by Andrea Blake
When Neal brought in the tea tray he said, “If there is anything you’d like to borrow, help yourself. This toast is rather messy. Have you got a handkerchief on you? I don’t run to napkins, I’m afraid.”
Jennifer produced a small Swiss lawn handkerchief from her bag.
“That won’t protect your dress. Have mine.” He tossed a large white linen one on to her lap.
“I like toast like this ... cut thick and oozing with butter,” she said, helping herself. “Do you cook all your own meals now, or do you eat out?”
“I sometimes go over to the Crown if it’s been a heavy day, but I can knock up a reasonable meal. You and your mother must come and try my Spaghetti Bolognese one evening.”
“I love spaghetti, but Wilfred would only eat those horrible squashy snippets out of tins, so we never had the real thing. I wonder what made him the way he was?” Jennifer said thoughtfully.
“God knows. Some people are born with narrow minds,” Neal said, with a shrug. “Do you like Chinese food?”
“I’ve never tried any.”
“If you let me know when you’re thinking of going up to town again, we might go together. I know an excellent Chinese restaurant in Soho where you get the genuine article, not this hybrid chop suey stuff.”
“I’d like that very much.”
It was six o’clock before she glanced at her watch and discovered that they had been talking for nearly two hours. Neal drove her home and spent the rest of the evening at Laureldene. And when Jennifer went to bed, it was not only excitement over the opening of her department tomorrow that kept her awake long after she had switched off her bedside lamp.
Quite a number of people came into Parkers to have a look at the new department during the following morning. Most of them were the well-to-do middle-aged women who were always to be seen meeting their friends for morning coffee at the cafe on the west side of the square.
By lunch-time Jennifer had sold a rack fitted with glass spice jars, more than a dozen of the Tampella drying-up cloths, an oven-proof casserole also imported from Finland, and—to her great delight—a beautiful but rather expensive pair of salt and pepper shakers made of Royal Holland pewter.
When one of the salesmen from Bedding came to relieve her for an hour, she ran upstairs to tell Neal about this auspicious beginning.
“Well done: we must celebrate. Come and lunch with me at the Crown,” he said, smiling at her excitement.
They had a delicious meal and Neal ordered a bottle of burgundy with which to toast the success of the new venture. Sitting next to him on one of the gold velvet banquettes, Jennifer could not help noticing that several of the other women present kept glancing at Neal as if they would very much like to be in her place. She would have been less than human if the knowledge that she was with the most personable man in the room had not added to her enjoyment of the occasion.
She returned to the department to find that there had been two more customers during her absence, and about three o’clock her mother and Miss Fletcher came in. Miss Fletcher bought a set of gilt towel rings for her bathroom, and four of the Tampella cloths.
“What lovely things, Jennifer. I like that white lamp in the corner, but it’s rather expensive. I must drop a hint to Robert. Oh, your mother is having supper with us tonight. I hope you’ll come too.”
“Thank you very much, Miss Fletcher, but there are several things I must do this evening. I missed my half-day yesterday. Otherwise I would have loved to have come.”
“Oh, I quite understand, dear. You have a lot on your plate at the moment. Perhaps another time.”
Later in the afternoon Jennifer was replacing a set of table mats she had sold when, behind her, someone said, “Good afternoon.”
Turning, she saw the fair young man who had stared at her on the train back from London.
“Good afternoon. Can I help you?” she asked politely, giving no sign that she had recognised him.
“I’m looking for a wedding present for some friends of mine. I wonder if you can advise me?” he said, smiling at her.
“Yes, with pleasure. How much were you thinking of spending, sir?”
“Oh, about fifteen or twenty pounds, I suppose.”
Jennifer managed not to blink at him. “Do you know what kind of home your friends are planning?” she asked. “Will they have modern or period furniture, do you think?”
