‘You know I don’t,’ said Sophie.
‘She’s a good girl,’ said Lizzie. She turned back to her daughter. ‘And you might have to get a few other bits and bobs from the Co-op. I did an online shop but I just did it for the two of us.’
‘That’s fine, Mum. And it’s OK with you, is it, Bex?’
Bex nodded. ‘Of course. Right – I’d better get back to my lot. I’ll let myself out. Lovely to meet you, Lizzie.’
As Bex closed the front door behind her she felt really sorry for Lizzie – MS and so young. And it sounded as if Sophie was her carer… no dad. Tough on them both, she thought.
Chapter 5
A couple of days later Olivia looked at the pile of bin bags that, with Zac’s help, she’d finally got around to hauling downstairs and which were now heaped in the corner of the living room. God, how she hated this process of clearing out, of getting rid, of downsizing. There was no joy to be found in anything to do with this house move. The fact that Amy had cheerfully informed her that she could look forward to less carpet to hoover hadn’t helped matters either; if they weren’t moving and if Nigel wasn’t broke she wouldn’t have to face hoovering her own bloody carpets. And as for the fact there were going to be three adults crammed into a poky little house that was about a quarter the size of the space they now occupied… Gah.
Olivia flopped onto the sofa and thought about the future – and didn’t much like what was on offer. On the positive side Nigel still had his job and he earned a decent wedge but Zac’s fees still had to be paid and if they wanted any sort of security, when Nigel retired, he had to rebuild his pension pot – the pension pot he’d raided, along with almost every other asset they’d possessed, to fund his gambling habit. Their financial advisor had told them what Nigel ought to put away each month to give them any chance of a comfortable old age so, after that and the school fees had been creamed off – and, presumably, Zac’s subsequent uni fees – the leftovers meant they’d all have to tighten their belts. No more exotic holidays, no more city breaks, no skiing holidays, no Michelin-starred restaurants, no life’s little luxuries – like having a cleaner…
Olivia sighed. She was being self-pitying, she knew. They would still have a roof, they would still have enough food on their plates and, dear God, they’d still be better off than millions of the world’s population, but she’d got used to life’s little luxuries, she liked not having to worry about money – huh… that ship had sailed. It had not only sailed but it was halfway across the Atlantic. She sighed again. If she wanted to have a chance of a sniff of those things, ever again, she’d have to find a way of getting some more cash in the bank every month, and even she could work out that there was only one way of achieving it: she’d have to get a job.
Olivia flopped back against the cushions and considered the prospect. A job? For a start, was she even employable? She had a decent degree from a good university and she could operate a computer. She was good at organising things, she was literate, numerate… But she was also the wrong side of fifty and hadn’t had a paid job for thirty years.
She got up and walked over to Nigel’s desk in the corner of the sitting room and sat down in front of the computer. She typed ‘Jobs – Little Woodford’ into a search engine and then scanned the results. Data entry clerk, no… hairdresser, no… greenkeeper, no… ooh… now that looked hopeful – receptionist wanted at Woodford Priors. Olivia clicked on the link and read the job spec: reliable person wanted for front-of-house duties at a country house hotel. Good interpersonal skills essential, as is English as a first language… Olivia read to the end of the ad. As far as she could see she ticked every box. And, what was more, she could cycle to work. She gazed at the screen and thought about all the implications of taking on this job. For a start it would involve shift work. Would that be a problem? Not for her, but how about Zac and Nigel? An inner voice said that both were perfectly capable of looking after themselves but would Nigel really want to come home after a hard day at the office and start cooking? Maybe he’d have to. And Zac could lend a hand instead of playing stupid games on his computer.
Olivia made her mind up. She was going to apply for this job.
