The Poor Relation

by Susanna Bavin

  ‘Wait – please. Why don’t you cut your soap in half?’

  ‘You must think it’s a bloomin’ big bar of soap.’

  ‘But suppose you washed the floor and a bit of cinder got embedded in it and then the baby got scratched.’ Mary held her breath.

  The young woman’s mouth set in a stubborn line, then softened. ‘Aye, I’ll do that. Thanks, miss.’

  She left, but before Mary could turn to her audience, another woman appeared, this one a shawlie with a dowager’s hump.

  ‘Can you help me?’

  She found Alistair by her side.

  ‘Your services aren’t required, Mrs Turpin. Don’t worry, you’ll still be paid.’

  ‘Was my advice wrong?’ asked Mary.

  Alistair smiled. ‘On the contrary. We’d have stopped you if you’d said the wrong thing. You see, Miss Maitland, that young woman wasn’t acting. You just handled a real enquiry.’

  ‘You can start by typewriting a letter. I understand you’re a competent typewriter.’ The look Mrs Winter gave Mary suggested that competent typewriting made her the lowest of the low.

  ‘Yes, I am.’ She would keep this pleasant expression on her face if it killed her.

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that. There’s no room for slackers here.’

  When Mary finished the letter, she read it through to ensure there were no mistakes.

  ‘Let me see.’ Without looking, Mrs Winter wafted a hand in the air.

  Mary put the letter into it, feeling a flare of resentment. The last time she had been involved in any checking of work, it had been she who had examined Spotty Ronnie’s early efforts. Her own work hadn’t been looked over in years.

  ‘It’ll do.’

  It’ll do? It was faultless. She opened her mouth, then changed her mind. She wouldn’t give Mrs Winter the satisfaction.

  ‘Of course, you’ll have to do it again,’ said Mrs Winter. ‘We need a copy for office records.’

  ‘I’ve already made a carbon copy.’

  ‘Oh. Well, attend to the rest of the letters and make sure you do copies of them all.’ Mrs Winter spoke as if she had neglected to copy the first one.

  Fine. She would take all snippy remarks on the chin. Her work was of the highest quality and sooner or later this disagreeable woman would be obliged to recognise it.

  There was a tap at the door and Mary, sitting with her back to it, heard it open.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Winter.’

  Nathaniel! Her heart turned over.

  ‘Good morning, Doctor Brewer. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve come to see how your new assistant’s getting on. Would you mind if Miss Maitland went out later with Nurse Evans, so she can get a feel for what we do?’

  ‘Of course, Doctor. After all, it’s not as though she’s ever been a nurse, so she won’t have any real idea.’

  Was that a dig? She didn’t care. All she cared about was that the big bass drum inside her chest was inaudible to the others. She heard the door shut behind Nathaniel. Had she made a hideous mistake in working here?

  ‘Are those letters finished?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘And yet you’ve stopped working. Goodness knows, my expectations were low, but I didn’t think you’d fall behind this quickly.’

  She had had enough. ‘With all due—’

  ‘Save the speech. Everyone knows you got this job because of the smarmy piece you wrote for the newspaper.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ A faded-looking woman had appeared.

  Mrs Winter went to the hatch. ‘Are you here to see the doctor? The waiting room is the second door on the left.’ She turned round. ‘You’ll leave all queries to me. I can’t risk your giving out the wrong information.’

  ‘I helped a real patient in my interview.’

  ‘A fluke. I won’t risk the reputation of this office in your hands. The clinic has four nurses working shifts, and the doctors give a few hours a week, so the office is essential. Not only do I keep things running smoothly, I’m the only one here all the time.’

  ‘I’m now here all the time too. I have ten years of office experience—’

  ‘So you’ll know all about putting the kettle on. Two sugars for me.’

  ‘Better if just one of us goes,’ said Nathaniel. ‘More …’

  ‘Friendly?’ Alistair took the word out of his mouth.

  ‘Less intimidating.’

  That wasn’t the right word either. Thaddeus Lennox was unlikely to be intimidated. You didn’t get to be a slum landlord and factory tyrant by being meek and accommodating.

