by Corrie, Jane
Sarah reached the canteen without meeting anyone she knew, for which she was devoutly grateful. She could imagine the speculation going around in the small bar at the end of the large dining hall area where they usually gathered
before a press conference, and was doubly relieved that the kitchen was cut off from the dining hall and all the food was sent down in lifts, so she would be saved the embarrassment of having the others watching her at work—embarrassment on both sides, really, because on the whole they were a decent lot, Sarah mused, as she went up the steps that led to the busy kitchen and looked around for the said Mrs Pullman.
A flustered-looking young girl with an apron two sizes too big for her gave her a quick annoyed look that plainly asked what she thought she was doing there, and that this was where the workers plied their trade, and she didn't want anyone standing watching her at work, thank you. Just then a plump, rather formidable-looking woman, also in an apron and cap, thrust the girl aside and enquired tartly, 'Are you Miss Helm?'
Sarah acknowledged that that was her name, and decided to ignore the sniff of disapproval from Mrs Pullman, since that was who the enquirer must have been, as she gave her a good looking over, taking in Sarah's tailored silk suit and matching business-styled blouse. 'You'll have to wear something over that,' she commented disapprovingly, and sighed loudly. 'As if I hadn't enough to cope with,' she said, and glared at the young girl standing by and listening avidly to the conversation. 'Lunch in thirty minutes,' she said crisply, 'and we're not getting on with it, are we, Sandy? Away with you! I want the rest of those potatoes peeled in fifteen minutes flat,' she ordered, as the girl scuttled away back to the huge sink at the end of the
kitchen where a mound of peeled potatoes ready for the pot filled a huge white bowl. She then directed her attention back to Sarah in a tired way that suggested that she hoped she would somehow have disappeared, and gave another loud sigh on finding that Sarah was still there. `Well, I suppose you can get on with the washing up of the used pans,' she nodded towards another sink a little bit further along the wall, glaring at Sarah. 'No objection, I hope?' she dared her.
Sarah shook her head. 'No objection, Mrs Pullman,' she replied lightly, and looked around for an overall that was quickly supplied by the manageress, with an air of slight surprise at Sarah's willingness to oblige, and who clearly thought that there must be a catch in it somewhere, and that nobody told her anything.
By the end of lunch, Sarah's hands were a little on the red side, having been constantly immersed in hot sudded water, for she had stayed with the washing up chore until all the luncheon dishes were cleared. Her feet encased in elegant brogues ached from the constant standing, and caused her to give way to a sardonic grin at the thought that she had thought that she was pretty fit, but it only took an unusual job to prove otherwise.
For her devotion to duty she earned Mrs Pullman's grudging praise, then she found herself up to her elbows in vegetables to be got ready for dinner, by which time her back had joined her feet in aching protest at the enforced maltreatment, and when the vegetables were finished, and Mrs Pullman announced that she could take two
hours off, but report back to work at six-thirty, all Sarah wanted to do was to lie flat on her bed, hoping for physical recovery before the next onslaught, and as soon as she got back to her quarters that was precisely what she did, and was thankful for the fact that Martha was not around to witness her exhaustion, because that would have been more than she could take at that time.
She had to stay fit, she thought, as she lay with closed eyes soaking up the luxury of relief from her aches and pains. No way was she going to back out on the excuse of physical exhaustion, for she could well imagine Sean Cartier's caustic comments on what he would consider skiving on her part.
The first day was always the worst, wasn't it? she told herself firmly. It was just that she wasn't used to the continual standing, but by tomorrow she would be all right. She felt the glare of the late afternoon sun on her eyelids, but hadn't the energy to get up and pull down the blinds at the window. What luxury a good soak in a bath would be now, she thought longingly, but there were no such refinements on the site. Showers, of course, and Sarah would have to take one before she reported for duty again, but not yet, she told herself; she didn't have to move yet.
Now that she could relax, her mind went over the sudden change of circumstances. Things had happened too fast for her to really take in, and she had been given no previous warning that a spectre from the past would rear its ugly head again to disturb her peace.
There was no way she could have known that
Sean Cartier was Don's cousin, as Don had been reticent about his family, and Sarah, who had been orphaned at an early age and reared by an aunt, had thought that, like her, he had had an unhappy childhood, and had not sought confirmation.
It hadn't mattered in those early days, when Sarah was a very junior reporter on the local newspaper, and had met Don at a wedding she was attending for the paper. She sighed. She had been eighteen then, and very eager to make her mark in her chosen profession. Don had worked for a big advertising agency that had thrown a lot of work her paper's way. It had all been so wonderful at the time, she thought, recalling the day the editor congratulated her on obtaining such a prized contract, for as with most provincial papers they relied heavily on revenue from advertisements to keep their heads above water, and their small paper needed it more than most.
She turned her head restlessly, as if to dismiss the past, but she couldn't. Not now that it had caught up with her again. Had she really loved Don? The thought had haunted her for a long time after his death, and she had come to the sad conclusion that she hadn't. If she had, she would still be mourning his death, and still looking for an excuse to blame herself for what had happened.