“Oh, modern, I should imagine,” he said, rather vaguely. “They’ll be living in a flat in London. Patsy is a fashion model. I shouldn’t think she cares for anything old-fashioned. They’ll be entertaining a good deal. I wondered if a set of glasses and a cocktail shaker might be suitable.”
“They’ll probably get more glasses than they can ever use. I think I have a better idea. Would you mind waiting for a few minutes while I go up to the stockroom? Some things came in this morning which may appeal to you.”
“Everything here appeals to me,” he said, with a glint in his eyes.
Jennifer came back a few minutes later with three large cartons in her arms.
“This is a special pan for making Swiss fondue,” she explained, as she undid one of the boxes.
“Oh, Patsy’s the tin-opener type. I don’t think she’d go for any cooking gear,” he said dubiously.
“Fondue more or less cooks itself. Haven’t you ever had it? It’s very much in vogue at the moment. You put some cheese in the pan and heat it over this spirit burner which goes with it. When the cheese is simmering, everyone dips cubes of bread in it with these extra long forks. It’s the most painless way of providing something hot that I know.”
“It sounds a good idea,” he agreed. But he was looking at her, not the pan.
Jennifer had no desire to lose a customer, but her voice was cold and clipped as she said, “Alternatively, this silver-plated hors-d’oeuvres tray with the glass sections would be very acceptable to people who like entertaining. Or how about this three-speed fan at twelve guineas? Of course it’s mainly for summer use, but the manufacturers also recommend it for clearing a stuffy room after a party.”
“I’ll take the cheese thing. May I pay by cheque?”
“Certainly, sir. Will you take it with you, or would you like us to gift wrap it and send it straight to the bride’s home?”
“Yes, if you would. I’ll jot down the address.”
Jennifer went to fetch a card to be enclosed in the parcel, and when she came back he had written out the cheque. His name was Tony Anderson, and the address on the back was Friarsbridge Hall, Friarsbridge. No wonder he could afford expensive presents, Jennifer thought, as she watched him write a message on the card. The Anderson chocolate factory was Midchester’s largest industry and everyone knew that the chairman of the company lived at Friarsbridge Hall, a mansion about four miles out of Midchester. This young man must be his son.
“Well, thank you very much for your help, Miss ...?” he said, returning the card to her.
“Not at all, sir. I’ll make sure your present is sent off tonight. Good afternoon.” With a cool nod, she walked briskly back to her office.
He was good-looking, and he was probably the target of every match-making mother in the county, but there was something she did not like about the bold-eyed Mr. Anderson.
She spent the evening washing and setting her hair, doing her nails and turning up the hem of an amber-coloured wool dress which she had bought during her lunch hour earlier in the week.
At half-past nine, she went to bed to start reading the book she had borrowed from Neal on Thursday. As she opened it, she noticed something sticking out from between the pages. It was a photograph, a colour print. It showed Neal lounging on a beach in dark swimming trunks. Sitting beside him was a long-legged brunette in a very brief scarlet bikini. The girl had her arm round Neal’s broad brown shoulders, and she appeared to be murmuring something in his ear.
After staring at it for some moments, Jennifer put the photograph face down on her bedside table. But she did not
return her attention to the book. She lay back against the pillows, gazing in front of her.
Suddenly she understood why it had been so important to win back Neal’s good opinion ... and why she had resented Alison Fletcher ... and probably why she had crossed swords with Neal in the first place.
Without realising what was happening to her, she had fallen in love with him.
Jennifer had always liked Saturday in Midchester, in spite of the fact that all the staff at Parkers had their lunch breaks reduced to forty-five minutes because it was the busiest day of the week.
By ten o’clock on Saturday morning every space in the town’s car parks was taken up, and the streets were full of country people who had come in for the cattle market or to see the Midchester Rovers’ football match. Between eleven and noon, the restaurants were crowded with women and girls wearing their smartest clothes. All the hairdressing salons were booked to capacity because Saturday night was dance night. At the back of the fruit and vegetable market, traders from the London street markets delighted crowds of onlookers with their impudent Cockney patter. A turbaned and bearded Sikh sold quack medicines guaranteed to cure any and every ailment, but in recent years he had lost some of his fascination because nowadays Midchester was quite a cosmopolitan place. There were students from Africa and Malaya at the Technical College, and several Indian doctors at Midchester Infirmary. A dark-skinned, dark-eyed face and the exotic brightness of a sari or a cheongsam no longer made people’s heads turn.
