by Bell, Julia
It was a Friday morning on a very hot day in August when I read my advertisement; checking it had been published correctly. The last one had printed the wrong address and I had had to remonstrate with them for the mistake, but this time it was correct. And then the advertisement next to mine caught my eye. I read it a few times and frowned.
Young lady of excellent education and
from a good family required for agreed
duties on a short term contract.
Exceptional remuneration
Please apply to Mrs Holland PO Box 11
The words ‘exceptional remuneration’ seemed to jump out at me. And the duties were of a short duration. I felt intrigued and taking the newspaper with me, I walked over to the writing table in the corner and sat down. I quickly penned a letter, giving details of my experience and asking for more information. I was just about to put the letter in the envelope when I had second thoughts.
Although the advertisement seemed interesting, I also thought it too mysterious and the fact it was a Post Office box worried me. That meant this Mrs Holland didn’t want her address known and I wondered why.
But the longing to earn more money made me think again. I scooped the letter from the desk, tore it in pieces and sat down to write another, this time with a few changes. If Mrs Holland wanted to be mysterious then so could Mrs Asquith.
A reply came a week later asking me to call on Mrs Holland at her address in Ealing at four o’clock the following Tuesday.
I dressed in my royal blue outfit, the one I had worn for my audition at the academy, tying my hair up neatly with a pretty ribbon. I decided to wear my best straw hat decorated with a dark blue velvet ribbon that trailed down the back. I hoped I looked business-like but also pleasing to my potential employer. Before I left the house, I slipped off my wedding ring and dropped it in my jewellery box. As I travelled on the omnibus, I pondered on what Mrs Holland’s ‘agreed duties’ would be and why she hadn’t been more specific in her advertisement.
Gibson Place was a smart row of Georgian houses in a sweeping crescent, with a park opposite. It was a fashionable area and as I placed my hand on the large brass knocker, I glanced around at the ladies and gentlemen promenading along the pavement, the servants hurrying to and fro on some errand or other. A young maid in a frilly apron and cap opened the door to me and then showed me into the conservatory at the back of the house and overlooking a wonderful garden. Mrs Holland rose to her feet as I was shown in and I liked her immediately. She had a broad, wonderful smile in a plump face and her figure was matronly. She was dressed in black with a lace cap sitting on greying hair. Gold-rimmed spectacles were perched on the end of a button nose and her blue eyes seemed to twinkle with amusement.
She took my hand. “Miss Pritchard? I’m so pleased to meet you and I must say you’re as charming as I thought you would be.”
“Thank you for inviting me for an interview, Mrs Holland. Although I’m rather puzzled by your advertisement. It didn’t say anything about the work I’m applying for.”
She indicated a seat and I sat down. I was facing the open French windows and I lifted my face for a second, closing my eyes to enjoy the cool breeze coming in from the garden.
“It’s a very hot day isn’t it, my dear.” She watched me. “If you wish to take off your hat, then please do so. I want you to be as comfortable as possible.” I smiled and unpinned the straw hat from my head, laying it on my lap. I patted my hair into place and saw her glance towards the window. “Now would you like tea? Or there’s lemonade if you wish?”
“Thank you. Lemonade would be wonderful.”
She tugged at the bell-pull and in a moment the little maid entered the room and Mrs Holland ordered the lemonade. She took her seat in a large armchair with her back to the windows and it seemed only a few seconds before the maid brought in a glass jug and two glasses. Mrs Holland poured out the drinks and I took mine and drank thirstily, not realising how much I needed refreshment.
“Now then, my dear. Your letter says you are twenty years old?” I nodded. “That’s very young.”
I frowned. “Very young for what? I’m old enough to earn my own living.”
“As a music teacher?”
“Yes.”
“Is your health good?”
“Very good.”
“Your parents are alive?”
I started to get suspicious. “I’m sorry, but what have my parents to do with this?”
She gave another nervous glance at the open windows of the conservatory where two large aspidistra stood outside on the terrace.
Her attention turned to me. “In my advertisement I spoke of a young lady coming from a good family. Although you said in your letter that you did come from a good family, you were not very specific.”
It was then I became very suspicious. “I was born in the Rhondda…” I started and she laughed.
“You have a lovely lilt to your accent, my dear. So, I knew you were Welsh as soon as I heard you.”
I smiled. “My mother was English, but my father was Welsh. He was born in Swansea.”
“You say ‘was’. Am I to take it that your parents are dead?”
I looked down at the glass in my hand. “My mother died when I was fourteen.”
“From what?”
I frowned again not understanding the reason behind her questions. “There was an influenza epidemic in our village,” I said slowly. “She developed pneumonia.”
“And your father?”
“He was killed…in a mining disaster two years this Christmas.”
Mrs Holland’s expression became sad. “I remember reading something in the paper. Didn’t two men die? The owner of the mine and…” Her brow puckered. “Wasn’t the second man a mineralogist or something?”
