that. ‘Well, Joy was travelling home from London on the train when a strange man got into her compartment …’

Gillian finished her story with her discovery that Jason Crawford was most certainly not a doctor but a chauffeur and that he was also a confidence trickster, since he had called himself Dr Jason Slocombe and claimed that the real Dr Slocombe was his father.

‘But what did he get out of it, my handsome?’ Mrs Dodman said anxiously. ‘Don’t say ee gave way to him!’