by Betty Neels
But as luck would have it, she found a pair of gloves which didn’t cost anything like the money she had expected to pay, and in one of the shoe shops there was a special pre-Christmas offer of leather boots at a price she could just afford. She had her well polished, worthy shoes packed and wore the new boots and positively skimmed up South Street and into High East Street. She had half an hour before she was to meet Mr Trentham; just sufficient time in which to buy the things on her list.
They had everything—dried fruits and nuts, the finest tea, the best coffee, an assortment of biscuits to make her mouth water, boxes of crackers, cheeses, things in tins she had never bought before. She only hoped there would be enough money in the wad of notes Mr Trentham had given her.
There was. She paid and then stood looking at the cardboard box which had been neatly packed with her goodies. She already had a shopping basket crammed full besides her shoes; perhaps she could leave it there and they could pick it up after lunch. She was debating the point when Mr Trentham’s distinguished head was thrust through the door.
‘I’ve brought the car round to the hotel car park,’ he told her, ‘if there’s any shopping…’ His eye fell on the overflowing box on the counter. ‘Good lord, have you bought all that?’
‘I daresay it looks a lot, but there’s nothing there we don’t actually need.’ She beamed a goodbye to the elderly man who had served her with such patience and gathered up her parcels, then watched while Mr Trentham heaved the box off the counter. With it safely stowed in the boot she gave a sigh of relief. ‘How very lucky that the hotel should be right next door to the grocers,’ she observed, ‘and such a heavenly shop—they offer you a chair, you know, and call you madam.’
‘They’d better not call me madam,’ said Mr Trentham tartly. He slammed down the lid of the boot and locked it. ‘Lunch—I’m famished!’
They ate roast beef and everything which went with it, and he declared that it wasn’t a patch on her cooking, which pleased Sadie mightily and probably accounted for the pink in her cheeks, although the claret he had given her to drink might have been the cause of that. She ate the sherry trifle with uncritical appetite while Mr Trentham contented himself with a morsel of cheese, and then they went back to the car. As they got into it she said on a breath of excitement: ‘It’s three weeks to Christmas!’
He gave her a lazy mocking look. ‘You’re nothing but a child,’ he observed, and then frowned and she wondered why.
‘You don’t like Christmas?’ she asked, unaware that the frown had nothing to do with that at all.
They were crawling up High West Street in a queue of traffic. ‘It’s become a commercial holiday, I seem to have lost the real Christmas years ago.’
‘You’ll find it again in Chelcombe,’ declared Sadie. ‘I think…’
‘And now hush, I want to think,’ he told her brusquely.
She was getting used to his sudden fits of impatience and supposed he was working out a difficult bit of script, and anyway, she had plenty to think about herself—never mind what Mr Trentham thought about Christmas, his small daughters should have the very best one Sadie could contrive for them. She got out her notebook and began to write down the ingredients for the pudding. After a while Mr Trentham demanded: ‘What are you writing?’
‘The pudding.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Mr Trentham, and put his foot down on the accelerator so that she had to give up.
They were back in the cottage well before teatime and she was a little surprised when he declared his intention of going down to the village. ‘Tea at the usual time?’ she wanted to know.
‘Oh, have yours if I’m not back by half past four,’ he almost growled at her, so that she wondered what she’d done now.
She forgot about him almost at once; all the groceries had to be unpacked and stowed away and the presents borne upstairs to be packed up in coloured paper. Later on, when she had time, she would cut out the dolls’ clothes and make them up. She tidied everything away, feeling happy.
She might not have felt so happy if she had known where Mr Trentham was—at the Vicarage, in Mr Frobisher’s study, talking about her.
‘I have only just realised,’ said Mr Trentham snappily, ‘that the village might consider Sadie’s situation as—er—dubious. In London the permissive society wouldn’t lift so much as an eyebrow over it, but here in Chelcombe it’s possible that they look askance at her sharing the cottage with me. She’s my housekeeper and nothing more, of that I can assure you, but I wouldn’t wish anyone to speak ill of her; she’s a splendid worker and a first class cook and runs the place smoothly. That’s all I asked and hoped for.’
