by Neels, Betty
In the afternoon, Mrs Todd had signified her intention of washing the kitchen floor, provided those dratted children were out of the way, so Katherine prudently dressed them warmly and took them for a walk. Sarah was still too small to walk far; it meant taking the pushchair and, since Robin declared that he was tired, she pushed them both back from the village, thankful to find when they got in that Mrs Todd had gone, leaving a tolerably clean kitchen and a terse note, reminding Joyce that she was owed two weeks’ wages. Katherine left the note where it was, got the children’s tea and, since there was no sign of Joyce, began to make preparations for the evening meal. Joyce came back just as she was finished with cleaning the vegetables, slammed a parcel down on the kitchen table, said, ‘Sausages,’ and turned to go out of the kitchen again.
‘There’s a note from Mrs Todd,’ Katherine pointed out, ‘and it’s either sausages or children—which do you want to do?’
Joyce cast her a look of dislike. ‘I have never met such an ungrateful, lazy girl—’ she began and caught Katherine’s mildly surprised eyes. ‘Oh, I’ll cook the supper, I suppose, since there’s no one else. Really, too much is expected of me! Here am I, busy all day with Oxfam and Save the Children and that jumble sale for the primary school, and you’ve been at home, doing nothing...’
Katherine let that pass; she had heard the same thing on any number of occasions. She collected the children and bore them off to their baths. While she got them ready for their beds, she thought about Dr Fitzroy. He would be married, of course, to a pretty wife, and there would be children, well-behaved, loving children, and they would live in one of those nice old houses close to the cathedral in Salisbury. Pure envy shot through her at the thought, and was instantly stifled.
Robin, being dried, kicked her shins and ran out of the bathroom. Unfortunately, he ran straight into his father’s path as he was on his way to his room to freshen up for the evening. The boy was led howling back to the bathroom.
‘Really, Katherine, you must control the children! This is surely proof that you are quite unsuitable for any kind of responsible job. I can only hope that you will learn something from us while you are living here.’
She was wrestling a nightie over Sarah’s head and didn’t look up. ‘Don’t be pompous,’ she begged him, ‘and don’t talk nonsense. And I’ve learnt a good deal while I’ve been living here, you know. How to manage without help from either you or Joyce, how to live without so much as a tenpenny piece to call my own...’ She spoke quietly because she was a quiet girl, but inside she was boiling with frustration. She added kindly, ‘Don’t gobble like that, Henry. It’s no good getting in a rage. I do my best, but I’m beginning to wonder why.’
She went past him with a squirming Sarah in her arms, intending to tuck her up in her cot and to go back for Robin, who was bawling his head off.
Supper was by no means a pleasant meal: Joyce, sulking because Henry had been sarcastic about burnt sausages and not quite cooked potatoes, had little to say, while he delivered a few well-chosen words about his day’s work, the pursuit of which had left him, he said, drained of energy. From this, he hinted strongly that the effort to keep his household in comfort was almost too much for him.
Here, Joyce interrupted him in a cross voice. Did he forget, she wanted to know, how hard she worked, getting to know the right people for his benefit? Did he realise how her day was entirely taken up with meeting boring women on committees?
Katherine, sitting between them, ate her sausages because she was hungry, and said nothing at all. Indeed, she wasn’t really listening, she was thinking about Dr Fitzroy, a small luxury she hugged to herself. She had embarked on a pleasant daydream where she fell and sprained an ankle and was taken to hospital, there to find him waiting to treat it while he expressed delight and pleasure at meeting her again...
‘Katherine, I wish that you would attend when I speak to you.’ Henry’s voice snapped the dream in two, and she blinked at him, reluctant to return to her present surroundings.
‘I feel that it’s time for Robin to start simple lessons. There is no reason why you shouldn’t spend an hour with him each morning, teaching him his letters and simple figures.’
‘What a good idea,’ she agreed cheerfully. ‘He’s quite out of hand, you know, because he hasn’t enough to occupy his brain. What will Sarah do while I’m busy with Robin?’