With only forty-nine more shopping days to Christmas, the newspaper announcement about Parkers new department brought in so many customers that Jennifer had not a moment to relax from the time the store opened until she was relieved at one o’clock.
Knowing from experience that her usual coffee bar would be jam-packed at this hour, she crossed the square and hurried along Lion Street to Whittakers, the town’s largest department store. The table d’hote lunch in the top-floor restaurant cost eleven shillings, but the place seated more than a hundred people and was rarely completely full. Today she felt that she needed a three-course meal and half an hour’s relaxation. The manageress led her to a table for two, and a waitress took her order. Jennifer slipped her heels out of her shoes and wriggled her toes. She was not used to being on her feet so much.
“Would you mind if this gentleman shared your table, miss?” The manageress had returned and was drawing out the other chair.
“No, of course not,” Jennifer said automatically.
But her polite smile faded as she saw who the newcomer was.
“Good morning, Miss Alvery. This is a very pleasant surprise,” Tony Anderson said blandly.
“Good morning,” Jennifer said coldly. But she could not resist asking, “How do you know my name, Mr. Anderson?”
“I asked one of your colleagues when I was in the store this morning. Then I waited outside the staff door until you came out, and I followed you.”
The waitress brought Jennifer’s soup, and she spread her napkin and began to drink it.
“Don’t you want to know why? ... or are you quite used to people following you?” he enquired.
Without looking at him, Jennifer said, “All right: why did you follow me?”
“Because I want to get to know you better.”
Jennifer broke her bread roll. “The fact that I served you at Parkers yesterday doesn’t constitute an introduction, Mr. Anderson.”
“Are formal introductions necessary, nowadays, do you think?”
“As far as I’m concerned they are.”
“But it’s not as if I were a complete stranger to you,” he said reasonably. “My family is pretty well known in Midchester. I’m sure you must have heard of us. So why not stretch a point this time?”
Jennifer finished the soup and sat back in her chair. Folding her hands in her lap, she said evenly, “I don’t wish to be rude, Mr. Anderson, but it doesn’t seem to have occurred to you that I might not want to get to you know better.”
“Why not? You’re not engaged, are you? You don’t wear a ring. What is it you have against me?”
“I don’t know you, Mr. Anderson,” she said, with emphasis.
“Do you mean you never speak to anyone unless you’ve been introduced to them? ... Not even in restaurants or trains? Ah, I think I know what’s the trouble. You’re angry because I stared at you in the train the other week. Well, how could I help it, Miss Alvery, when you looked so pretty? I just couldn’t keep my eyes off you, I’m afraid.” His eyes twinkled. “You look even prettier when you’re cross.”
Jennifer waited in silence for the meat course to arrive. But Tony Anderson was not easily rebuffed.
“Very well, it you insist on being introduced, I’ll have to see what I can do. I’m sure we must have mutual friends around. In fact, I can’t understand why we haven’t met before,” he said perplexedly. “Are you new to Midchester?”
“No, I’ve lived here for years—but I doubt if we know the same people.”
Two women at a nearby table were leaving. As they rose and turned to face her, Jennifer recognised one of them as Mrs. Rayford-Greene who lived in the house next door but one to Laureldene. At the very second that the woman caught sight of her and smiled, Jennifer remembered that Mr. Rayford-Greene was an executive at Andersons’ factory.
While her companion went ahead to pay the bill, Mrs. Rayford-Greene stopped to speak to her. “Hello, Jennifer. How is your mother, Tony? ... I didn’t notice you here. How are you?”
