‘This is my future we’re talking about.’
‘I appreciate that.’
‘But you’re a busy man and you don’t give two hoots.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t need to.’
‘I’d better leave. We’re both tired—’
‘I’m not,’ Miss Rawley retorted. ‘I’m wide awake.’
‘I don’t propose to argue the point,’ he said. ‘I’ll bid you goodnight.’
‘Wait. There’s … there’s something you can do for me.’
She paused for such a long time that he grew impatient.
‘Well, Miss Rawley?’
‘I … I was hoping that … well, that we might be friends.’
Not for the first time in Helen Rawley’s company, he felt stumped. ‘Surely you’ve got friends. What about those people at the funeral?’
‘My brother’s acquaintances, not mine. The two dear friends I grew up with both died last year. That’s the trouble with getting old. Everyone you know falls off the twig and before you know it, there’s no one left. Well, I’ve decided I won’t stand for it, so I’m asking you to be my friend. I admired the way you looked after my brother, not just the medical side, but how you dealt with him as a person, the way you talked to him, sensible and direct but compassionate too. You gave him confidence. He was terrified, you know, simply terrified of dying. But you helped him find dignity and strength and I’ll be grateful to you for that for the rest of my days.’
‘Miss Rawley, if this is a way of manipulating me into taking your side—’
‘I’m an old woman. I’ve outlived my friends; I’ve outlived my brother. He and I didn’t always get along, but my position was secure. Now it’s not.’
‘Porter said the will is watertight.’
‘Security isn’t derived simply from having a roof over one’s head.’ She made a fist and struck her chest. ‘It’s in here. It’s a feeling. God knows, I hated my brother at times, but I never once felt vulnerable. Ever since the reading of the will, I’ve been apprehensive. First my nephew found that builder fellow, now he wants to rent out the place. The will may be watertight, but he feels no obligation.’
Nathaniel said gently, ‘The best friend you could have is Mr Porter.’
‘I don’t need legal protection. I have that, in so far as it goes, from the will. I want a friend, a real friend, and … I’ve chosen you.’
‘You’ve chosen me?’ Did she think this was how friendships were formed?
‘You’re an excellent doctor and you have a social conscience.’
‘Are you trying to prick that conscience?’
She sighed. She looked tired and tetchy. ‘Go home, Doctor Brewer. It’s clear my offer is unwelcome.’
Lady Kimber waited as the coachman approached the Maitlands’ front door. Moments later, he returned to open the carriage door and she descended, her features arranged in a pleasant expression. Good manners at all times, even when you were steaming with rage. There they stood, her husband’s relations, having tumbled through the front door, John Maitland on crutches, one trouser-leg taut over a plaster cast, the wife in plain garb suitable for household duties.
‘Your Ladyship,’ said John Maitland. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure. May I invite you inside?’
‘Thank you.’
Lilian Maitland made an awkward movement, as if uncertain whether to curtsey. Lady Kimber stopped in the hall. Crutches tapping, John Maitland squeezed round to guide her.
‘This way, please.’
She swanned into the front room. It was bigger than she had expected. Pristine too. No newspaper hastily flung aside, no mending on the go. Kept for best and hardly used: that was the lower classes for you.
She seated herself.
‘May I offer refreshment, Your Ladyship?’ Lilian Maitland asked. ‘Tea, perhaps, or I make rather good fruit cordial, if I do say so myself.’
‘I’m sure your cordial is delicious.’
She did the almost-curtsey again, then dived into the sideboard to retrieve what was presumably the best glassware. John Maitland lowered himself into a chair. The jacket, which had hung open moments before, was now buttoned. When his wife returned with a tray, she was wearing a fresh blouse.
She poured and Lady Kimber took a sip.
‘This is very good.’
‘Thank you, Your Ladyship.’
‘To what do we owe this honour?’ John Maitland asked.
She set down her glass. ‘I’m here on an unpleasant errand. It has been brought to my attention that your daughter has become friendly with my nephew.’
‘I know they met at the agency where Mary works,’ said John Maitland. ‘As to being friendly, she knows her place.’
‘And her place is not in Sir Edward’s landaulet.’ Seeing their baffled expressions, she said, ‘She was seen in my husband’s motor car with my nephew.’
Oh, the indignity of being asked by one of her committee ladies who the girl was! But worse was to come when she had asked Charlie. Mary Maitland, poor relation, granddaughter of that frightful creature who had ensnared Martin Kimber years ago.
‘There must be a mistake,’ said Lilian Maitland. ‘Begging Your Ladyship’s pardon.’
‘There is no mistake. My nephew informs me he drove your daughter to the newspaper offices to deliver an article she had written.’
John Maitland looked profoundly uncomfortable, as well he might. ‘It’s true that she has been doing some writing.’
‘I’m not interested in the writing, Mr Maitland.’
Actually, she had read the article in question with great interest since it concerned the clinic, and had found it well written and informative. It had another quality too, something compelling in the style that made you want to read on. It had been a shock to learn later from Charlie who F. Randall was.
‘I’m here because of this undesirable friendship. It must be nipped in the bud.’
‘She’ll have to stop going to the meetings.’
