by Betty Neels
Mrs. Legge was sitting beside a cosy little fire, and a small table drawn up to her chair held an array of account books and a sheaf of bills. She put down her pen as Sarah knocked and went in, and looked at her, eyeing her case and Charles in his basket up and down.
"Sarah Fletcher?" she asked briskly.
"Yes, Mrs. Legge' Sarah stood patiently, waiting to hear what came next. Mrs. Legge looked severe but not unkind. Sarah hoped that she liked cats, and was relieved when the housekeeper said, still brisk, "You have the end cottage in the row opposite the kitchen door. Take your things there and come back to the servants' hall for your tea. Have you food for your cat?"
Sarah said that yes, thank you, she had, and went back the way she had come and out into the courtyard. Sure enough, there was the row of cottages facing her. They weren't really cottages-she suspected that at one time they had been a storage barn which had been converted, for there were four doors with four windows, a slate roof and a number beside each door. Presumably she was number four; she turned the handle and found the door open, the key in the lock on the inside. Inside, it was a great deal nicer than she had hoped: the room was small, furnished simply with a divan bed against one wall, but through another door was a very cramped shower-room and loo, and still another door opening on to a minute sink, a set of shelves and a gas ring. And, best of all, there was a door leading to an enclosed yard used by all four cottages, with a clothes-line, a wooden seat and a neglected flower-bed against the end fence. Sarah put down her case and let Charles out of his basket. He cringed a little-after years on his balcony, seemingly he was suspicious of so much open ground. Sarah picked him up and carried him as far as the fence and pointed out the flower-bed, pleased to see that he understood exactly what she meant. Presently he followed her back into the little cottage, ate the tea she put out for him and settled down on the divan. She went back to the house once more, very neat in her blouse and skirt, not a hair out of place.
There was no one in the kitchen and she stood irresolute until Knott put his head round the door at the far end. "In here," he told her, and added, "It's all a bit strange-you will soon settle down."
She smiled at him, grateful for his heartening words, and following him went into the servants' hall. Quite a comfortable room, she saw, with a long table down its centre with chairs all round it, and a couple of armchairs by the open fire. There was a piano in one corner and a dartboard on a wall, as well as a large TV dominating one end of the room.
She stood, uncertain where she should sit. Her own home hadn't been a grand house, but it had had its complement of servants and she remembered how strictly the hierarchy of the domestic world was obeyed.
"You'll sit there," said Mrs. Legge from the head of the table, "next to Parsons, our parlourmaid, and that's Molly the kitchen maid on your other side."
Sarah sat, greeted her neighbours politely, accepted a cup of very strong tea and a slice of bread and butter, cut thickly and lavishly spread, and waited to be spoken to.
"You're to be taken to Lady Wesley at six o'clock sharp," said Mrs. Legge. "You'll change into uniform, Fletcher, and Parsons will take you round the house afterwards. You'll start work at half-past six tomorrow morning, and I'll see you after breakfast in my room."
Sarah said, "Yes, Mrs. Legge' and ate her bread and butter, and after a while the elderly man at the end of the table whom she took to be the butler asked her where she had been in service before.
A tricky question. "Quite a small house in the country," she told him. "Well, a manor house, only three staff." She paused, remembering the elderly cook, and old Nick, who did all the odd jobs as well as the garden, and Becky, who wasn't quite as bright as she should have been. Her stepmother had tried hard to get rid of them, but her father hadn't allowed it, and when he'd died Sarah had been delighted to discover that he had left each of them some money, enough to soften the blow of their discharge. She sent them a Christmas card each year and they always remembered her birthday…
"You were happy there?"
"Yes…' She hesitated, and Mr. Cork saved her from thinking up the right answer by observing pompously, "Well, I dare say you wished to improve yourself. This is a well-run household, as you will quickly discover for yourself. We are understaffed, but you look to be a sensible young woman. I hope you are strong." He eyed her small, too thin person with some doubt, and she made haste to assure him that she was very strong and not easily tired.