  ‘Toss for it.’ Alistair produced a florin.

  Nathaniel lost, so he asked Mrs Winter to organise an appointment.

  On his next clinic day, he walked the few streets to the closest of Lennox’s factories, a dingy place that reeked of grease and sweat. He had expected bulk and complacency, but Lennox cut a lithe figure. He was fleet of foot too, and darted from room to room, conducting their conversation over his shoulder.

  Nathaniel stepped in front of him. ‘Do you have an office? Somewhere we can talk undisturbed?’

  ‘Very well.’ His eyes said, If I must.

  The office was a dumping ground for boxes and ledgers, and none too clean, but presumably that didn’t matter if the man was on his feet the whole time.

  Nathaniel came to the point. ‘In a nutshell, sir, the housing you own is a disgrace. Your tenants, many of whom are also your employees, live in unsavoury conditions that could easily be remedied. Rot, woodworm, leaking roofs, problems with the gas supply.’

  ‘That’s quite a shopping list.’

  ‘Think of it as an investment. Improved housing means better health, which means a more energetic workforce.’

  Lennox barked out a laugh. ‘I don’t need workers glowing with health, Doctor. If they aren’t up to scratch, they get sacked.’

  ‘If they’re unemployed, they can’t pay your rent.’

  ‘And then I evict them. There’s always another family to move in and always a queue of men needing work.’

  ‘Where’s your sense of responsibility? Your tenants have to chuck bricks downstairs to make the rats go away before they venture down in the morning.’

  ‘My responsibility, sir, is to support my family. Why should I pander to my tenants?’

  ‘It isn’t pandering to provide decent living conditions.’

  ‘If I did up my houses, they’d be worth a higher rent, but the tenants couldn’t afford that, so they’d be evicted. Have you considered that? I’m making a living, not running a charity. I’ll carry on doing what I do best and leave the do-gooding to you.’

  ‘Good morning, sir. Can I help you?’

  Sir! Mrs Winter never called anyone sir. Alistair and Nathaniel were ‘Doctor’ and the men who came through the clinic’s doors weren’t anything. Mary continued filing, knowing Mrs Winter would bite her head off if she turned to look.

  ‘Good morning. You can help me by letting me speak to the young lady over there.’

  Charlie! With delight warming her cheeks, she hurried to the hatch, only to find Mrs Winter hadn’t stood aside for her.

  ‘Gentlemen followers at work? You’ve surpassed yourself, Miss Maitland.’

  ‘He isn’t – I mean, this is my … my …’ Was it overstepping the mark to claim kinship?

  ‘Cousin,’ Charlie supplied. ‘Charlie Kimber. How do you do?’

  ‘So it’s a family reunion … Oh.’ Mrs Winter’s mouth shrank into a knot.

  ‘I know it’s not quite the done thing, my turning up here,’ Charlie said with genial courtesy, ‘but I couldn’t wait to see my cousin again. Would you mind if I took her out at lunchtime?’

  ‘What Miss Maitland does in her dinner hour is her business, as long as she doesn’t bring the clinic into disrepute.’

  ‘Perfect. What time should I call for her?’

  How extraordinary to have a name that obliged people to do your bidding. Mary was grateful fo
r Charlie’s good manners. She would have curled up and died had he chucked his weight around.

  When he escorted her outside at one o’clock, the motor was there, being guarded from the grubby mitts of the local children by a couple of scrawny lads. Charlie flipped them a coin.

  ‘Cor – thanks, mister.’

  They darted away, whooping for joy.

  ‘I brought you some motoring togs.’

  He took them from the back seat. Standing beside a fancy motor, being helped into a long coat, was even worse than parading out of the house to climb into the Kimber carriage on the day of the dreaded Sunday lunch. She didn’t dare raise her eyes to the clinic windows.

  Charlie opened the door for her. The front seats were glassed in, but the rear seats were open to the elements, with a large hood folded down over the back.

  ‘Like a perambulator,’ she said.

  ‘Like a landau, actually. Hence the name “landaulet”.’

  ‘Is it yours?’

  ‘Lord, no. It belongs to the governor. You’re behaving as if you’ve never been in it before, but I drove you to the newspaper offices in it.’

