Her job as warden suited her perfectly. True, the salary wasn’t brilliant, but since she didn’t have to pay rent for the roomy flat on the top floor which came with the job, and since her food was likewise provided free, she had no complaints. Besides, she had never been one of the world’s great spenders. Her clothes, a highly original and eclectic selection courtesy of the local Oxfam shop, were often admired as being particularly stylish for a sixty-year-old. Her hair, which she had learned to coil in a variety of interesting ways, was trimmed but once a year. As for holidays, she had done enough tramping over the highways and byways of the world in her youth to satisfy her curiosity. Nowadays, she preferred to don her hiking boots, slip some absorbing tome into her rucksack, and take to the hills of Wales, Scotland or the Lake District.
The residents of Harrison House, she was well aware, regarded her as a harmless but eccentric aunt; faintly despised for her refusal to embrace all the so-called advantages of the modern world, but regarded nevertheless with some degree of affection. For the younger residents, she stood in loco parentis (more loco than parentis as she had overheard one of the music students remark) for what was often their first flight out of the parental nest.
Esme took a mouthful of shepherd’s pie and observed the residents. Veronica and Debbie, seated as always side by side in an unholy twosome, seemed wrapped up in their music and gave her little cause for concern. Perhaps they weren’t quite as involved in the hostel’s voluntary work as she might have liked, but their enthusiasm might grow, given time.
Next to Veronica sat Barbara, a buxom infant teacher in her early thirties, whose devotion to her work was paralleled only by her enthusiasm for her Brownie pack, of which she was leader. Barbara, Esme reflected, certainly pulled her weight in the voluntary work department. As well as helping to organise the Saturday Play Club, she spent at least two evenings a week helping her friend Rose at the drop-in centre in St Andrew’s crypt.
Rose, seated now on Barbara’s other side, was one of Esme’s success stories. A careworn Irishwoman in her mid-forties, Esme had come across her six months previously, weeping helplessly in the middle of Euston Station, and brought her back to Harrison House. The victim of a violent drunken husband, Rose had endured her marriage until her youngest child had finally left home, then packed her bags and fled her native land. Now, her self-confidence restored, she had proved herself an excellent co-ordinator of the drop-in centre at the crypt.
Next to Rose sat Jo, enjoying a night off from her waitressing activities. Esme regarded her with affection. Gruff she might be – and explosive too on occasions – but Esme had never come across a nineteen-year-old with such drive and determination. As she watched, Jo turned to Kate, seated on her left, and the pair exchanged a smile. Esme was glad that her deputy warden seemed to have found a friend in Kate; it would be good for her to have someone of her own age to confide in. Of Kate’s common sense and caring nature she had no doubt. Her friends, the Mathesons, had made it clear that they regarded her as a second daughter, and were only too relieved to know that she would be around to exert her usual steadying influence on Hannah.
Esme dished out a plate of apple crumble and passed it to Hannah. Although she smiled in acknowledgement, there was a subdued air about the girl which was far from her usual exuberant self. Esme sighed. Maybe being warden of a men’s hostel would have been an easier option.
“Are you OK, Esme? You haven’t got indigestion?”
“Only of the mental processes, thank you, Hannah. I was thinking about men.”
“That’s enough to make you frown all right,” Hannah agreed. “As a sex, they’re vastly overrated.”
So that was the problem – man trouble.
“I know one you might get on with OK,” Esme said tentatively. “In fact, I think you two would hit it off perfectly.”
“Yes?”
She could see that Hannah was intrigued.
“He only lives ten minutes away, so it’d be very convenient for you.”
“Who is he, Esme?” Hannah was growing impatient. “Stop keeping me in suspense.”
“His name is Albert Morris, he’s eighty-five and he’s recently lost his wife.”
Hannah’s face fell. “He’s one of your lame ducks, you mean?”
“Yes, but I don’t think it would take too much effort to get him swimming again. And somehow, I think you’d be just the person to do it.”
“What’s he like?”
“He’s bad-tempered, foul-mouthed and curmudgeonly. He hasn’t a clue how to look after himself and he won’t let social services in to help. In fact, he won’t let me in either.”
Hannah groaned. “He sounds a real charmer. What makes you think he’d make an exception for me?”
“You’re young and attractive and you’ve got a great sense of humour. I think you might well be able to win him over.”
She could see the reluctance on Hannah’s face.
“Your mother tells me you’re thinking of taking up social work.” Esme decided to apply the direct approach. “I’m sure she’d be delighted to know you’re trying to help an old man in the throes of bereavement... rather than, for example, spending all your spare time down at the pub.”
She caught the hint of panic in the girl’s eyes.
“I’d be absolutely delighted to visit Albert Morris,” Hannah assured her through gritted teeth. “You don’t have to use emotional blackmail.”
“Blackmail? What a thought!” Esme gave her an amiable smile. “I’ll give you his address after supper. And by the way,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “it’s Jo’s birthday on Friday. I just thought I’d let you know in case you and Kate wanted to give her a card or something.” One look at Hannah’s face told her exactly what she thought of this suggestion and Esme felt an unaccustomed twinge of exasperation. She leaned towards the girl and injected as much sharpness into her tone as she was capable of. “Unlike you, Hannah, Jo doesn’t have the benefit of a warm and loving family. I’d have thought your upbringing would have taught you more compassion.”