Mr Frobisher nodded, his balding head on one side. ‘I appreciate your concern, but I can assure you that it’s unnecessary. We’ve all known Sadie since she was a very small girl; her grandmother, an excellent woman, brought her up strictly and according to her own standards, which I must admit hadn’t moved with the times. Sadie is in a consequence, a little straitlaced. I feel this to be a pity but that is merely my opinion, you understand. As for the rest of the village, in their eyes you’re a widower with children, which sets you in a class apart and in need of all possible assistance. That you’re a successful man cuts very little ice. You’re liked, did you know that, because you’ve been the means of giving Sadie a livelihood and the blessing of living in her own home. You need have no fears as to Sadie’s reputation, Mr Trentham, indeed she has earned added respect because she has a trustworthy, well paid position.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Besides, you’ve brought custom to the village, you know; and I hear you’re to spend Christmas here, and your little daughters, an excuse for the local residents to hold dinner parties and so forth.’
Mr Trentham looked surprised. ‘Oh, delightful, we shall look forward to that.’ He stood up, preparing to go, but Mrs Frobisher, timing it nicely, put her head round the door with an invitation to stay to tea. It was dark by the time he let himself into the cottage, to find Sadie at the kitchen table making dumplings for the stew. They had had a good lunch, but she had never known Mr Trentham refuse food yet. She looked up as he went into the kitchen and offered to make tea, but he refused, told her that he didn’t want his supper until at least eight o’clock, and went into the dining room and began pounding the typewriter; making up for lost time, she supposed.
Sadie had never known a week fly past so fast; what with the puddings to make, the cakes to bake, the stowing of a great many bottles delivered for Mr Trentham, the preparing of the bedrooms for the children and Miss Murch, she had precious little time to herself. She took her walk each day, though, something she had done, year in, year out, and couldn’t miss whatever the weather, and in between whiles, she sat sewing, fashioning clothes for the two dolls. She was a good needlewoman and found pleasure in making the finicky little garments; she had the last one done on the day before Mr Trentham was to leave for London to collect his daughters. It had meant sitting up late to do it, but now the dolls were dressed and ready, and while the little girls were staying at the cottage she would find the time to knit another outfit for each of them. She saw him off after breakfast and it was only as an afterthought that he told her that he would be back about teatime.
The cottage seemed very empty once he had roared away down the lane, but she reminded herself that she had a lot to do and would be free to do it when and where she chose. She went first and picked some late chrysanthemums, putting a great bowl of them in the sitting room and a smaller one in Miss Murch’s bedroom, and that done, she began on scones and cakes for tea; a chocolate sandwich filled with whipped cream, another fruit cake because Mr Trentham liked those best and some little iced fairy cakes. By lunchtime she had the fires going, hot water bottles in the beds and the tea table laid with one of her grandmother’s old-fashioned linen and crochet cloths. There wasn’t a complete tea set any more, but the cups, saucers and plates, although all different, were old and delicate and pretty. Sadie felt satisfied with her efforts as
she had her lunch, and then went upstairs to change out of her smock and put on her new skirt and one of the pretty blouses. Just for once she would have to forgo her walk, but she was too excited now to mind that.
It had been a dull day, now it was already dark, with a cold wind and the hint of rain. At four o’clock she switched on the lights and took up her position in the sitting room window where she had a sideways view of the lane. She didn’t have to wait very long. She was at the door when she realised that it wasn’t Mr Trentham’s car at all, but a taxi, and the figure coming up the path certainly wasn’t him. Sadie held the door wide and Miss Murch paused on the step. She was a tall woman, slim to the point of boniness, with a good deal of jet black hair showing beneath her little fur hat. She was faultlessly made up and her coat looked expensive; she looked like a model who was past it and who had no intention of giving up. Her pale blue eyes examined Sadie’s small person with cool unfriendliness, so that Sadie was left in no doubt as to what the lady thought of her, all the same she said in her pleasant soft voice: ‘Miss Murch? Do come in, you must be tired and cold. There’s a fire in the sitting room.’ She peered over one elegant shoulder. ‘Are the children with you? I thought…’
‘Naturally they are. They’ll stay in the car until I send for them. Mr Trentham was delayed in town, he’ll be following later. What’s your name?’