Half an hour later, dressed in a smart skirt and blouse, her make-up immaculate and her hair tidy, Olivia cycled along the Cattebury road to the turning to Woodford Priors. She knew perfectly well that she could have downloaded an application form on the computer but she didn’t want her application to be just one other on the pile. She was well aware that her CV would probably be the thinnest but she was also well aware that first impressions counted for a lot. As did enthusiasm, charm and good grooming – none of which would be apparent on an emailed proforma.
She cycled along the avenue of copper beeches that flanked the drive to the honey-coloured stone mansion, past beds filled with dahlias, chrysanthemums, autumn crocuses and verbena. In the car park to her right she saw a fleet of luxury vehicles – the type of guests at this hotel didn’t turn up in family saloons. At the front door, Olivia dismounted carefully, flicked down the stand and pushed open the door.
Despite the fact that it was still mild, a huge fire burned and crackled in the enormous Tudor fireplace. Thick Persian rugs and deep sofas were carefully placed in the vast hall and a discreet sign at the far end of the cavernous space indicated where to find the reception. Olivia walked towards the desk, her footsteps clacking across the ancient stone flags before being muffled by a carpet.
A young girl in a black blazer looked up and smiled. ‘Good morning,’ she said.
‘Good morning,’ Olivia responded. ‘I was wondering if it might be possible to see the duty manager?’
A frown creased the young girl’s forehead. ‘May I ask what it concerns?’
‘Yes, of course. I want to apply for the vacancy as a receptionist.’
‘Let me give you a form.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘But—’
‘But, it will save everyone a great deal of time and effort if I could speak to him.’
‘She is extremely busy.’
‘We all are, and this won’t take long.’ Olivia smiled. ‘Please,’ she added in a tone that indicated she wasn’t going to be shifted.
The receptionist blew hard down her nose. ‘I’ll ask Mrs Timms if she can spare a minute.’ She disappeared into the office behind the desk.
Olivia could hear a low rumble of voices and then an older woman in an identical blazer to the receptionist appeared.
‘Now then,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I want the job of receptionist. Honestly, I am perfect for it. I fulfil all the criteria; I live locally, I am utterly reliable, honest and trustworthy. I speak good French and a smattering of German, I am in robust good health and there is no chance of me going off on maternity leave.’ Olivia shot a look at the duty receptionist.
For a second Mrs Timms looked stunned then she regained her equilibrium. ‘In which case I can let you have an application form.’
‘And how many of the applicants are you planning on interviewing?’ asked Olivia. ‘Even if it’s only a handful it’s going to take a morning of your time – and I am sure a busy woman like you, running a hotel like this, has better things to do than that.’
‘Well…’
‘Precisely. So, as the deadline for submitting applications isn’t until the end of next week, I suggest you give me a week’s trial. If at the end of the week I haven’t carried out the required duties to your entire satisfaction then, by all means, show me the door, interview the other applicants and employ someone else.’
‘But…’
‘And you needn’t pay me. Call it an internship.’
‘But…’
‘I’m a quick learner and I can supply any number of references.’
Mrs Timms looked shell-shocked.
‘What have you got to lose?’ Olivia smiled at her.
There was a pause while Mrs Timms thought about it. ‘Nothing… I
suppose.’
‘Indeed. Mrs Timms, I’ll be frank with you, I want this job, very much. If you give me a chance, I won’t let you down.’
‘Mrs…’
‘Laithwaite. Olivia Laithwaite.’
‘Mrs Laithwaite, I can see that. Your drive and determination are commendable but the decision isn’t mine.’
‘But you will have a say.’
Mrs Timms nodded.
‘Then all I ask of you is that you relay this conversation to the person who has the ultimate responsibility for filling this post.’ Olivia pulled a card from her jacket pocket. ‘All my contact details are here. If I could ask you to let me know as soon as you have made a decision. Thank you for your time and I look forward to hearing from you.’
Olivia turned and retraced her steps. When she got outside she leaned against the wall by the front door. The show of confidence and bravado had left her feeling completely drained. What was more she was completely unsure whether her approach had been a ghastly mistake or a stroke of genius.