Hannah’s face flushed a deep red. “Perhaps Jo is the lucky one – at least people aren’t constantly expecting her to live up to someone else’s principles.”
Esme’s expression left her in no doubt as to her feelings on the matter.
Hannah pushed her plate away and lapsed into a sulky silence.
o0o
Kate stepped off the bus and turned right down the treelined street which led to St Mark’s Hospital. She walked briskly, enjoying the crisp autumn air which always seemed to carry a hint of woodsmoke even in the centre of London. A lot of the faces which passed her by looked tired, discontented or downright depressed and Kate blessed her good fortune in finding a job which never gave her the Monday morning blues.
At the end of the street she turned left through the high archway into the hospital precinct and mounted the steps which led into the colonnade. Outside the superintendent’s office she paused to wave to Celia, one of the clerks with whom she had worked during her first month as a temp at St Mark’s.
It had been an excellent place to start. Right at the hub of hospital life, the super’s office, as it was affectionately known, had given her an insight into the complex mechanisms which ensured the smooth running of the institution. Here she had learned the admissions procedure – how to interview patients arriving for admission to the hospital, fill in the forms neatly and correctly and – in the absence of an available porter – to escort them through endless winding corridors to whichever medical or surgical ward was expecting them. She had loved this part of the job; soothing the nervous, cajoling the reluctant and sympathising with the sad souls for whom a hospital stay was a bright interlude in an otherwise tedious existence. In the super’s office she had also learned how to deal tactfully with some bizarre requests from members of the public. S
he recalled the poet, dressed from head to toe in black, who had demanded a seat in a ward for the terminally ill in order to study the process of dying. Scarcely less strange was the request from a local drama school to be allowed access to the morgue in a bid to add realism to the portrayal of corpses.
Kate continued through the colonnade, down the steps and across the rose garden which formed the centrepiece of the inner courtyard. She remembered her despair when Sue, the clerk whose sickness had led to her employment at St Mark’s in the first place, had announced her imminent return to work thus rendering Kate redundant. By that time, she had grown to love the hospital, realising that in its institutional traditions and routines she had found a warmth and security which she could hardly bear to leave.
‘Why don’t you ask John Fielding if there are any other vacancies in the hospital?’ Celia had suggested. ‘Even if there isn’t anything permanent at the moment, there’s bound to be some department or other with someone off sick who could use you.’
So, Kate had nerved herself to approach the personnel officer with her request. Suave and debonair, John Fielding always seemed too busy with endless committee meetings to pay much attention to lesser mortals such as herself. But she had been pleasantly surprised.
‘Caught the hospital bug, have you?’ he had responded with a grin. ‘I’ll have a ring round, see what I can do.’
The very next day, the day before Sue was due to return, he had glided out of his office down the corridor from the super’s office and beckoned Kate over.
‘You’ll be glad to hear that Mrs Maybury, the receptionist over at The Willows, tripped over a paving slab and broke her leg last night.’
Kate had tried to look sympathetic but failed dismally, much to the personnel officer’s amusement.
‘If you want the job, you should be safe for a couple of months anyway. By that time some permanent job may have come up which you could apply for.’
o0o
Kate slipped through the archway in the far corner of the courtyard and took a short cut across the grass to the elegant Georgian house known as The Willows. At the front of the house she paused for a moment to admire the Virginia creeper, the leaves now changing from a dull green to their glorious autumnal crimson, then slipped her key in the lock and stepped over the threshold. Her feet sank into the luxurious green carpet which covered the entrance hall and staircase and silenced her footsteps as she walked through to the receptionist’s office at the back of the building.
‘You’ll find The Willows a bit of a change from the super’s office,’ Celia had warned her. ‘It’s where all the consultants see their private patients, so some of the secretaries tend to regard themselves as a bit of a cut above – if you know what I mean.’
But Kate had been so delighted to be staying at St Mark’s and had thrown herself into her new role with such enthusiasm that she hadn’t had time to notice any possible snobbishness on the part of the secretaries. Indeed, they seemed to her a particularly friendly and intelligent bunch and she enjoyed their conversation when they piled into her office for morning coffee or afternoon tea.
It hadn’t taken Kate long to learn the ins and outs of her new job and in many ways, it was less demanding than working in the super’s office. As receptionist, her main role was to answer all incoming telephone calls and put them through to the appropriate secretary, welcome patients as they arrived for their appointments, and keep the kettle on the boil for the interminable cups of tea and coffee without which the various occupants of The Willows seemed unable to function. Her first month had flown by and already she was beginning to dread Mrs Maybury’s return.
In the office, Kate sorted through the mail and put it into the respective consultants’ pigeon holes. Having checked the waiting room and tidied the magazines, she decided to put in some practice on the ancient typewriter which had been relegated to the receptionist’s office at some point in the distant past.
