“When you’re courting, they can’t wait to take you out to restaurants and show you how generous and sophisticated they are. But once you’re married, eating out suddenly becomes prohibitively expensive and they expect you to slave over a hot stove every night.”
“I’m sure he does the washing up.”
“He does,” Brenda agreed. “But he smashes so much crockery in the process that it’s cheaper to do it myself.”
Kate laughed. “I had a father like that. It must be something they teach them at school.”
They went downstairs together and she waved Brenda off from the front door. The other secretaries and consultants had long since left, so she began her usual check of the building to make sure the lights were off and the doors locked. She took her time, revelling in the thought that this might soon become her permanent job. Not for ever, of course; she knew that one day she’d find a rewarding and fulfilling career for herself, but for now she’d be happy to settle for a stable period as receptionist at The Willows.
Lost in thought, Kate turned the key in the front door and pulled the two heavy bolts across. She walked back down the corridor to collect her coat and bag from the office, locked the back door behind her, and set off through the back route out of the hospital – past the morgue, the works’ department and the canteen towards the main road.
“You’ve got a bit of a spring in your step tonight, love.” Jock, one of the more cheerful of the hospital porters, greeted her.
Kate smiled. “It was one of life’s better days all right, Jock,” she agreed. Feeling a sneeze coming, she fumbled in her coat pocket for a handkerchief. To her horror she heard a clink, and just as the sneeze took the breath from her lungs, she saw the key to The Willows fly through the air and disappear down a drain beside her.
“Oh no!”
“Don’t worry, love.” Jock was down on his knees, lifting the heavy grill. “I might be able to find it.” His sleeve rolled up to the elbow, he plunged his arm down the hole.
Kate held her breath as he groped around in the murky depths.
“Sorry, love, no joy I’m afraid.” Regretfully Jock heaved the grill back into place and stood up.
“Thanks for trying.” Kate fished in her handbag and handed him a packet of tissues. “I suppose I’d better try to find Mr Fielding. I think he’s the only one with a spare key.”
She set off back through the maze of buildings towards the super’s office. The girls had long since left for the day, but as she walked down the corridor towards John Fielding’s office she heard voices coming from the committee room next door. Peering through the glass panel in the door she saw that a dozen or so of the hospital consultants together with several members of the management team were engaged in animated conversation around the table.
Her nerve failed her and she turned away, her feet automatically taking her back in the direction of The Willows. Maybe she could manage to get in somehow – perhaps one of the consultants would be paying a late visit to his room and would hear her knocking. Failing that, perhaps she could leave things until the morning. John Fielding was usually in just before nine, so she would only be slightly late in opening up.
As she hurried up the rear pathway towards The Willows Kate cursed her stupidity in dropping the key. In future, she promised herself, she would keep it safely on her key ring, not loose in her coat pocket. She took hold of the door handle and tugged it. It remained stubbornly locked. She hammered on its wooden panels and waited, but nobody came. Oh well, she decided, it would have to wait till the morning. Wild horses wouldn’t induce her to interrupt the meeting.
Then she glanced through the office window. To her horror, she saw the kettle bubbling merrily away on the gas stove. She groaned. Normally so careful to check everything before she locked the building, her excitement at the prospect of a permanent job had obviously proved too much of a distraction. Now she had no choice. Like it or not she would have to disturb John Fielding. He had said his meeting might go on for hours and she daren’t let the kettle boil dry and risk a fire.
Feeling slightly sick she hurried back to the main hospital building. This time as she peered through the glass panel in the committee room door she could hear raised voices and on the far side of the table she saw the personnel officer’s face flushed with anger. Kate took a deep breath, knocked and tentatively pushed the door ajar. Fifteen faces turned to stare at her. She felt herself go scarlet.
“What is it, Kate?” John Fielding’s voice was impatient.
“The key to The Willows,” she stammered. “I’m afraid it fell down a drain.”
“Best place for it if you ask me,” Dr Hugh Nelson’s voice boomed out. “I never did agree with private medicine.”
A titter rippled through the room and her blush deepened.
“Well, see me first thing in the morning then. I’ll be here at eight forty-five.” He shuffled his papers.
“I can’t leave it I’m afraid, Mr Fielding.” Kate threw him an appealing look. “The kettle’s still boiling on the stove.”
“For God’s sake!” He threw down the papers and pushed back his chair. “Excuse me for a moment.”
Kate followed him down the corridor to his office. “I’m really sorry, Mr Fielding. It was a stupid thing to do.”
“You’re right, it was.” He took a key from his desk drawer and handed it to her. “Maybe I misjudged you, Kate. You seemed such a sensible girl.” He held the door open for her to pass through, then turned on his heel and marched back to the committee room. The door slammed behind him.
Her eyes brimming with tears, Kate hurried back to The Willows, turned off the stove and locked the door behind her. Slowly this time she trailed back through the labyrinth of buildings to the main road. As she rounded the corner she saw her bus drawing away from the stop. There wouldn’t be another, she knew, for at least twenty minutes. Unable to face the wait she decided to walk back to Harrison House. It would take her over an hour and she would miss supper, but with her stomach in a churning mass of nerves the thought of food revolted her.
