"JILL DOESN'T COUNT"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 4 December 1940, Page 10

"JILL DOESN'T COUNT"

COPYRIGHT. PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

By

Phyllis Hambledon.

(Author of “Youth Takes .the Helm.”)

CHAPTER VI. Jill was almost nappy again. Oliver seemed so much better. He was tackling the practice with a new verve and energy. He whistled as he went about the house. He ate well. He went out

to the cai’ so briskly every morning, though the weather was bad, and tne waiting room full each night of the sick and weary. I believe he really was fretting over all that trouble with Viva thought Jill innocently. I believe now-the quarrel has been patched up, he can go on again. Why was Iso unwilling? She hasn’t been here again. Why was I frightened? Anyway there’s hardly a day when hex - picture isn’t in the paper. She has arrived. She has umpteen admirers. What could sjxe want with an unknown doctor, in a shabby car with a shabby wife? And Oliver- was so unfailingly kind to her that there were times when her heart beat high with hope. Perhaps after all, love would have its way. He was happy; then it must be she who was making him happy. Her laughter rang out again; instead of being cross and nervy, she could bring to every domestic trouble a quaint little quirk of humour. She knew the patients, they knew her. The doctor’s missus was a friend to the poor, and sick. It’s going to be all right, thought Jill, all right!

And once ox- twice Oxivex- kissed hexfiercely and hungrily, holding her slender body tightly in his arms. So unused to live she was, how could she guess that in imagination he was kissViva, and not herself. How could she guess that his kindness to her hid his remorse for his treatment of her, that now he was seeing Viva two or three times a week, and that he was cheerful and happy because she was the drug he so desperately needed. On the Friday following his first visit to Miss Barbara Barnes that young lady had again sent for him on the pretext that the lumbago had now become sciatica. And again Viva had been there, smoking cigarettes in the crimson and cream lounge, awaiting him. At first he had told himself that, if Barbara Barnes insisted on his attending her, he had no right to turn down ? lucrative patient. Afterwards he hardly thought at all. Barbara faded into the background. Viva worked now in the early mornings, but in the afternoon she would be alone. The maid who was used to the very best families admitted him. At first Viva was coolly and ceremoniously friendly, enquired for Jill’s health, said she was so glad the practice was beginning to “do” again, that anyway he was behaving splendidly. Then there was no more talk of Jill nor of the practice, but only of Viva and of Oliver.

Othei- men hung about her, but she did not tell him of them. Three times a week she kept that afternoon hour free for him. Her lip curled, when she saw how easily she had got him again. I’ll pay you out, she had said to Jill, in the language of nursery days. Oh, yes, she was going to pay her out all right! I’ll have Oliver, she thought,' and when I’m tired of him, I can go. He deserves it. He had treated me abominably. They both have. I’ll teach them both a lesson. I don’t forget.

It was lucky for ther Gerald Greer had gone to Hollywood in search of a comedian. When he returned, Oliver would have to disappear. Viva knew on which side her bread was buttered these days, ,but she had confidence in herself. Love might be a business, but just at present she could forget the business part of it. So the autumn dwindled into winter, and with every meeting Oliver drifted nearer danger. He still told himself, however, that Viva was no more than a friend, that he was Jill's faithful husband, that it was, in fact, impossible for him to be anything else. While little Miss Croft in Charnford rubbed her hands with satisfaction at the reinstatement of her beloved doctor, while Miss Henderson at the haberdashery sang his praises, there were people who watched his progress with brooding eyes. The Grahames had counted confidently on a new car at Christmas, as the result of capturing most of Oliver’s practice. The fact that he was getting it back .again was, of course, more than annoying. The pendulum of public opinion had swung round in favour of Oliver. There* were some who said frankly that they thought he had been punished unjustly, there were others, that at any rate he had paid for his fault, and that bygones ought to be bygones.

“Drat it,” said Dr. Grahame irritably to his wife one morning at breakfast', “it’s a pity I haven’t been to prison! It seems the smart way of building up a practice.” - » “It doesn’t pay in this world to be respectable,” snapped his wife. “It certainly doesn’t. That fellow Vereker’s as cock-a-hoop as if he had never been sentenced. I saw him yesterday down in the Loom Lane district when I was visiting the Stevensons. There are some good houses round there. I suppose film folk like something spectacular in the way of doctors. They’re sensation-mongers, all of them. Of course, Vereker’s wife used to be on the films.” “Yes,” said Mrs. Grahame slowly, “but ” “But what?” said the doctor. “Oh, nothing much.” " Mrs. Grahame nibbled a piece of rusk slowly. She had been going to say: But Mrs. Vereker isn't in the least like a film person. She had thought better of it. however. An idea had come into her mind, and she did not always share her ideas with her husband. Jill Vereker certainly wasn’t like a film person at all. In her shabby clothes, a basket over her arms, prodding cod in the market, or frowning anxiously because sugar had gone up a halfpenny, she looked plain and small and insignificant. And Mrs. Grahame’s maid was a friend of Jill's charlady. Mrs. Grahame knew quite a lot about