‘Why, she can stay in the room with you.’
‘Out of the question.’ She was still cheerful. ‘He wouldn’t listen to a word. Perhaps Joyce could spare an hour?’
Her sister-in-law pushed back her chair. ‘Whatever next? Where am I to find an hour, even half an hour? You can argue it out between you.’
‘The thing to do,’ observed Katherine mildly, ‘would be to take him with you when you go to work, and drop him off at that playschool in Wilton. He needs other children, you know. Perhaps Joyce could take her car and collect him at lunch time?’ She felt Henry’s fulminating eye upon her, and added calmly, ‘I’m sure several children from the village go there. I dare say they would give Robin a lift?’
She took no notice of his shocked silence, but be- gan to clear the table. Mrs Todd strongly objected to washing the supper dishes when she arrived in the morning.
The subject of Robin’s education didn’t crop up again for several days. Indeed, Henry showed his displeasure at Katherine’s lack of co-operation by saying as few words to her as possible, something she didn’t mind in the least. As for Joyce, they met at meals, but very seldom otherwise. Katherine, her days full of unending chores, had no time to worry about that. In bed, in the peace and quiet of her room, she strengthened her resolve to find a job of some sort. Lack of money was the stumbling point, and she hadn’t found a way round that yet, but she would. She promised herself that each night, before allowing her thoughts to dwell on Dr Fitzroy. It was a pity that she was too tired to indulge in this for more than a minute or two.
She was in the kitchen, washing up the supper dishes, more than a week since she had answered the knock on the door which had so changed her feelings, when Henry’s voice, loud and demanding, caused her to put down the dishmop and hurry along the passage to the drawing-room. One of the children, she supposed, not bothering to take off her apron; they had been almost unmanageable all day, and were probably wrecking the nursery instead of going to sleep. She opened the door and put her untidy head round it.
‘I’m washing up,’ she began. ‘If it’s the children...’
Dr Fitzroy was standing in the middle of the room, while Henry stood with his back to the fireplace, looking uneasy, and Joyce sat at a becoming angle in her chair, showing a good deal of leg.
‘Dr Fitzroy wishes to speak to you, Katherine.’ Henry was at his most ponderous.
‘Hello,’ said the doctor, and smiled at her.
Her face lit up with delight. ‘Oh, hello,’ said Katherine. ‘How very nice to see you again!’
She had come into the room, and stood unselfconsciously in front of him. That she was a deplorable sight hadn’t entered her head; it was stuffed with bliss at the mere sight of him.
‘What about the baby? Is he all right?’
‘Splendid. Perhaps we might go somewhere and talk?’ He looked at Henry, who went puce with temper.
‘Anything you have to say to Katherine can surely be listened to by myself and my wife? I am her brother,’ he blustered.
‘Yes, I know.’ The doctor’s voice was silky. He didn’t say any more, so Henry was forced to speak.
‘There is the dining-room, although I can’t imagine what you can have to say to Katherine...’
‘No, I don’t suppose you can.’ Dr Fitzroy’s voice was as pleasant as his smile. He held the door open, and Katherine went past him to the dining-room. It was chilly there; she switched on the light and turned to look at him.
Just for a moment he had a pang of doubt. What had made him think that this shabby, small young woman would be just right for the job he had in min
d? But, even if he had had second thoughts, the eager face she had turned to him doused them at once. She had shown admirable common sense about the baby; she hadn’t bothered him with a lot of questions, nor had she complained once. And, from what he had just seen, life at home was something she wasn’t likely to miss.
‘Do sit down. I’m sorry it’s chilly in here.’ She sat composedly, her hands quiet in her lap, and waited for him to speak.