He nodded and passed his cup for more tea, and she ate a second slice of bread and butter before he said a lengthy grace and everyone got to their feet.
Lady Wesley was in her sitting-room checking the household accounts with a sharp eye. She trusted her servants, but like so many well-to do people she was inclined to meanness-certainly she liked to know where every penny went. She nodded to the housekeeper to go, took off her reading glasses and put on a pair of large hornrimmed ones, and studied Sarah.
"You appear smaller-I suppose it is the uniform." Unexpectedly she smiled. "You think you will like to work here? I must remind you that it will be in a menial capacity."
"I am very glad to have a job, Lady Wesley. And I'm grateful to you for allowing me to have Charles with me. I'm sure I shall be happy here, and I will work as hard as possible."
"And the staff? You think that you will get on well with them? You are not quite from the same background."
"Well, no. I don't suppose that I shall work nearly as well as they do-they're professionals, as it were, aren't they? But I shall do my best." She smiled. "They were very kind to me at tea."
"Well, we will hope for the best. You may go, Fletcher. You will take your orders from Mrs. Legge, unless any member of the family wishes you to do something for them."
Sarah said, "Yes, Lady Wesley," and took herself out of the room and back to the housekeeper's room, where she was given a list of her duties. "And you may go with Parsons and turn down the beds and ready the bedrooms for the night. On her evenings off you will do that on your own, so make sure that you know what has to be done."
There wasn't a great deal to do. Lady Wesley was a widow, and, although at weekends there were usually guests, during the week the big house was empty of all save herself and the staff. Parsons, with time to spare, led Sarah from one room to the next, throwing open doors to empty rooms, dressing-rooms and bathrooms.
"I'll never find my way round," worried Sarah.
"Yes, you will, and anyway you only come up here with me in the evenings for the bedsthat's when there are guests. You'll do the rooms each morning, of course, but Mrs. Legge will have told you about that."
After the bedrooms, Sarah was taken downstairs and shown where the cleaning things were housed. "And everything has to be put back clean and tidy. Now, I'm off to help in the diningroom-you go and lay the table for our supper and get the early morning tea-trays ready."
Supper was a sustaining meal: steak and kidney pie, and rice pudding for afters, and Mrs. Legge graciously allowed Sarah to take some of the pudding with her for Charles. "And you'd better get to your bed," she said, not unkindly. "Got an alarm, have you? Half-past six, then, and I'll want you here in the kitchen to give Cook a hand by seven o'clock. You can have twenty minutes to make your bed and tidy your room after our breakfast at eight o'clock. Do your work well and I'll not object if you pop over to see that cat of yours once in a while."
Sarah thanked her and, bearing the milk pudding, went across the yard to her room. Charles was pleased to see her, ate the pudding with pleasure and accompanied her into the yard. It was a pleasant evening, and the air was fresh after the streets of London. She bore Charles back indoors, undressed and showered rapidly and curled up on the divan with him beside her. The list of her duties was a long one and she went over it anxiously in her mind, but it wouldn't all be work-she was to have a halfday each Wednesday and a day off on Sundays, and every afternoon she was free from two o'clock until four. She would manage, she told Charles sleepily as she closed her eyes.
But strangely enough her last waking thoughts weren't of any of these things-she wondered what the Professor was doing.
He was at his elegant Knightsbridge house, sitting in his study behind his desk strewn with the various letters and forms he should have been dealing with and wasn't. His austere good looks were marred by the splendid rage he had kept bottled up all day and now, in the peace and quiet of his own home, he gave vent to it.
He had returned to London on the previous day and had gone, as was his wont, to his outpatients clinic in the morning. It wasn't until he had opened the door opposite Sarah's desk that he'd admitted to himself that, although he had no interest in the girl whatsoever, it would be interesting to see her again. Only, the desk had been empty and so had been the chair behind it.
He'd wished Mrs. Pearce and Mrs. Drew good morning, and had then said, "Miss Fletcher? Is she ill?"