“So, you can type, can you?” Dr Beecham breezed in through the back door. “Wouldn’t you rather be a secretary than a receptionist?”
“Once I’ve got my Stage Two exam I’ll be trying for a secretarial post.” Kate handed him his mail. “But that won’t be for a while yet. In the meantime, I’m quite happy where I am.” She smiled at him. Of all the consultants who used The Willows, she had come to regard Tim Beecham as her favourite. A blonde Viking of a man in his early thirties, his friendly, open manner made a welcome contrast to some of his starchier colleagues.
“I’ll bear you in mind if Brenda ever leaves me. You’ve been doing a grand job on reception while Mrs Maybury’s away. We’ll be sorry to lose you.” With a final dazzling smile he disappeared around the corner and she heard his feet as he took the stairs two at a time.
Kate was well aware just how unpopular Mrs Maybury was with both the consultants and their secretaries. Autocratic and overbearing, she had been receptionist at The Willows for more years than anyone could remember and her retirement was eagerly awaited. Though keen enough to ingratiate herself with the consultants, she could make the life of any secretary to whom she took a dislike an absolute misery.
‘We’re only allowed one cup of coffee in the morning and one cup of tea in the afternoon,’ Brenda had told her on Kate’s first morning. ‘And she guards the biscuit tin as if it was the Crown jewels.’
‘You can have as many cups as you like while I’m here,’ Kate had assured her. ‘I’m glad of the company.’
Since then Brenda had taken to dropping into the office several times a day and they had become good friends. The thought of stepping into Brenda’s shoes and becoming Tim Beecham’s private secretary was a prospect beyond her wildest dreams, especially as she had had no proper secretarial training beyond her typing evening classes. Still, she reflected, as she inserted another sheet of paper into the typewriter, it had probably only been an off-the-cuff remark as far as Tim Beecham was concerned. Besides, Brenda had only been married for a few months and she and her husband were saving hard for a deposit for a house. There was no prospect of her giving up her job for some considerable time. And by then, Kate reminded herself gloomily, she would probably have had to leave St Mark’s and her name would have been long forgotten by the inhabitants of The Willows. With that damning thought she went to answer the front door bell and usher in the first of the day’s stream of patients.
It was four o’clock when she glanced out of her office window to see John Fielding striding along the pathway towards The Willows. Kate’s heart sank. No doubt he was coming to tell her the date when Mrs Maybury would be returning to work; when she, Kate, would once again be surplus to requirements. She heard the back door swing to behind him.
“I hoped you might offer me a cup of tea.” He gazed longingly at the kettle simmering on the gas. “The consultants keep telling me how generous you are on the drinks front.”
“Of course... I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” Kate stumbled to her feet and reached for the kettle.
“So, how do you like it at The Willows? Better than the super’s office?”
“Different, not better.” She took the milk from the fridge and poured a little into one of their most elegant bone china cups. “I enjoy the work just as much though.”
“Good, good.” John Fielding crossed his long legs and flicked an imaginary speck of dust off a highly polished black brogue. “You wouldn’t be averse to a prolonged stay then?”
Some tea slopped into the saucer as Kate turned to look at him.
“Sorry.” She mopped it up with a tissue and set it down beside him. “No, of course not. I’d be delighted.”
“I had a letter from the estimable Mrs Maybury today.” John Fielding sipped his tea slowly, an irritatingly enigmatic smile on his face.
“Oh yes? I hope her leg’s improving.”
“Getting better by the day I understand.”
“That’s marvellous.” Kate tried to inject some enthusiasm into her voice. “She’ll be back at The Willows in no time then?”
“She will – but only for her leaving party.” The personnel officer took a final gulp of tea and set down his cup. “She’s decided to take early retirement.”
Kate stared at him speechlessly.
“Which means, of course, that we’ll need you to stay on until we can find a permanent replacement. The post will have to be advertised internally but I’m sure you’d be in with a good chance if you felt like applying.”
Hope spiralled through her. “I certainly would, there’s no job I’d like better.”
“Good, good. I’ll put an application form in the internal mail for you, and a job description too, of course... though you could probably write it better yourself.” John Fielding rose to his feet. “Thanks for the tea. It’ll set me up for my next meeting,” he glanced at his watch, “at which I am already overdue and which will no doubt last well into the evening.” He headed for the door. “Keep up the good work, Kate.”
She waited until his footsteps had receded into the distance before dashing upstairs to tell Brenda the good news.
“That’s wonderful!” Her friend’s enthusiasm was heartening. “I can’t believe we won’t have to put up with old Ma Maybury and her airs and graces any longer. And I bet Tim would be happy to give you a glowing reference – he’s always going on about how efficient you are. Shall I sound him out for you?”
“Would you? A reference from one of the consultants would be bound to help, and I don’t really know any of the others well enough to ask them.”
“Consider it done.” Brenda slipped the typewriter cover over her machine and reached for her coat. “And now I’d better be off to cook lover boy his evening meal.” She paused. “Do you know the main difference between courting and marriage?”
“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
Onwards Flows the River Page 6