‘I have a job to offer you,’ he began without preamble. ‘Of course, you may not want one, but I believe that you are exactly right for the kind of work I have in mind.’ He paused and studied her face; it had become animated and a little pink, but she didn’t speak. ‘I have been attending two elderly patients for some years, and they have reached the age when they need someone to look after them. They have help in the house, so there would be no housework...’ His eyes dwelt for a moment on her apron. ‘They refuse to have a nurse—in fact, they don’t really need one. What they do need is someone to fetch and carry, find their spectacles, encourage them to eat their meals, accompany them in the car when they wish to go out, and see them safely to their beds, and, if necessary, go to them during the night. In short, an unobtrusive companion, ready to fall in with their wishes and keep an eye on them. I’ve painted rather a drab picture, but it has its bright side—the house is pleasant and there is a delightful garden. You will have time for yourself each day and be independent. The salary is forty pounds a week...’
‘Forty pounds? A week? I’ve never had...’ She stopped just in time from telling him that she seldom had more than forty pence in her pocket. He wouldn’t believe her if she did. She finished rather lamely, ‘A job, I’m not trained for anything, Henry says...’
‘Perhaps you will allow me to be the judge of that?’ he suggested kindly. ‘Will it be difficult for you to leave home?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Yes, but I’m twenty-one. Would you mind very much if I told them now, while you are here?’
‘Certainly I will stay. Perhaps if there is any difficulty, I may be able to persuade your brother. When could you come with me to see Mr and Mrs Grainger?’
She resisted the wish to shout ‘Now!’ and said in her matter-of-fact way, ‘Whenever you wish, Dr Fitzroy.’
‘I’ll come for you tomorrow morning, and if you and they like each other, perhaps you could start on the following day?’
Katherine closed her eyes for a moment. There would be angry words and bad temper and endless arguments, but they couldn’t last for ever. ‘I’d like that.’
She got up, went to the door and found him there, pushing it open for her, something Henry had never done for her; good manners weren’t to be wasted on a sister that he didn’t particularly like. He was still standing before the fireplace and, from the way that he and Joyce looked at her as she went in, she knew that they had been talking about her. She crossed the room and stood in front of her brother.
‘Dr Fitzroy has offered me a job, which I have accepted,’ she told him in a voice which she was glad to hear sounded firm.
Henry gobbled, ‘A job? What kind of job, pray? And what about the children?’
She said calmly, ‘I should think you could get a mother’s help—after all, most people do—or Joyce could give up some of her committees.’ She sighed because Henry was working himself into a rage, and Joyce, once the doctor had gone, would be even worse.
Dr Fitzroy spoke now in a slow, placid manner which disregarded Henry’s red face. ‘Your sister is exactly right for an excellent post with two of my elderly patients. I have been searching for someone for some time, and her good sense when I asked for her help the other morning convinced me that she is exactly what Mr and Mrs Grainger need. I shall call for her in the morning so that she may have an interview, and I hope she will be able to go to them on the following day.’
Joyce said shrilly, ‘Who are these people? We know nothing about them! Katherine has never been away from home before; she’ll miss home life...’ She caught the doctor’s sardonic eye and paused. ‘She can go now, as far as I’m concerned,’ she said sulkily.
He ignored her. ‘I’ll be here at nine o’clock, if that suits you?’ He had spoken to Katherine, and then turned to Henry. ‘You may have my word that your sister will be happy as companion to the Graingers. There will be no housework, of course, and she will be paid a salary.’ He added a very civil goodnight, and Katherine, walking on air, took him to the door.
Before she shut it, he asked, ‘You’ll be all right?’
She nodded; there would be a good deal of unpleasantness before she could go to her room and start packing and looking out something suitable to wear in the morning, but she felt capable of outfacing the forthcoming recriminations with the promise of such a splendid future before her. And she would see Dr Fitzroy, too, sometimes. She hugged the thought to herself as she went back to the drawing-room.
Chapter 2
It was a good thing that Katherine felt so euphoric about her future, for the next hour tried her sorely. Henry, having recovered from his first surprise, had marshalled a number of forceful arguments, hampered rather than helped by Joyce’s ill-natured complaints.