"Made redundant," Mrs. Drew said; "Sacked," Mrs. Pearce had said rather more loudly.
"Indeed. May I ask why?"
"She was three days late coming back from her leave, sir," Mrs. Pearce had said-she didn't stand in such awe of him as Mrs. Drew. "She did the same thing last year, and Miss Payne told her then she'd have to alter her ways. Miss Payne didn't much like her, and when she asked why Sarah-Miss Fletcher, that is-hadn't come back when she said she would, she said she'd written and asked if she might stay another few days. But the letter never got here-there was a strike-she and Miss Payne had words, and Miss Payne got her sacked."
The Professor's face could have been carved in stone and he'd said nothing at all, although both ladies had leaned back a little in their chairs just as though he had been hurling abuse at them. "And where has Miss Fletcher gone now?" he'd asked, his voice carefully impersonal.
Mrs. Pearce had shaken her head. "No idea, sir. Got another job, I dare say, though Miss Payne gave her a reference that wouldn't have helped her much."
The Professor had thanked her gravely and gone along to his room where his registrar had been waiting for him. He was an astute young man, who'd taken one look at his chief's eyes, as grey as winter water, and forborne to ask him whether he had had a successful series of lectures.
They had both become immersed in the morning's work and it wasn't until lunchtime, his clinic over, that the Professor had gone to Miss Payne's office. He had been there for ten minutes or so and Miss Payne, very much shaken, had had to be buoyed up with cups of strong tea after he had gone.
That evening, after an interminable afternoon, he had driven himself to Sarah's lodgings, summoned Mrs. Potter from her basement and requested information about Sarah. "She is still here?" he'd asked.
"Lor' bless you, no, sir. Out of work she was for a couple of weeks, then comes back one day and packs her bags and takes the cat and off she goes. Got a job-didn't say where-a long way orf, she told me. Left a small trunk of 'er bits and pieces in me box-room, said someone'd fetch 'em."
"How long has she been gone?"
"Yesterday. Didn't leave no forwarding address. Never "ad no letters ter send on."
He had thanked her politely and given her money. "If you should hear from Miss Fletcher, would you telephone this number?" He had scribbled in his notebook and then torn out the page.
Mrs. Potter had fingered the money in her hand. "That I will, sir. Likely she'll let me know that she will be coming for the trunk."
He had bidden her goodnight with cold courtesy and gone home, ate the delicious dinner his cook had prepared for him with an indifference which cut her to the quick, and shut himself in his study. He had no interest in the wretched girl, of course; on the other hand he felt quite responsible for her dismissal, unjustified though it was. He cast his powerful mind back upon events and remembered that he had urged her to say nothing about her visit to his home-a request which she had obeyed to the letter, with disastrous consequences for herself. He would have to find her. He sighed heavily and stretched out a hand for the phone.
His mother, suppressing maternal curiosity, was unable to recall any clue which might lead to Sarah's plans. "I know she had a stepmother who more or less turned her out of the house after her father died. A pity Fletcher is such a common name-I mean, one wouldn't know where to begin to look… Surely her landlady has some idea?"
She listened to the Professor's testy explanation and said, "Well, dear, if you will hang on for a few minutes I'll ask everyone here."
She put down the receiver and turned to her husband, explaining quickly. "And if you are asking me," she added, "he's interested in Sarah…"
Mijnheer Nauta looked up from the book he was reading. "That little thing? Nice girl, but not his type, my dear. It's natural he should be concerned about someone who worked for him."
He went back to his book and his wife hurried off to the kitchen to ask everyone there if Sarah had mentioned at any time where she had lived before she had gone to London to work.
She had no luck, although there was a good deal of concern expressed, for they had all liked her. She picked up the phone again to tell the Professor that she had drawn a blank. He thanked her, but he didn't waste time in discussing what was to be done next. He bade her goodnight and hung up.