‘Sadie Gillard.’ Sadie was determined to be friendly.
‘Well, Gillard, you may fetch the children and tell the driver to bring in the luggage. I’ve paid him and I daresay he wishes to get back to Crewkerne as quickly as possible.’
Sadie, well brought up though she had been, almost bit her tongue to stop the retort which was ready on it. Only the thought of the children sitting out there in the cold dark kept her silent. She took her old coat from behind the kitchen door and went down the path, slippery with icy rain. The driver was sitting morosely behind the wheel and behind him, sitting close together, were two small girls. They looked cold and scared, and Sadie was instantly sorry for them. She nodded to the driver and opened the door. She said softly: ‘Hullo, I’m Sadie, your father’s housekeeper. Will you come into the house? There’s a big fire and a lovely tea waiting.’
Neither of them answered, but they got out obediently and she gave them each a hand. ‘Would you mind bringing in the luggage?’ she asked the driver, ‘and if you can stay a few minutes I’ll give you your tea—you must be cold and it’s quite a drive back.’
He was already getting out of the taxi. ‘I reckoned her could fetch her own stuff, but I could do with a nice cuppa since you’m offered it so kindly.’
He went round the back of the taxi, and Sadie took the small hands wordlessly offered to her and went up the path and into the cottage.
Miss Murch had taken off her coat and was sitting in front of the fire. She looked strongly disapproving and said at once: ‘Anna, Julie, take off your coats and hats and sit down quietly until tea is ready. Where are the cases?’
‘They’ll be here in a minute.’ Sadie took the coats and smiled at the children. ‘Which one is Julie and which Anna?’ she asked, and held out a hand.
Their small hands were cold and they looked cold too—not cold exactly, she corrected herself, just tired and in need of a good meal. Julie was dark with big brown eyes and straight hair and Anna was dark too, only her hair was curly and her eyes were hazel. They looked at Sadie suspiciously and then at Miss Murch. It was obvious to Sadie that they didn’t like that lady and they were afraid of her too. She pulled the sofa nearer the fire and invited them to sit down, then went into the hall to find the driver surrounded by cases and bags. ‘I’ll take them up for you, Miss…’
‘Oh, would you? You’re very kind. Then come into the kitchen and have that tea.’
She gave him a mug full from the pot of tea she was making, piled a plate with scones and a slice of cake, and told him to sit down and eat it. ‘I’ll just go in with the tea, but I’ll be back presently,’ she assured him.
All three were sitting just as she had left them and in an effort to lighten the situation she said cheerfully: ‘Tea is ready, will you come and sit down?’
Miss Murch cast a disparaging look at the table. ‘I don’t allow the children to eat rich cakes,’ she stated.
‘These aren’t rich and they’re home-made; just for once perhaps you’ll relax your rules?’ said Sadie, and passed the scones.
‘You have your meals with us, Gillard?’ asked Miss Murch. She had asked for tea with no milk or sugar and was nibbling a scone with every sign of loathing.
‘I do, Miss Murch. I’m called Sadie, perhaps you will be kind enough to call me that.’ She spread cream and jam lavishly on to scones and offered them to the little girls. ‘Excuse me for a moment and I’ll see if the driver has finished his tea.’
Miss Murch looked at her with horror. ‘You’ve left him in the kitchen? He could ransack the place!’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Sadie, her nice manners swept away for the moment. ‘This isn’t wicked London, we don’t steal from each other here.’
In the kitchen she found the man ready to go. ‘And thank ’ee kindly, love,’ he said, and jerked his head towards the sitting room door. ‘I don’t envy you—nasty old lady her be.’
‘Did she give you a tip?’ asked Sadie.
‘Cor love ’ee, no!’
She went to the tea caddy on the shelf above the stove and took out a pound note. ‘Well, here you are, and I’m sure you deserve it. Mind you go back carefully.’