Katherine listened patiently and, when he had quite done, said kindly, ‘Well, Henry, I would have thought that you would have been pleased. You don’t need to be responsible for me anymore, do you?’
Henry was an alarming puce once more. ‘Your ingratitude cuts me to the quick,’ he told her. ‘After all this time, giving you a home and food and clothes...’
She smiled at him and said sensibly, ‘And look what you got for that—unpaid housework, someone to look after the children and, because I’m your sister, there was no need to give me an allowance.’ She added, ‘It will be nice to have some money.’ Emboldened by the prospect of a glowing future, she walked to the door, just as Henry got his breath for another speech. ‘I’m rather tired,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I think I’ll go to bed. I haven’t finished the washing up, but there are only the saucepans left to do. Goodnight, Joyce—Henry.’
In her room, she sat down on her bed and cried. She had tried hard to please Henry and Joyce, she had accepted the care of the children and she had done her best to love them, but it was a singularly unloving household. She had never been happy in it and she was glad to leave it. All the same, it would have been nice if Henry and Joyce had uttered just one word of encouragement or thanks.
She got up presently, and crossed the landing to the children’s room. They needed tucking up once more, and she did this with her usual care, before going to the boxroom and fetching her two cases. Packing wouldn’t take long: her wardrobe was small, and most of it wasn’t worth packing. She had a tweed suit, elderly but well cut and good material; she would have to wear that until she had enough money to buy some decent clothes. She hoped that Mr and Mrs Grainger weren’t the kind of people to dress for dinner; it seemed unlikely, but she had a plain wool dress, very out-of-date, like the suit, but it had at one time been good, and would pass muster at a pinch.
She felt better now she had started her packing. She got ready for bed, hopped between the chilly sheets, closed her eyes and, very much to her surprise, went to sleep at once.
It was a scramble in the morning. Katherine got up earlier than usual, got into the suit and the sensible, low-heeled shoes which were suitable for everyday wear and country walks with the children. Then she did her face carefully with the sketchy make-up she possessed, tied her hair back with a narrow ribbon and went along to the nursery. For once, good fortune was on her side; the children were quite willing to be washed and dressed and given their breakfast. She took them downstairs and made tea for herself, laid the table for the children and for Henry, who wouldn’t be down for half an hour or so, and gave them their breakfast She was too excited to eat, and she hadn’t considered what meals they would have later on. She wasn’t even sure when she would be back; what was more, she didn’t much care!
She cleared the
table, took the children to the playroom and made more tea for Henry, who, on his way downstairs, put his head round the door to wish the children good morning but ignored her. She heard him leave the house presently and Mrs Todd crashing plates and saucepans in the kitchen. She would have to get Joyce out of bed before she went. Dr Fitzroy had said nine o’clock, and it was ten minutes to the hour.
Joyce didn’t answer as she went into the bedroom. Katherine drew back the curtains. ‘I’m going now,’ she said. ‘The children have had their breakfast and are in the playroom. I don’t know when I’ll be back.’
Joyce lifted her head. ‘I feel ill,’ she said pettishly. ‘You simply can’t go—you’ll have to put this interview off until I’m better.’
Katherine took a look at her sister-in-law. ‘I’ll tell Mrs Todd. I dare say she’ll keep an eye on Sarah and Robin. Henry can always come back here—you could phone him.’
Joyce sat right up. ‘I hope these people hate you on sight and you lose the job. It would serve you right! And don’t expect to come crawling back here. Job or no job, out you go tomorrow.’
Katherine turned to go, and the children, bored with their own company, came hurtling past her and flung themselves onto their mother’s bed.
Katherine closed the door quietly behind her. She didn’t like her sister-in-law, but a pang of sympathy shot through her; the children were small tyrants, and Joyce had little patience with them. She would demand a mother’s help and Henry would have to agree. Whoever it was would want a salary and days off and weekends and holidays...Katherine had another pang of sympathy for Henry, who hated to spend his money.
Dr Fitzroy was waiting for her when she opened the door and looked out, and she hurried to the car.