Later that day Olivia got back from a trip to the second-hand dress shop feeling quite up-beat as the dress-shop owner had offered her rather more for the dresses than she’d been expecting.
‘It is, of course, dependent on whether they sell or not,’ she’d been told, ‘but from experience, your outfits are exactly what tend to have a quick turnaround.’
As she dropped her handbag on the coffee table she could hear music playing from Zac’s room. She was glad he was home as she had a couple of jobs for him – one of them being to give her a hand with all the bags for the Oxfam shop. She might as well make the most of having another pair of hands before he returned to school in a few days. But first, she needed a coffee before she carried on with the packing and the sorting. As the kettle boiled she noticed the light flashing on the answering machine. She hit the playback button.
‘This is a message for Mrs Olivia Laithwaite,’ said an unknown voice. ‘I am ringing you from Woodford Priors and I have been asked to contact you regarding an interview with Mr Jameson, the manager. Please will you ring back and arrange an appointment with him at your earliest convenience.’
Callooh-callay, thought Olivia as she spooned coffee grounds into the cafetière. Maybe her brass neck had paid off after all.
A few minutes later, she took a sip of her coffee followed by a deep breath, then she phoned the hotel.
‘I had a message to call Mr Jameson,’ she said to the operator. ‘It’s Olivia Laithwaite.’
‘Please hold while I put you through.’
Awful plinketty-plunk music came down the line. That’s got to go, thought Olivia. Who on earth had thought this ghastly racket was appropriate for a hotel like Woodford Priors? No, they should have something like Bach’s Double Violin Concerto; something classical and soothing.
There was a click. ‘Mrs Laithwaite?’
‘Yes, you asked for me to ring you.’
‘Indeed. Mrs Timms passed on your message. I have to say that your approach to answering a job application is a first.’
‘Yes, well…’
‘But your enthusiasm is to be commended.’
‘Thank you.’
‘As is your offer to work unpaid for a trial period.’
‘It seems only sensible.’
‘So, unconventional though it all is, we have decided to give you a trial of one week, starting Monday, with the strict understanding that if we find your work unsatisfactory in any way, the arrangement will be terminated with no liability on either side.’
‘I completely understand, Mr Jameson. What time do you want me on duty on Monday?’
‘Eleven o’clock.’
‘Eleven?’
‘The staff will be very busy checking out guests before that and will not have the time or the manpower to start training you or look after you.’
‘Yes, yes, I fully understand.’
‘And please wear either a black skirt or trousers and a white blouse. We will provide you with the appropriate jacket.’
‘Yes, yes of course.’ For a second Olivia panicked that she’d got rid of her black skirt but then remembered that the Oxfam bags had yet to be delivered to the charity shop. Thank goodness for that.
‘Right, we’ll see you on Monday.’
‘Yes, Mr Jameson. And thank you.’
Olivia put the phone down and grinned. Yes!
Chapter 6
Heather was busy trying to decipher the handwriting of a parishioner who had sent in an article for the parish magazine – a piece about the wild flowers to be found in the graveyard. She wished everyone who liked to contribute had access to computers and email. While she and Brian were always desperately grateful for anything to fill out the meagre pages of their quarterly newsletter, there were times when she wasn’t sure that the contributions were worth the time and effort required to put them in to legible, grammatical and correctly spelt English. She squinted at a word which was, like the rest of the piece, written in thick black pencil. What the heck could it be? She read the sentences either side of it to see if she could work out what it might be from the context. Nope.
The doorbell rang so Heather dropped the piece of lined notepaper on the table and got up to answer it. A stranger stood on the doorstep. Nothing unusual there – one of the ‘joys’ of living in a vicarage.
‘Can I help you?’ said Heather.
‘I’m from the bell foundry.’
‘About the bells?’
The man grinned. ‘Well, I’m not here to give advice on drains.’