The next day he went back to Sarah's lodgings, but this time he didn't summon Mrs. Potter. He went up the stairs and knocked on the first of three doors on the first landing. Its occupant was home and invited him in, but in answer to his questions shook her head. "Very quiet, was Sarah," he was told. "Never talked about herself, kept herself to herself, too. Not snooty, just shy, and if you'll wait a minute I'll get the other girls."
There were three more girls living in the house, none of whom knew anything about Sarah, although they all conceded that she was a nice girl and always willing to lend tea and milk and take messages.
The Professor thanked them and left the house, calling in at the off-licence at the corner of the street and arranging for a couple of bottles of sherry to be sent round that evening. He scribbled a note with the reminder that he could be reached at the phone number he wrote down.
The need to find her became an obsession but only, he reminded himself, because he felt responsible for her misfortune. The hospital authorities had been unable to help-the only address they had ever had was that of Sarah's bedsitter. They kindly looked up her records for him, disclosing the fact that she had had six months at a secretarial school, and that although her typing was adequate she had failed lamentably in shorthand. A good all-round worker, he was told, well educated and with a pleasant manner towards the patients.
"I'm surprised you allowed her to leave," observed the Professor drily.
Authority looked as offended as it dared. "Hospital rules must be observed, Professor Nauta, and Miss Fletcher broke a most important rule on two consecutive occasions."
The Professor rumbled a terse answer and left.
"Devil take the girl," he declared fiercely as he stalked across the forecourt to his car. "I'll find her if it's the last thing I do-and give her a piece of my mind when I do." He got into his car, still muttering darkly, this time in Dutch.
The next few days were unprofitable, so that his temper remained uncertain, and Brindle, who with his wife the cook ran the Professor's house so admirably for him, went around tuttutting at his master's gloom. It was pure chance that, towards the end of the week, offered a clue. One of the girls staying in a room at Mrs. Potter's, sipping the excellent sherry which the Professor had sent round, remembered that Sarah had once made a vague reference to a boutique in Tunbridge Wells. "I dare say it's a wild-goose chase," she said over the phone, "but we were talking about clothes, and she mentioned that she had bought something at this shop…you could try."
The Professor thanked her warmly, arranged for more sherry to be delivered and at the weekend drove himself to Tunbridge Wells, where he tracked down the boutique and without hesitation went inside.
The saleslady eyed him with some doubt-he didn't look like a husband or a boyfriend searching for something for h
is wife or girlfriend.
The Professor, a truthful man, had his story ready, and she answered happily enough. Indeed, Miss Fletcher had been a good customer although Mrs. Fletcher, who still came to the shop, had told her that she had gone to live in London and had a marvellous job. She gave him Mrs. Fletcher's address readily enough, and only then remembered to ask who he was.
"A family friend?" she ventured. "Miss Fletcher is well, I hope? Such a nice young lady."
"Her doctor," said the Professor at his most bland. "Friends of hers abroad have asked me to look her up. I've not seen her myself for some time, and I was told in London that she would possibly be at home. But no one was sure of her address, although they remembered you."
He thanked her politely and made his escape-his story was thin and full of holes, which presently the saleslady, if she had the leisure, would discover for herself. He got back into his car and drove himself to the village whose name he had been given, and turned the car into a well-kept drive, stopping before the door of a small manor house.
He took his time about ringing the bell while he looked around. The house, now that he came to think about it, was exactly the kind of place in which Sarah might have spent her youth. He didn't know her well-indeed, he reminded himself, he didn't wish to-but she wasn't a town girl.
He rang the bell and a pert maid took his name and admitted him, showed him into a long, low room with panelled walls and a beautiful plaster ceiling, and went to fetch her mistress. Which gave him time to perfect his tale. A pack of lies, he told himself savagely, the girl had been nothing but a nuisance…
Mrs. Fletcher was tall, a well-preserved forty and handsomely dressed. She listened to the Professor's reasons for his visit-this time he was calling on behalf of an old friend of Sarah's who had lost touch while he was out of the country… "I said that, as I was coming this way for the weekend, I would call at her home and let him know if she was here."