Sarah drew a deep breath. Don had been weak, and he couldn't resist a drink, neither could he resist a pretty woman. Not that that alone would have killed what she had thought was her love for
him. No, it had been much worse than that, for when Don had proposed to her and been accepted by the deliriously happy Sarah, he had had a mistress tucked away downtown, living in deplorable conditions and supporting a young child—his child.
It was only by a stroke of fate that Sarah had found out about it. She had been covering a funeral and had visited the poorer area of the town to get the details from the relatives, and found herself sitting in a dingy top flat staring at a photograph of Don holding a young boy in his arms and laughing at the camera.
After the first sense of shock had worn off, Sarah gave no sign of recognising the man in the picture. Even if she had, it would not have been noticed by the woman supplying the details for the press, she was too upset at the loss of her only surviving parent to notice any unusual behaviour on the part of the young reporter, but a few innocent-sounding queries from Sarah gave her all the confirmation she needed.
Confirmation that hadn't really been necessary after a child about four years old had rushed into the room and clung to his mother's skirts. His wide brown eyes, so like his father's, had quashed any hope of Sarah's that Don might just have been a friend of the family.
Sarah drew in a quick breath. At that time, she supposed, she must have been in love with Don, for she had tried to excuse him. The woman was pretty, with fair naturally curly hair, and a plump curvaceous figure that would attract men—not that she looked her best when Sarah saw her, for
sorrow had left her pinched-looking and touchingly pathetic.
It had only taken a few sympathetic words for everything to come tumbling out, and an embarrassed Sarah didn't want to hear her story, not when she wanted to exonerate Don; but she had to listen, and as she did so, her love for Don evaporated into thin air.
It was the old, old story. The man, she was given to understand, was married, and couldn't get a divorce, and couldn't really afford to keep two homes going, and she had to survive on the pittance he sent her or brought her whenever he could get a
way.
Sarah recalled feeling physically sick as she stumbled down the dingy staircase and out into the blessed sweetness of the morning air. She was not naive, she knew that men did this sort of thing, but she found it hard to understand how any woman could be so taken in, although she had to concede that Don was a charmer, and too good-looking for his own good. Women adored him. The only thing Sarah could not forgive was his meanness. He was earning a high salary, and could well afford to keep his mistress and their child in better circumstances, but had preferred to adopt a deplorable ploy to cover his meanness.
Totally honest herself, Sarah had no time for such dishonesty, particularly when it affected the welfare of children, and she had it out with Don that very evening. He did not deny the charge. It would not have been any good if he had, but he did try to excuse himself on the grounds of being very young when he had met the girl; he had got
caught up in a situation he abhorred but could do nothing about, which might have worked had Sarah not actually seen the woman and the conditions she was living in, or more to the point, known that Don was still in the habit of visiting her.
The meeting had ended with Sarah throwing his ring back at him and telling him in no uncertain terms that she wanted nothing more to do with him.
A day later, Don's car was found on the rocks below a point where they had once used to sit in the evenings discussing their future. He had been killed outright, and although the verdict was accidental death, most of Sarah's acquaintances had been sure that he had committed suicide.
At first, the devastated Sarah had thought the same, but as time went on she accepted the original verdict. Don had been drinking heavily and had taken a bend too fast. There was also the salient fact that he had enjoyed life too much to let a broken engagement alter his outlook, for he had cockily predicted that she would be back within a week, begging his forgiveness, which he might or might not give.
It was as well for Sarah that she did have some good friends around her at this time. Friends who had sounded a warning note on her engagement to Don. 'Once a womaniser, always a womaniser,' one blunt friend had commented, and although deep down Sarah had known this, she had preferred to stick her head in the sand until the thunderbolt had struck and made her face up to reality.
Sarah's thoughts roamed on, and turned to other matters, such as what her editor was cooking up at his end, in fact, anything to take her mind off the past. That was over and done with, or had been, until she had come up against Sean Cartier. She forced this thought away. She simply couldn't see Eddie Lyall accepting Cartier's dictates, he would be already detailing someone else to get out there fast. If they lost out on this one, and it certainly looked as if this was a distinct possibility, Eddie would never forgive her, and she wouldn't blame him.
CHAPTER TWO
A SHARP knock on the door brought Sarah out of her musings, and before she could get up to answer the summons the door was flung open and Sean Cartier stood looking down at her half reclining on her bed. 'Surprising what a little hard work can do for you, isn't it?' he said sarcastically. 'Still, by the time the week's up, you'll be hardened. I'm having you moved to the domestic quarters. Mrs Pullman will show you your room when you're through this evening,' he announced, and walked to the door. 'Oh, by the way,' he added conversationally, 'I've had the Press Council on the line. Your editor doesn't let the grass grow under his feet, does he? Unfortunately, owing to the nature of the work, he got nowhere. Just thought you'd like to know,' and he was gone before Sarah could make any kind of response.
`What's up now?' asked Martha, as she entered the room. 'He might have got it in for you, but I don't see why we should all be tarred. He totally ignored me as I passed him,' she complained.
Sarah got up off the bed. `I'm being shifted to the domestic quarters,' she said, as she started to gather her belongings and stuff them into her overnight case.