Slowly she wended her way down the main road with its sleazy pubs and betting shops and on through a maze of narrow streets lined with mean, terraced houses. As she walked, her gloom deepened. John Fielding’s cutting remark ran through her mind like a gramophone record. She’d never get the job now. With this one stupid mistake she’d lost his good opinion for ever. Hannah, she knew, would be able to lift her spirits and put things in perspective. But then, Hannah had always had the security of knowing that, whatever she did, however dreadful, she could always count on the unconditional love of her family. For Kate, love was something that had always had to be earned. Whenever she had displeased her parents, they would shut her off from their affection, cold-shouldering her until she had come to see the error of her ways. It was, she suspected, a form of mental cruelty, but it had been as effective as it had been unkind. John Fielding, she convinced herself as she dragged her weary feet through the shabby park which backed on to Harrison House, would never forgive her for tonight’s little fiasco. Her career was shot to pieces before it had even begun.
Kate let herself in through the front door and trudged up the stairs to her room. A note had been pushed under the door. Sorry to miss you this evening – gone to see Albert Morris to keep Esme happy. See you tomorrow, Hannah.
So even the comfort of her friend’s cheerful commiseration was denied her and Jo, she knew, would be waitressing until late in the evening. Though it was still only eight o’clock she undressed and climbed into bed. She would do what she had done so often before when overwhelmed by depression – take an extra sleeping tablet. At least she would be able to knock herself out for the night and things, as she knew from experience, had a curious way of looking distinctly better by the time the morning arrived.Comforted by the thought, she poured herself some water from the
carafe by the bed, shook the tablets into her hand and swallowed them down. Propping herself up on her pillows, she took The Forsyte Saga from her bedside table and prepared to read until the tablets took effect.
CHAPTER FOUR
Hannah closed the door of Harrison House behind her none too gently and stomped off down the road towards the block of flats where Albert Morris lived. Darkness had fallen and there was an autumn chill in the air which made her shiver despite her warm duffel coat.
She pulled on her gloves and cursed Esme silently. Fond as she was of the warden she couldn’t help feeling resentful. Why shouldn’t she spend her evenings in the pub, if that was what she wanted? Just because she came from a Quaker family she surely wasn’t expected to be doing good works in every spare moment. Her foot skidded on a pebble and she kicked it viciously into the gutter. Sometimes she wished her parents were atheists. At least then people wouldn’t have all these false expectations of what she should do and how she should behave.
A picture came into her mind of her tall red-headed father, wiry and energetic and her mother, softer and more rounded – both in character and looks – with fine, fair flyaway hair and bright blue eyes. What difference would it have made if they hadn’t had their faith? Hannah pondered for a moment, thrusting her hands deeper into her pockets. Her father had been born into an old Quaker family but her mother had been raised an Anglican and the school which she – and subsequently Hannah – had attended had been Church of England. For that at least Hannah was grateful. To have gone to a Quaker school might well have been too much of a good thing, though many of her friends at Westermouth Meeting seemed to have been happy enough at theirs. Her mother’s conversion to her new faith had come during her courtship and now, if anything, she was even more of a Quakerish Quaker than her father.
And whoever would have guessed that her father’s legal practice would be such a resounding success? People who would never have dreamed of setting foot in a church from one year’s end to the next seemed to trust her father precisely because he was a Quaker and they knew that his integrity was above reproach. Talk about irony! That a business should boom because of a religion which despised possessions and wealth! That topped the lot.
Despite the fact that they lived in a large rambling house with extensive grounds and had a holiday cottage in Cocklecombe to boot, their actual lifestyle was careful to the point of frugality. The large house was not simply for their own enjoyment; it merely enabled them to host any number of fund-raising activities and meetings and give free hospitality to a constant stream of needy friends and relations. Their furniture, like their car and indeed a lot of their clothes, was bought second-hand and the food they ate was largely home-grown. Even Cockle Cottage was only used by the family for part of the year. For much of the time it was let without charge to poor families from inner cities who were judged by social services to be in desperate need of a holiday.
Hannah sighed. She often fantasised about Downlands as it could be – smartly painted and full of elegant antique furniture with a swimming pool in the garden and a Rolls Royce in the garage. For a moment, she tried to visualise her parents enjoying their luxurious home. The thought made her snort with derision, much to the surprise of a passing youth who edged nervously away from her. Luxury, she realised, would sit uneasily upon her parents’ shoulders and, though they sometimes exasperated her beyond endurance, she knew deep down that she loved them precisely because they were what they were. At this exact moment, however, she heartily wished that Esme did not expect her to live up to their reputation.
The block of flats where Albert Morris lived loomed up in front of her, bleak and cheerless. Here and there a light shone out bravely in the darkness, but many of the windows had been boarded up, the occupants of the flats presumably rehoused on one of the newer council estates further down the road.
Hannah shivered. It was even more depressing than she had feared. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the entrance door. The stink of urine made her gag. With her handkerchief clamped firmly over her nose she pounded up the stairs to the second floor and pressed the doorbell of the only flat which appeared to be occupied. No one answered. Impatiently she rang again, keeping her finger on the buzzer for a good ten seconds. Still there was no reply. Cursing silently, she stooped down and pushed open the flap of the letter box.