He stood up and smiled at her. “Oh, fine, thanks. Mrs. Rayford-Greene, I wonder if you would be so kind as to introduce me to Miss Alvery?”
“Introduce you?”
“Yes, if you would. We’ve met once or twice, you see, but not socially. I’d like you to vouch that there’s nothing shady about me … that I’m a suitable person for her to know.”
Mrs. Rayford-Greene looked slightly flustered. “Is this one of your jokes, Tony?”
“No, I’m serious,” he assured her. “Miss Alvery is a stickler for the conventions. I’ve told her who I am, but she won’t agree to have dinner with me until we’ve been properly introduced.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I can assure you that Tony is who he says he is, Jennifer. I’ve known him since he was a schoolboy, haven’t I, Tony?”
“There—are you satisfied now?” he asked quizzically, after the older woman had gone. “And will you have dinner with me tonight?”
“You know I won’t,” Jennifer said frigidly.
“Why not? We’ve been introduced now.”
“For the very, simple reason that I don’t want to dine with you, Mr. Anderson.” Deciding to forgo her pudding and coffee, Jennifer signalled to the waitress to bring her bill. When the girl had written it out for her, she said, “Please don’t follow me again, Mr. Anderson. I assure you you’ll be wasting your time. Goodbye.”
At closing time, Neal came down to tell Jennifer that he was going to London for the weekend.
“I won’t be back until Monday afternoon,” he said. “I may have something to discuss with your mother so, if it’s convenient, I’ll run you home after work and have a bite of supper with you.”
“Yes, of course it will be convenient. I’ll tell her.” Jennifer hardly dared to look at him. She was afraid that what had happened to her must show in her eyes.
After he had gone to catch his train, she realised she had forgotten to return the photograph to him. It was in the zip-pocket of her handbag. On the way home on the bus, she took it out and studied it again. She wondered who the girl was and where the picture had been taken. The brilliance of the sunlight and the beach umbrella in the background suggested somewhere abroad. Had the girl been important to him? Or had it been merely a light-hearted holiday relationship? The book she had borrowed was not a recent publication. The photograph could have stuck between the pages for several years. Possibly Neal had forgotten all about the girl by now. Anyway, it was absurd to feel jealous of her. Neal was thirty-on
e. There must have been quite a number of women in his life.
Was it only her fancy, or had he really sounded as if he did not want to go away this weekend? Perhaps, if he had been staying in Midchester, he would have taken her for another run in the Lancia.
During supper, Louise said, “What’s all this about you lunching with the Anderson boy in Whittakers today, darling? I met Mrs. Rayford-Greene on the bus home this afternoon, and she was very arch with me.”
Jennifer explained what had happened, reminding her mother that she had seen Tony Anderson on the train.
“So I was right about his having an eye on you,” Louise said, frowning. “However, I didn’t know who he was then. Don’t you remember, Jenny, he came up before Wilfred about a year ago and was fined for speeding? ... not just mildly exceeding the limit, but doing a hundred or more in a restricted area. Oh, you must remember, dear. Wilfred came home in one of his tempers. He said a fine meant nothing to old man Anderson’s son, and if he had had his way he would have disqualified him.”
But Jennifer could not recall this particular outburst of irascibility. Her stepfather had usually been in a choleric mood after a session on the Bench. It had been one of his strongest opinions that local magistrates were not given nearly enough licence in the imposition of penalties. “Two pounds! Five pounds! These piffling little fines are a waste of time,” he would growl, when he came home. “Probation ... tarradiddle! There was none of this juvenile delinquency when I was a boy. A taste of the birch is what most of these young layabouts need!”
“I think Mrs. Rayford-Greene expected me to be delighted when she told me about seeing you in Whittakers,” Louise went on. “She is the type of woman who judges everyone by their social position and how much money they have, so no doubt she regards young Anderson as a great ‘catch.’ However, from what she told me about him, he sounds a rather wild young man. I’m glad you snubbed him, Jenny.”