`Wow, has he got it in for you!' Martha commented gleefully. 'Well, cheer up. From what
was said at the conference, we won't be kept hanging around much longer,' she added, trying to make amends for her earlier remark.
Sarah shrugged lightly, and got on with her packing. She was not going to beg Martha to pass on what news she had been given, and she knew she was just teasing her with titbits. At least she wouldn't have to take any more in that line once she was out of the vicinity.
`The boys' tongues were hanging out after that announcement this morning,' said Martha. 'Of course, I didn't tell them everything. Just said that you'd crossed swords with you know who, and were on the black list,' she added meaningly.
Sarah's brows lifted. Martha wouldn't have been able to resist passing on what Sarah had told her. Only to one or two of them, that was, who would pass on the news to the others. They must have had quite a session in the bar discussing this unusual turn of events, she thought wryly. There was no doubt that some of them would breathe easier now, since they were of the same opinion as Martha was, that she knew more than they did.
`I suppose I'd better write up my notes elsewhere,' Martha said breezily. 'Can't have you peeking, can we?' she added in malicious playfulness.
`Don't bother, I'm just off,' Sarah replied angrily. 'I haven't sunk low enough to pinch anyone's copy yet,' thinking that Martha's copy wouldn't be worth the trouble anyway. Her father would do the work for her when she got back to the newsroom, sorting through the reams of notes she was known to make, relevant or irrelevant.
There was just time for Sarah to take a swift shower before she left for the canteen and her new quarters, and an empty feeling in her stomach reminded her that she hadn't had any lunch at lunchtime. She had been too busy, although Mrs Pullman had put something aside for her when she and Sandy had snatched a quick break, but Sarah had declined the food; she had had a good breakfast before her unannounced interview with Sean Cartier, and the ensuing events had somewhat taken the edge off her appetite—that, and the smell of cooking that pervaded the kitchens.
This time she was more suitably dressed for the work in hand, in trews and light cotton top. Experience had taught her to travel light when packing, but she always had her emergency kit with her where clothes were concerned, and trews had been a must, because she never knew when she would be likely to find herself scrambling over rough terrain in pursuit of a story.
As she left the press quarters and headed towards the canteen, she was still smarting from Martha's uncalled-for innuendo that she would try to sneak a look at her notes, and she only hoped that her comment that a breakthrough was imminent turned out right, even if it did mean having to face her editor with an empty notebook in her hand. There was always the first time, she told herself stoutly, and maybe he would take her past work for the paper into consideration before sacking her!
`Hi! Where's the fire?' called a voice that made Sarah wince in annoyance and look back to see
Charles Ashley striding towards her and gallantly attempting to relieve her of her overnight case, which she resisted firmly. 'Martha says you've stepped on Cartier's corns,' he said breezily. `Where are you off to now? Been banished to the outer regions, have you?' he asked.
Sarah's lovely eyes showed her annoyance at his flippancy. That wasn't all he knew, she thought. 'I'm off to join the domestics,' she said, managing to keep her voice on an even keel.
`Rotten luck,' he said sympathetically, then paused as if a thought had suddenly struck him. `Look, why don't we work together on this one? As soon as the whistle's blown, I'll slip you the gen,' he offered innocently. 'No one's to know, are they? I'm of the opinion that Cartier's too big for his boots, and I don't mind putting one over him. What do you say?'
For one second Sarah was tempted, but when she saw the predatory gleam in the Clarion reporter's eyes, she gave an abrupt shake of her head. 'Thank you, Charles, but I think not. This is going to be one that got away,' she added, managing to summon up a rueful smile, as she began to walk on.
He caught her arm. 'Look, don't be such a damn
fool. This could cost you your job. Lyall's probably chewing nails by now.'
Whatever Sarah would have said, that wouldn't have altered her first refusal, was not uttered, for Sean Cartier had come up behind her. 'You're going to be late for duty, Miss Helm,' he said harshly, giving her a chance to get away.
Before she walked through the canteen entrance, Sarah looked back and saw that Sean was still talking to Charles, and judging from the tight expression on the Clarion reporter's face, he was not amused, neither was Sean Cartier.
Sarah's new quarters were not so very different from the room that she had been allotted to share with Martha, but this time she was on her own, and Sarah was not complaining about that. The only other difference was that there was no means of communication. No telecom system to keep the room-mates in touch with the big boss whenever he wished to summon them to a press conference. In other words, Sarah was completely cut off from as much as a whisper of the progress of the project.
By the time she had finished work that evening, she was too tired to care one way or the other. She just wanted peace from the clatter of cooking pan lids, steam, and the general hubbub of a frantically busy kitchen.
On the one low table in her room sat a tray with a covered dish, to keep the supper Mrs Pullman had insisted she took to her room, for she had noticed that Sarah had only grabbed a sandwich to keep her going during her working hours, and she didn't want what was turning out to be an extremely reliable worker collapsing at the sink through lack of sustenance.
Sarah didn't want that either, but somehow the thought of food was repellent to her, and she would have preferred a plate of sandwiches, in fact, anything that wasn't cooked.
After one or two jabs at the now congealing lamb stew, Sarah gave it best, and took a shower,