‘Mr and Mrs Reed? Sit here, Mrs Reed, it’s probably the most comfortable chair. Now, what’s all this about?’
Giles went fluently into their prearranged story.
He and his wife had been recently married in New Zealand. They had come to England, where his wife had lived for a short time as a child, and she was trying to trace old family friends and connections.
Dr Kennedy remained stiff and unbending. He was polite but obviously irritated by Colonial insistence on sentimental family ties.
‘And you think my sister-my half-sister-and possibly myself-are connections of yours?’ he asked Gwenda, civilly, but with slight hostility.
‘She was my stepmother,’ said Gwenda. ‘My father’s second wife. I can’t really remember her properly, of course. I was so small. My maiden name was Halliday.’
He stared at her-and then suddenly a smile illuminated his face. He became a different person, no longer aloof.
‘Good Lord,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me that you’re Gwennie!’
Gwenda nodded eagerly. The pet name, long forgotten, sounded in her ears with reassuring familiarity.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m Gwennie.’
‘God bless my soul. Grown up and married. How time flies! It must be-what-fifteen years-no, of course, much longer than that. You don’t remember me, I suppose?’
Gwenda shook her head.
‘I don’t even remember my father. I mean, it’s all a vague kind of blur.’
‘Of course-Halliday’s first wife came from New Zealand-I remember his telling me so. A fine country, I should think.’
‘It’s the loveliest country in the world-but I’m quite fond of England, too.’
‘On a visit-or settling down here?’ He rang the bell. ‘We must have tea.’
When the tall woman came, he said, ‘Tea, please-and-er-hot buttered toast, or-or cake, or something.’
The respectable housekeeper looked venomous, but said, ‘Yes, sir,’ and went out.
‘I don’t usually go in for tea,’ said Dr Kennedy vaguely. ‘But we must celebrate.’
‘It’s very nice of you,’ said Gwenda. ‘No, we’re not on a visit. We’ve bought a house.’ She paused and added, ‘Hillside.’
Dr Kennedy said vaguely, ‘Oh yes. In Dillmouth. You wrote from there.’
‘It’s the most extraordinary coincidence,’ said Gwenda. ‘Isn’t it, Giles?’
‘I should say so,’ said Giles. ‘Really quite staggering.’
‘It was for sale, you see,’ said Gwenda, and added in face of Dr Kennedy’s apparent non-comprehension, ‘It’s the same house where we used to live long ago.’
Dr Kennedy frowned. ‘Hillside? But surely-Oh yes, I did hear they’d changed the name. Used to be St Something or other-if I’m thinking of the right house-on the Leahampton road, coming down into the town, on the right-hand side?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s the one. Funny how names go out of your head. Wait a minute. St Catherine’s-that’s what it used to be called.’
‘And I did live there, didn’t I?’ Gwenda said.
‘Yes, of course you did.’ He stared at her, amused. ‘Why did you want to come back there? You can’t remember much about it, surely?’
‘No. But somehow-it felt like home.’
‘It felt like home,’ the doctor repeated. There was no expression in the words, but Giles wondered what he was thinking about.
‘So you see,’ said Gwenda, ‘I hoped you’d tell me about it all-about my father and Helen and-’ she ended lamely-‘and everything…’
He looked at her reflectively.
‘I suppose they didn’t know very much-out in New Zealand. Why should they? Well, there isn’t much to tell. Helen-my sister-was coming back from India on the same boat with your father. He was a widower with a small daughter. Helen was sorry for him or fell in love with him. He was lonely, or fell in love with her. Difficult to know just the way things happen. They were married in London on arrival, and came down to Dillmouth to me. I was in practice there, then. Kelvin Halliday seemed a nice chap, rather nervy and run down-but they seemed happy enough together-then.’
He was silent for a moment before he said, ‘However, in less than a year, she ran away with someone else. You probably know that?’
‘Who did she run away with?’ asked Gwenda.
He bent his shrewd eyes upon her.
‘She didn’t tell me,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t in her confidence. I’d seen-couldn’t help seeing-that there was friction between her and Kelvin. I didn’t know why. I was always a strait-laced sort of fellow-a believer in marital fidelity. Helen wouldn’t have wanted me to know what was going on. I’d heard rumours-one does-but there was no mention of any particular name. They often had guests staying with them who came from London, or from other parts of England. I imagined it was one of them.’
‘There wasn’t a divorce, then?’
‘Helen didn’t want a divorce. Kelvin told me that. That’s why I imagined, perhaps wrongly, that it was a case of some married man. Someone whose wife was an RC perhaps.’
‘And my father?’
‘He didn’t want a divorce, either.’
Dr Kennedy spoke rather shortly.
‘Tell me about my father,’ said Gwenda. ‘Why did he decide suddenly to send me out to New Zealand?’
Kennedy paused a moment before saying, ‘I gather your people out there had been pressing him. After the break-up of his second marriage, he probably thought it was the best thing.’
‘Why didn’t he take me out there himself?’
Dr Kennedy looked along the mantelpiece searching vaguely for a pipe cleaner.
‘Oh, I don’t know…He was in rather poor health.’
‘What was the matter with him? What did he die of?’
The door opened and the scornful housekeeper appeared with a laden tray.
There was buttered toast and some jam, but no cake. With a vague gesture Dr Kennedy motioned Gwenda to pour out. She did so. When the cups were filled and handed round and Gwenda had taken a piece of toast, Dr Kennedy said with rather forced cheerfulness: ‘Tell me what you’ve done to the house? I don’t suppose I’d recognize it now-after you two have finished with it.’
‘We’re having a little fun with bathrooms,’ admitted Giles.
Gwenda, her eyes on the doctor, said: ‘What did my father die of?’
‘I couldn’t really tell, my dear. As I say, he was in rather poor health for a while, and he finally went into a Sanatorium-somewhere on the east coast. He died about two years later.’
‘Where was this Sanatorium exactly?’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t remember now. As I say, I have an impression it was on the east coast.’
There was definite evasion now in his manner. Giles and Gwenda looked at each other for a brief second.
Giles said, ‘At least, sir, you can tell us where he’s buried? Gwenda is-naturally- very anxious to visit his grave.’
Dr Kennedy bent over the fireplace, scraping in the bowl of his pipe with a penknife.
‘Do you know,’ he said, rather indistinctly, ‘I don’t really think I should dwell too much on the past. All this ancestor worship-it’s a mistake. The future is what matters. Here you are, you two, young and healthy with the world in front of you. Think forward. No use going about putting flowers on the grave of someone whom, for all practical purposes, you hardly knew.’
Gwenda said mutinously: ‘I should like to see my father’s grave.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you.’ Dr Kennedy’s tones were pleasant but cold. ‘It’s a long time ago, and my memory