‘Sorry. And, although there is a lot wrong with this house, the drains, touch wood,’ Heather touched the door jamb, ‘are functioning just fine. She smiled. ‘My husband didn’t tell me you might be calling.’
‘No, he wouldn’t have. To be honest I didn’t know I’d be calling either but I saw a sign to the town on my way back to the foundry from another job and I thought I might as well drop in while I was passing. This will only be an initial inspection and I may not be able to give you a proper heads-up to the extent of the problem but, if it looks serious, I’ll know what equipment I’ll need to bring with me to give you a proper report and estimate of the cost. And I’m Graham. Graham Kennedy.’
Heather opened the door wide. ‘Come in. Come and talk to Brian about the bells.’
She showed him into Brian’s study and offered the men coffee.
‘Tea, please,’ said Graham.
Heather retired to the kitchen to make it and glanced again at the scrawled page of nature notes. She felt any energy she might have had drain out of her. She made the men their drinks and noticed as she did that they were almost out of milk. She carried through the two mugs then picked up her purse and headed out of the front door – go and buy milk or deal with the nature notes? No contest. She knew this was displacement activity and she’d have to face the near illiterate scribble later but the sun was shining, the weather was still warm and buying milk was a legitimate excuse to bunk off for a few minutes.
She walked up the road, past the cricket pitch, past the ancient oaks and the stand of yew trees and stopped to look back at the church. It would be, she thought, such a shame if the bells were silenced. This was such a quintessentially English scene and when the bells rang and there was a cricket match being played she sometimes felt there wasn’t a more perfect spot in the world. Yes, without the bells the church with its fat Norman tower and the nearby cricket pitch would still be there but it wouldn’t be the same. A proper peal of bells was the epitome of England. Nowhere else in the world did bells like the English did, she thought. She made her mind up – she would do her very best to raise the money. Whatever it took, it would be worth it.
The energy that had been sapped by the awful article she was supposed to type up was replaced by firm determination to succeed in her mission. She strode on towards the Co-op, up to the end of the road, onto the high street and then she made her way along the pavement to the little supermarket. Her way was
impeded by a pile of black bin bags outside the Oxfam shop. She was about to ‘tut’ when Zac came out of the shop and grabbed one.
‘Oh, hello, Mrs Simmonds,’ he said as he hauled it off the heap.
‘Not at school?’ she said.
‘Next week. We go back later than state schools.’
He hefted the bag off into the shop and his place was taken by Olivia.
‘Afternoon, Olivia.’ Heather gestured to the mound of bags. ‘The fruits of our labours?’
‘Indeed. And I was coming to see you later.’
‘Really?’
‘I’ve got some good news.’
Zac returned from the shop empty handed and grabbed another bag.
‘Yes,’ said Olivia. ‘I’ve got a job – well, I might have.’
‘That’s great but I didn’t know you’d applied for one.’
Olivia recounted the nub of the story.
‘Only you,’ said Heather, ‘would have that sort of nerve.’
Zac come out of the shop again, cast a baleful look at his mother and removed yet another bag which he dragged over the pavement and into the shop.
‘Well, it’s not completely a done deal. I have to prove myself.’
‘You will but I have to say I think you’re bonkers starting a new job with everything else you’ve got going on in your life right now.’
‘Mum, are you helping or are you going to let me do this on my own?’ said Zac on his return.
‘I know, I know and I must go and help Zac. But wish me luck. I start Monday.’ Olivia picked up another bag and said over her shoulder, ‘I might have to give up on some committees.’
Heather continued on her way to the Co-op. Woodford Priors’ gain would be the town’s loss. Olivia might be a bit of a busybody but she was a dynamo who got things done. She wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea but she was a force for good and while Heather was happy for Olivia, she’d been assuming that, once Olivia had moved, she’d be able to rely on her to help with the fundraising. That hope now seemed to be shattered. Heather’s new-found determination was already wavering.
The Bells of Little Woodford Page 5