“Bugger off!”
She jumped as the flap slammed back in her face. Her indignation rose.
“What do you mean ‘bugger off’? You don’t even know who I am yet?”
“Yes, I do. You’re another of them bleedin’ do-gooders and I don’t want your bleedin’ help. So, bugger off!”
Hannah decided to try a different tack.
“I was sorry to hear about your wife, Mr Morris. It must be hard for you managing on your own.”
“Sorry? What do you mean – sorry? You didn’t know her, did you?”
“Well, no, I didn’t,” Hannah admitted. “But that doesn’t stop me sympathising with you, does it?”
“I don’t want your bleedin’ sympathy, nor your bleedin’ help. Just bugger off and leave me alone.”
“If I promise not to sympathise and I promise not to help, can I just come in and have a chat?” Hannah stamped her feet wishing she had had the foresight to put on an extra pair of socks.
“Know anything about greyhounds, do you?”
“Greyhounds?” The conversation seemed to be growing more surreal by the minute. “Not a lot, no.”
“Then we ain’t got nothing to say to each other, cos the dogs is all I’m interested in. So, do us both a favour, lady, just bugger off!”
“Oh, bugger off yourself you stupid old git!” Hannah muttered. “I never wanted to visit you anyway.” She turned away.
The door flew open. “What did you call me, you interfering hussy?”
Reluctantly Hannah turned back and found herself looking down at a grizzled gnome of a man who barely reached her shoulder.
“I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have called you that. It’s just that I’m cold and fed up and I know that Esme’s going to have a go at me because you wouldn’t let me in and...”
“Who’s bleedin’ Esme when she’s at home?”
“She’s the warden at Harrison House – you know – the hostel down the road.” Hannah sighed. “You wouldn’t let her in either.”
“Was she the old bat who came two days ago?”
“Probably,” Hannah agreed. “She’s a nice old bat though. Well, most of the time anyway.” She shifted slightly so that the feeble light from the landing gleamed down upon her. To her amazement, Albert Morris’s wizened face broke into a grin.
“Well I’ll be damned – a bleedin’ redhead, just like the missus.” He gave a throaty cackle. “No wonder you’ve a temper on you. She was a bugger herself when she was roused.” He turned and shuffled back into his flat. “Well, come in, come in, don’t just stand there letting the draught in.”
Head bowed, Hannah followed him inside.
“What’s your bleedin’ name, anyway?”
“Hannah.”
He led the way into the kitchen. “I expect you could do with a cup of tea to warm you up, eh, Hannah?”
Hannah gasped. The room looked like a bomb had hit it. Piles of greasy plates and tea-stained cups were strewn over the draining board, while in the corner of the room a dirty clothes basket overflowed squalidly onto the floor.
“Er, no tea thanks, Mr Morris.” Hannah sought a convincing excuse. “I had a huge mug before I came out.”
“Since you’re here I’ll show you the rest of the flat.”
The sitting room was only marginally less chaotic than the kitchen. Dust lay half an inch thick on every available surface and the carpet hadn’t seen a vacuum cleaner for weeks. Despite the grime, however, Hannah could discern a room which had once be
en lovingly cared for. The late Mrs Morris, she surmised, had taken a pride in her home. The cushions scattered on the three-piece suite were covered in the same deep red material as the curtains and the dusty collection of porcelain shepherds and shepherdesses which graced the mantlepiece had obviously been chosen with pleasure.
“The bedroom’s through ’ere.” Albert shuffled off down the corridor.
Hannah followed him, mentally ticking off exactly what she expected to find... bed not made for weeks, clothes all over the floor, grimy sheets. She sighed. The room was exactly as she had anticipated.
“Not a bad little flat, eh?” The old man grinned at her. “I don’t know why all those busybodies thought I needed their bleedin’ help.”
Hannah summoned all her reserves of tact and diplomacy. “I can’t imagine,” she agreed. “You’re obviously quite physically fit and perfectly able to look after yourself.”
“Just what I told ’em.” He folded his arms with obvious satisfaction. “So, you think I’m doin’ all right, do you?”
“Your wife must have been a real homemaker,” Hannah observed. “The flat obviously meant a great deal to her.”
“That it did,” he nodded sagely. “She kept it like a new pin.” His eyes misted slightly. “Course, I don’t have the knack of doin’ things the way she did, but I manage. I mean, anyone can do a bit of bleedin’ housework, can’t they?” His eyes held a mute appeal.
“Of course they can,” she assured him. Then she caught sight of a small three-legged stool in the corner of the room. “I bet you’re an excellent carpenter, Mr Morris.”
He nodded, pleased. “That stool’s mine – made that at school, I did. I made that bookcase too, and that small table over there.”
Hannah was genuinely impressed. “You’ve obviously got a real gift there. Mind you, I’ve often thought I’d be good at woodwork myself if I tried.”
He looked at her doubtfully. “Takes skill mind, and you need a good teacher to show you how.”
Onwards Flows the River Page 7