‘Bless you, love, and a merry Christmas.’ He grinned at her and went off down the path whistling, ‘Good King Wenceslas,’ and Sadie went back to her tea.
Anna and Julie had empty plates and were eyeing the chocolate sponge. Sadie cut generous slices and offered them without saying a word to Miss Murch, but that lady was too occupied in looking around her to notice.
‘I had no idea,’ she began sharply, ‘that this place would be so poky and primitive—if I had, I would have refused to bring the girls here.’
‘Well, if their father wants them here for the holidays, you can’t do much about it, I suppose?’
‘I should have protested strongly. Mr Trentham has complete confidence in me, he would have taken my advice.’
It didn’t sound like Mr Trentham, somehow.
‘Is this the only sitting room?’ asked Miss Murch. She looked at Sadie so accusingly that Sadie only just stopped herself apologising.
‘That’s right. Mr Trentham uses the dining room as his study and there’s a kitchen.’
Miss Murch shuddered as though kitchens were a dirty word. ‘I trust that I have a room to myself?’ she asked with a little sneer.
‘Yes, of course. If we’ve all finished our tea we can go upstairs and you can unpack. Anna, Julie, will you help me take the things into the kitchen?’
The children cast sideways glances at Miss Murch, and since she had been taken by surprise and had nothing to say, they nodded and followed Sadie. Tom was in his usual chair and the two little girls crowded round him still silent but quite animated.
‘You can both talk if you want to,’ said Sadie matter-of-factly, ‘Tom likes company and he’s very gentle.’
‘It’s nice here,’ said Anna after a moment, ‘isn’t it, Julie?’ They both looked at Sadie. ‘We like you. May we call you Sadie?’
‘Well, of course you can. Let’s go and get the rest of the things, shall we? We want a tidy room in case your father comes home soon.’
‘He had to go to a lunch with someone, but he said he’d leave early.’
‘Then he won’t be long, will he?’ Sadie led the way back into the sitting room and found Miss Murch sitting by the fire again. She had turned on the TV too.
‘I’m quite exhausted,’ she exclaimed. ‘You might take the children with you into the kitchen; we can unpack when I’ve had a rest.’
‘They’re going to help me wash up—it takes a long time with only one, you know.
But I expect you’ll help me with the supper things later.’
Miss Murch smoothed the sleeve of her cashmere sweater. ‘I never wash up,’ she observed.
‘There’s always a first time,’ said Sadie with a pertness she was ashamed of, but somehow Miss Murch seemed to bring out the worst in her.
They went into the kitchen and shut the door, and miraculously the little girls became just like any other little girls. They giggled and listened enchanted to all the things Sadie had planned for Christmas. She was telling them about the candle-lit service she would take them to down at the village church when the kitchen door opened very quietly and Mr Trentham came in. They didn’t see him at once and when they did Sadie stopped in mid-sentence and the two children drew sharp breaths. They looked pleased to see him, but they looked nervous, and Sadie wondered why.
She said ‘Good evening, Mr Trentham,’ and watched while his small daughters advanced to kiss him. He looked ill at ease and so did they; surely they weren’t shy of each other? He kissed them and looked at her over their heads. ‘They’ve been such a help,’ she told him, ‘they wiped the plates so carefully, and Tom’s delighted to have company.’
‘Where’s Miss Murch?’
‘Isn’t she in the sitting room? She was—she’s tired and thought she would rest before they unpack.’
He looked as though he was going to speak, but instead he turned to go out of the room. Sadie stopped him at the door. ‘Would you like some tea?’ she asked. ‘I know it’s late, but I expect supper will be a bit later, won’t it?’ She glanced at the children. ‘Do Anna and Julie stay up?’
Two small eager faces turned towards their father. ‘Why not—just this once, since they’ve been so good.’
He left the door open and went into the sitting room and left that door open too. Sadie heard Miss Murch, presumably taken by surprise, exclaim in a sugary voice: ‘Oh, Mr Trentham, how delightful that you’re so early; there are several things I feel I simply must bother you with.’