  Something twisted inside her. ‘I had things on my mind that day. Where are we going?’

  He took her to a pretty tea shop near Seymour Grove.

  ‘They do simple meals at this time of day. I thought you’d be more comfortable here than somewhere smart.’

  ‘If you think I’m not good enough …’

  ‘I meant, because of being in your office clothes.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry I snapped.’

  ‘My fault. I can’t tell you how pleased I was when the girls said you’d dropped them a line about your new job.’ He grinned, his handsome features melting into boyishness. ‘And to prove it, here I am. Why did you leave the agency? They were vague about it.’

  ‘It was time to move on.’

  ‘Nonsense. You loved that job and left it without having another lined up. What happened? We’re friends, aren’t we?’

  She sat back to allow the waitress to place her vegetable soup and crusty roll in front of her, but her hope that the subject would fade away in the pause was in vain. She decided to own up.

  ‘I was seen in the motor with you that time. Lady Kimber complained to my parents and suggested they send me away. I refused to go and next news, the Kimber rent man told Angela and Josephine to get rid of me or else.’

  ‘That’s—’

  ‘—what happens when you don’t do as the Kimbers tell you.’

  ‘It’s—’

  ‘—life, for those of us who aren’t Kimbers. Thanks for being indignant, but don’t forget how you swanned into the clinic and bent Mrs Winter to your will. You were charming, but you knew she couldn’t say no.’

  Charlie raised his eyebrows. ‘I think I’ve just been put in my place.’

  She laughed. ‘I think your place is a jolly comfortable one.’

  ‘I like it when you laugh. Tell me about the new job. I want to dazzle everyone at the next meeting with tales of your success.’

  ‘I wish I could come and dazzle them myself, but my father put his foot down. Apparently, being with you at the meetings gave me inappropriate ideas, which was how I ended up in the motor.’

  ‘You mean, if I stopped going …?’

  ‘Goodness, don’t say that. My father had the audacity to suggest it to Lady Kimber and the idea wasn’t well received. Forget I spoke – please. You say you’re my friend. Prove it by not dropping me in it at Ees House.’

  ‘Tell me about your new job.’

  ‘I’m surrounded by ideas for articles, but I can’t write about clinic matters. Last week I wrote an amusing piece about Ozzie – our cat. Ozymandias, King of Kings.’

  ‘Splendid name.’

  ‘Splendid cat, and doesn’t he know it. I’m also putting the finishing touches to something I’ve called A Summer Walk – you know, wild flowers, butterflies, the benefits of fresh air, with a few flower meanings thrown in.’

  ‘I take it Autumn, Winter and Spring Walks will follow in due course?’

  ‘I hope so. I’m going to suggest it.’ She leant forward. ‘Actually, I hope Mrs Newbold at Vera’s Voice will suggest it. Wouldn’t that be grand?’

  ‘You still haven’t told me about your new job.’

  She had been brought up not to complain, but it all came pouring out.

  ‘… I’m happy to muck in, but there are limits. It’s galling being treated like the office junior.’

  ‘Shall you look for something else?’

  ‘No, I’ve got to stick at it. I’ve already left two jobs in the past few weeks.’

  ‘You’ll think of something. You’ve got initiative.’

  ‘Initiative? Me?’

  ‘Certainly. You were tired of the town hall, so you did something about it, and you worked wonders at the agency. You should hear the girls moaning and groaning about how things have slipped since you went. Then there’s your writing. Don’t underestimate yourself. You’re … well, earlier you thought I’d implied you weren’t good enough. Just so you know, Mary, I think you’re more than good enough. I think you’re top-hole.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lady Kimber sat at the walnut bureau in her morning room, reading the Deserving Poor Committee minutes. Behind her, the door opened. Marking her place with a fingertip, she turned as her husband walked in.

  ‘Might I disturb you for a few minutes?’

  ‘Of course.’ She went to the silk-covered sofa, inviting him, with a motion of her hand, to join her.

  ‘My dear, you must prepare yourself for a shock.’

  Her chest tightened. ‘Eleanor?’ No, Eleanor was here in the house.