‘She’ll have to do more than that, since my nephew has taken to dropping in at the agency during the day.’
John Maitland hesitated. ‘Could he be asked to stay away?’
‘Don’t be absurd. He and my daughter will benefit from an association with the agency people and their interest in social reform. Ultimately, the local community will gain.’
‘I’m sure Mary—’
‘At the very least, she has overstepped the mark. At worst … well, it wouldn’t be the first time someone in your family has set their sights on a grand alliance.’
Silence rolled round the room, heavy with old shame.
‘Mary is a fine young woman,’ said John Maitland. ‘She would never—’
‘You must send her away for a spell.’
‘She has her job to consider.’
‘She has her duty to consider – as have you. If you have nowhere to send her, I’ll make the necessary arrangements.’
‘You must understand, Your Ladyship, this is a lot to take in. I have to think about it, and I’ll want to hear what Mary has to say.’
‘Nothing she says can be of any consequence unless she sees fit to apologise.’
She came to her feet and John Maitland made a grab for his crutches. There was no point in remaining. She knew her next move.
Chapter Thirteen
Mary walked into the office to find Angela and Josephine, early for once, looking strained. They sat her down.
‘We’re terribly sorry. It’s bad news,’ said Josephine.
‘Yesterday evening, the rent man called on us at home. He told us that if we continue to employ you, it’ll jeopardise our tenancy. So we must ask you to leave.’
Mary stared in disbelief. Seeing her friends’ distress, she fought to overcome her shock.
‘At least I’m in the right place to find another job.’
But she saw the look that passed between them and a sick feeling uncoiled in her stomach.
Suddenly Mary was weeping. ‘I’m sorry. It’s the shock.’ She mopped her face. ‘I’m on a fortnight’s notice, so there’s time to get sorted.’ Her forced cheerfulness disintegrated as she intercepted another look. ‘Don’t tell me. You want me out today.’
‘We don’t want it,’ Angela cried, ‘but we can’t afford to lose this place. It’s not every landlord who’d tolerate what we do.’
‘Well,’ she said, amazed by how calm she could sound, ‘do I work out my final day or must I leave immediately?’
‘Maybe she should go away,’ said Lilian. ‘I’d rather we organised it than Lady Kimber.’
‘It doesn’t matter what anyone organises,’ said Mary. ‘I’m not going. I’ll stay and find another job.’
‘How easy do you think that’ll be?’ asked Dadda. ‘I must say, Mary, I never thought you’d bring disgrace on us.’
‘I never imagined accepting a ride would bring such consequences.’
‘Rubbish! You’ve lived your whole life surrounded by the consequences of what Granny did.’
Mary started applying for jobs in the Evening News. Angela and Josephine had written a dazzling reference and she still had Mr Treadgold’s, which, though grudging, listed her qualities and experience. She spent long days beside Lilian, cooking, cleaning, shopping. Knuckling under at home was, in some obscure way, frightening. She was aware of submitting all the time and having no say. What if she failed to find another job? What if her life had snapped shut for ever?
Mixing bath salts and buffing up the fireplace tiles with velvet provided too much thinking time. Well, she must put it to good use. She compiled some household hints and submitted them to Vera’s Voice and The Gentlewoman’s World. They wouldn’t earn much, though. She needed to write articles.
What about one giving advice on writing job applications? It was worth a try. And an article based on her experience of changing from clerk to homebody. The words poured from the pen, rejuvenating her. She sent off the article to Mrs Newbold and was stunned to have it returned along with a brief letter informing her that it was unlikely to appeal to our readership, which is made up largely of housewives.
Her wonderful article – rejected. She hugged her hurt to herself. There was no one she could tell. She could have shared her disappointment at the agency, but not at home.
What was wrong with it? She had added an extra dimension by using her personal experience. Her agency friends would have appreciated it, she felt sure.
Unlikely to appeal to housewives.
Housewives wouldn’t want to read about her frustration. If they shared it, they wouldn’t like having it underlined – and if they loved their roles, they wouldn’t think much of a girl who baulked at conforming. She had alienated her audience. Would Mrs Newbold give her another chance? She rewrote her article, this time assuming the voice of a middle-aged woman.
A young friend came to me for guidance recently. She is about to marry, but she has been an office worker for some years and is concerned about adapting to her forthcoming role as housewife and homemaker …
It proved surprisingly interesting to write in the voice of another person. Perhaps this was a way of developing her writing.
‘Look at this,’ Dadda said that evening, folding open the newspaper. ‘Isn’t this the clinic you wrote about? They’re advertising for a clerk. They owe you a job after that article you wrote.’
‘I’d rather not.’ Her pulse was speeding.
‘You aren’t in a position to be picky. Show me the letter when you’ve written it.’
A strong feeling of disbelief clung to Mary all the way to the clinic. Her thoughts felt glued together. Should she mess up the interview, thereby guaranteeing never seeing Nathaniel again? But this was the only opportunity she had been offered and suppose she never got another? Her insides were churning one moment and stiff as a board the next. She steeled herself to walk inside. Along the corridor, a middle-aged woman, plainly dressed in a black skirt and white blouse, was showing a woman wearing a bottle-green costume into a room, closing the door behind her and coming back along the passage.