the Vereker’s menage in consequence. And she knew that Jill cleaned and cooked and mended, that she dispensed and washed up, was a regular- household drudge in’ fact. No, that didn’t go with the screen, nor with the talkies. But there was the sister, wasn’t there, the spectacularly lovely sister? She had been once to see them, the charlady reported, but she had never come again. Mrs. Grahame had never quite understood about that sister. Why, if Jill were 'the girl Oliver was in love with, had it been Viva in front of the car- with him on the night of the accident? Come to that, how could Oliver- be in love with Jill? Jill was plain, and Viva so lovely. Something unnatural ■ there, thought Mrs. Grahame.

Her nose twitched at the end, as it always did, when she was excited. She picked up a telephone directory. She found Miss Viva Ferrand'S address m it. Lilac Collage, Loom Lane. Why the Stevenson’s lived in Loom Lane. What more unlikely than that Bill had seen Dr. Vereker coming out of Lilac Cottage? And if he had, well that was funny, wasn't it? That was worth investigation. There is no smoke without fire, thought Mrs. Grahame. A doctor should be like Caesars’ wife, without reproach. And if he isn’t, why that’s bound to do his practice a lot of harm, isn’t it? she thought to herself. That evening, as it happened, Dr. Grahame went to a meeting. He was ? member of the parochial council. Mrs. Grahame took out the cai- herself. She drove in the direction of Loom Cottage, where lights gleamed behind daffodil curtains. She called at the Stevenson’s house, and asked to see Mrs. Stevenson. Mrs. Stevenson was a large, ample, impressive person, head of a dozen committees and charitable organisations. And she was one of the women who always sat in hexfront window, so that nobody passed it, without her knowledge. “I’m sorry to trouble you,” apologised Mrs. Grahame. “I’ve just had a breakdown with the car. It’s been put right now, but the phone at the garage was out of order. I wondered if I might ring from here. My husband’s always so absurdily anxious about me if I’m a minute late.”

“By dear, do by all means,” said Mrs. Stevenson. Mrs. Grahame rang up the house and gave the message. Afterwards Mrs. Stevenson pressed her stay fox- coffee. Mrs Grahame had counted on this, as a certainty. She accepted gratefully. And quite naturally, conversation veered on to the subject of the residents of Loom Lane. “We’ve one stockbroker, and a former Lord Mayor of London,” tittered Mrs. Stevenson, “but of couse they don’t count with our Chief Inhabitant. Viva Ferrand only lives four doors away from me.” “The film star, isn’t she?” said Mrs. Grahame. “Yes, and almost as pretty as hexpicture, if you like that sort of thing.” “I suppose there’s a lot of coming and going from her house,” said Mrs. Grahame. “Cars at all hours of the day and night,” said Mrs. Stevenson. “She has come up in the world lately. She has a chauffeur now. She used to live quietly with a little sister. But the sister’s gone. Somebody said that she was married. I don’t expect Viva has much time to miss her, however. She gets plenty of male company, at any rate.”

“Dashing young film stars, I suppose,” said Mrs. Grahame, sipping her coffee, very slowly. “N —no,” said Mrs. Stevenson, “not altogether. There’s a man who comes to see her. Quite a shabby car, and he’s shabby himself. But nice. In fact ne looks quite like a gentleman. Not Viva’s mark at all, I say, but she must pe encouraging him. He calls between three and four, three days a week at any rate.” “How very romantic,” said Mrs. Grahame. “It must be amusing living m Loom Lane among former Lord Mayors and film' stars. We never see anything as exciting as that in poor old Charnford. No, I really must go on now. It will be late before lam home again. Thank you so much for the excellent coffee.”

• The next afternoon Oliver driving up Loom Lane noticed vaguely a car at a corner. A woman was powdering her nose inside it. Most of her face was hidden. He never recognised Mrs. Grahame. Why should he? Ho had left Charnford behind him. He was going to see the woman he loved. Eut from that day whispers began to be heard in Charnford. The doctor’s carrying on with another woman —the doctor’s in love with a film actress, don’t tell anybody! I know it on the best authority! The doctor’s in I love, and he was only married in the summer. The doctor . . carrying on with another woman . . . (To be Continued).