  ‘Not Eleanor and not Charlie.’ Sir Edward sat beside her. Well, not exactly. Close but not touching. ‘I’ve heard Greg Rawley has taken a beating.’

  She forced herself not to drop her gaze. ‘What happened? Is he all right?’

  ‘Nothing that won’t mend.’

  ‘Who did it?’

  ‘Unknown, apparently.’ He laid a hand over hers, an enquiring look in his dark eyes.

  ‘I’m fine. Just a little shocked.’ A little shocked? She was weak as a half-set jelly.

  ‘Should I ring for tea?’

  Greg would have headed straight for the brandy. ‘No, thank you. Look at the time. You mustn’t be late.’

  He raised her hand to his lips. Greg would have turned her hand over and kissed her palm, her wrist. She shivered.

  When Sir Edward left, she sat, composing herself. Presently, she went in search of Eleanor. The thought of her daughter calmed her thudding heart.

  Things were progressing nicely. The first time Charlie had seen Eleanor, he had looked twice – literally. He had glanced round, then immediately swung his head back to gaze at her. Lady Kimber had made a mental note to ensure the moment was included in the father-of-the-bride’s speech.

  Having the young couple under the same roof made it natural to promote their friendship. Eleanor was enjoying her first taste of masculine company and Charlie was as vulnerable as the next fellow to a lovely face. There had been a minor hiccough when the Maitland wretch had thrust herself under his nose, but she had been dealt with.

  Eleanor was in the blue sitting room with Olivia Rushworth, their heads close together over a magazine. Eleanor turned the page, but not before her mother had glimpsed a fashion plate of a white gown with masses of lace.

  Oh yes, things were progressing very nicely.

  Charlie’s words had given Mary the kick she needed. Being stuck at home, then landing in Mrs Winter’s clutches, had dragged her down. It was time she pulled herself back up. She formed an idea. Unfortunately, she would have to take it to Nathaniel. It was either that or wait two days for Alistair to be on duty and – little as she wanted to be closeted with Nathaniel, much as she wanted to be with him – she refused to wait.

  He was due out on his rounds that afternoon, which meant he should arr
ive shortly before the end of her dinner hour. She ran upstairs to the doctors’ office and knocked.

  ‘Come in.’

  Trying to ignore the racing pulse that continued to respond to this man, she walked in. He was standing behind the desk, reading some papers.

  ‘If you can spare a minute, Doctor Brewer, I have an idea.’

  He dropped the papers onto the desk, but didn’t sit. ‘Let’s hear it.’

  ‘It’s about the baby clinic. At the moment, a mother brings her baby, queues to see the nurse, then goes home. What if we made tea so the mothers stayed and chatted?’

  ‘We aren’t here to run social gatherings.’

  ‘Maybe we should be.’ His eyes widened: did he think she was answering back? ‘It would mean getting to know some of the women and possibly giving general advice in an informal way.’

  ‘An interesting idea.’ He smiled, making her breath hitch. ‘But I shouldn’t expect anything less from you, should I? I’ll discuss it with Doctor Cottrell.’

  Her feet took her downstairs at a run. He had paid her a compliment. It was wonderful. It was heartbreaking.

  ‘You’re late,’ said Mrs Winter as she entered the office. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘With Doctor Brewer.’

  ‘I want the stationery cupboard reorganised, the top two shelves swapped round, then the bottom two. You’ll have to take everything out. And give the shelves a good scrub while you’re at it.’

  ‘Scrub the shelves?’

  ‘It’s easy to see you’ve never been a nurse.’

  While she was on her knees, half inside the cupboard, channelling her vexation into wielding the scrubbing brush and blinking against the pong of carbolic in the confined space, she heard Nathaniel’s voice.

  ‘Is that Miss Maitland cleaning the cupboard? That’s a job for—never mind now. Miss Maitland, might I have a word?’

  She sat on her heels. She supposed she should stand, but she felt flushed and grubby and put out. She wouldn’t have risen for Sir Edward himself right now.

  ‘Doctor Cottrell popped in to collect some figures, so we discussed your idea and agree it’s worth a try.’

  ‘What idea?’ demanded Mrs Winter.