Mary perked up. She knew a lady-clerk when she saw one. The woman disappeared into the office. Mary presented herself at the hatch.
‘Good morning.’
The woman fussed with papers at a desk. It took her a moment to look up. She was a creature of ample proportions with roses in her cheeks, but her manner was all business.
‘I’m Mrs Winter and I run the office. Are you here for the interview? Name?’ Her eyes went to a list.
‘Mary Maitland.’
The gaze snapped up again. ‘You were here the night all the work was done.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Someone mentioned the name.’ Mrs Winter consulted her list. She picked up a pencil and crossed out Miss Maitland. ‘Candidates are waiting in the second room along on the other side of the corridor.’
She hesitated, waiting for the ‘I’ll show you’, but it didn’t come, even though the woman in bottle-green had been escorted.
‘Was there something else?’ asked Mrs Winter.
She stepped away from the hatch. ‘No, thank you.’ Mrs Winter knew she had been here before, so maybe she thought she didn’t need her hand held.
As she entered the room, three others glanced up and smiled politely. They were all older than she was and soberly dressed. Presently, the door opened and Alistair looked in. Mary stared at the floor, relieved it wasn’t Nathaniel – and then absurdly disappointed.
‘Miss Chambers?’
One of the women rose. A little later, the woman in bottle-green was summoned.
At last it was Mary’s turn.
‘It’s good to see you again,’ said Alistair, but she didn’t respond – couldn’t. There was a roaring in her ears, a treacherous bumping in her heart. Please don’t let Nathaniel be present.
Alistair opened a door and she walked in – and there he was, seated behind a large table. He rose as she entered. He smiled but she couldn’t meet his eyes.
Alistair waved her to a chair. ‘Thank you for coming.’
There were two women at the table, one plainly dressed with serious features, against whose sallow skin a string of pearls failed to appear luminous, the other a lady whose fashionable hat sported an oversized taffeta bow. She had a bright, interested air and Mary spotted self-conscious importance in the tilt of her chin.
‘Miss Beamish, the lady almoner from the infirmary, and Mrs Parker-Jennings from the Deserving Poor Committee,’ Alistair introduced them. ‘Perhaps you can clear up a mystery, Miss Maitland. We’ve read the article about the clinic, but—’
She smiled. ‘It’s my pen name.’
Miss Beamish leant forward. ‘Tell us about your journalism.’
She was happy to comply. It wasn’t often she got the chance to blow her own trumpet.
‘So the post here could be any old job, as far as you’re concerned. What you’re really interested in is your writing.’
She had walked right into that one. ‘I started writing because of my interest in social matters. The night the clinic was made ready showed me how important it is to the local community. I have ten years of clerical experience and I’d like to put my skills to good use in a place where people in need are assisted.’
‘And of course you’d be able to use the knowledge you gained here to write more articles.’
You don’t catch me twice. ‘I’m aware of the importance of confidentiality. I wouldn’t write anything inspired by the clinic without the consent of the doctors.’
‘You don’t have a job at present,’ said Nathaniel.
‘Unfortunately, the agency was unable to keep me on. I believe the reference supplied by Miss Lever and Miss Kennett shows how pleased they were with me.’
The interviewers, however, seemed more interested in Mr T
readgold’s grudging praise.
‘He says he felt let down when you left,’ said Alistair.
‘It’s true he wanted me to stay.’
‘But you elected not to.’
‘I’d worked in the town hall since leaving school, so I’m no fly-by-night,’ she replied, using the word that had been flung at her during her library interview. ‘I would gladly have remained at the agency, had circumstances permitted. My intention is to remain a long time in whatever post I am fortunate enough to get.’
She felt taken aback by the unsympathetic line of questioning. You’d never have thought she was the one who had rumbled Mr Saunders’ nasty little ruse or that she had written such a favourable article.
At last Alistair said, ‘I’ll take you to the office, Miss Maitland. Someone will come to the hatch with an enquiry and Miss Beamish and I will observe how you handle it.’
She did her best to suppress a fluttery feeling as she accompanied the others along the corridor. Alistair knocked on the office door.
‘Here we are again, Mrs Winter.’
Mary offered Mrs Winter a smile, but she walked straight past and left the room.
‘Have a seat at the desk, Miss Maitland,’ said Alistair. ‘Miss Beamish and I will stay over here.’
A figure appeared at the hatch and she jumped up. It was a young woman. With tired eyes and a lined face, she didn’t look young, but with a baby on her hip and another evidently on the way, she must be.
Mary smiled. ‘Good morning. Can I help you?’
‘I hope so, miss. It’s our Betty’s girl. She’s got a new position over Seymour Grove way and it’s give her some reet fancy ideas. She says it’s dirty to use the same bar of soap to wash the floor as to bath the baby. I gave her a slap for her cheek, but what if she’s right?’
‘She could have expressed herself more tactfully, but she’s right. It isn’t hygienic. You should have two bars of soap.’
‘Oh aye, I’ll wave my magic wand and conjure up some money. I came here for help, not to be told to do the impossible.’ She started to back away.
The Poor Relation Page 13