“Yes,” I murmured. “Papa was the owner.” I glanced round the room and then took another sip of my lemonade. Suddenly, the large leaves of the aspidistra shook and my attention became riveted. “Mrs Holland, I think someone is hiding behind those plants outside.” I placed the glass down on the floor along with my hat and rose from the chair.
She gave a pleasant laugh and waved her hand in casual dismissal. “It’s my cat. She’s obviously seen a moth or butterfly in the plants and is trying to catch it. She can be a real nuisance at times. Do sit down.”
I did but wasn’t pacified one bit, the hair rising on the back of my neck. Burglaries were common in affluent areas and a thief might take his opportunity while the windows were open.
“Would you tell me what it is you want of me,” I insisted. “You’ve not said a word about what these agreed duties are. Or what exceptional remuneration you’re offering.” My gaze returned to the aspidistra.
“All in good time, my dear. Tell me, are you romantically involved at the moment? You are extremely pretty and I can imagine plenty of gentlemen giving you their attention.”
It was getting too much for me. What on earth did my private life have to do with all this? I began to feel annoyed and was just about to protest about her line of questioning when the aspidistra leaves quivered once more. I listened carefully. I had good hearing and as I concentrated I knew that something was wrong.
I jumped out of my chair. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s definitely someone hiding on the terrace.”
“I’ve told you, it’s my cat.”
I shook my head. “No, I can hear scuffling.” I glanced over to the far wall and saw an elm walking stick propped up in the corner. I walked stealthily over to it and grasped it firmly. I took two steps toward the window and cried out, “Show yourself or I’ll use this on you.”
I took another step nearer and raised the stick above my head. A soft chuckle made me stop and my mouth dropped open in surprise.
“It’s no good, Mrs Holland,” said a gentle voice among the leaves. “We’d better come clean before Miss Pritchard decides to crack my head open.”
Mrs Holland rose from her seat and took the walking stick from
me. She leaned it against her chair and then guided me back to my place facing the windows.
“Sit down and I’ll finish the interview. But I must say you’re very brave to confront a possible burglar. I would have expected you to run screaming from the room.”
“Somehow I don’t think this young lady would do that,” said the man behind the plant.
“Why doesn’t he show himself?” I asked, feeling very confused.
“He wants to remain anonymous.”
“And why is that?”
“You’d better tell her, Mrs Holland,” he said.
She turned to the window. “Are you sure, sir?”
“I’m quite satisfied with what I’ve seen and heard so far.”
Mrs Holland took her seat and folded her hands in her ample lap. “This gentleman is your potential employer, my dear. I’m conducting the interview on his behalf.”
I glanced towards the window and sighed. “It seems very suspicious that he wishes to remain hidden.” There was no reply from him so I continued, “But let me hear what you have to say.”
She smiled. “First, I would like to repeat my last question, Miss Pritchard. Are you romantically involved at the moment?”
I shook my head. “No, there’s nothing like that in my life.”
“Then I can now tell you the true nature of this interview, but you must understand that what I’m about to tell you is confidential. What you hear mustn’t go beyond this house. Do you understand?” I nodded and she gestured towards the window where the anonymous man seemed to be standing or sitting perfectly still. “This gentleman finds himself in a distressing situation. He and his wife have no children and there is no chance of the lady ever having a child. The agreed duties in my advertisement is that a young, healthy woman bears them a child and then be willing to relinquish that child for an agreed sum of money.”
A long time seemed to pass as I stared at her. I couldn’t speak. My mind became a whirl of confused thoughts. Finally, I found the words to reply. “You’re asking me…to have a baby…for a couple who can’t have their own child?”
“It will be my child, obviously,” said the hushed voice from the aspidistra.
“That’s it precisely,” said Mrs Holland, smiling.
“Why me?” I asked, my throat starting to constrict.
The gentleman’s voice was strangely calm despite the subject in question. “Because I think you’d be highly suitable. You’re young and in good health. Intelligent and very attractive.” He gave another chuckle. “And as Mrs Holland said, you are brave beyond your years.”
“Brave I might be,” I scoffed. “But bringing a child into the world is a risky business.”
“You’ll have the best possible medical attention,” he said.
I thought for a moment. “What happens if I lose the child during pregnancy or the child is born dead?”
He paused before answering. “That would be sad and very unfortunate. However, I can only pay you if you give me a healthy child.”
“And if the baby was healthy but I died?”
Again there was another pause before he said, “That would be even sadder. But I would make sure the money goes to your next of kin.”
“You haven’t said how much I would get for these agreed duties.”
Mrs Holland smiled. “Twelve hundred pounds, my dear.”
I gasped with surprise. Twelve hundred pounds! It would be more than enough to pay for my academy fees and the household bills while I was studying. I could afford to buy a Singer sewing machine for Nan. I could…I pulled myself up, suddenly realising the implications of what I was thinking. I would have to go to bed with a man who was a stranger to me. Have his child and then give it up.
“What’s your answer?” asked Mrs Holland, her large eyes watching me.
“I’m not sure,” I said slowly. “There’s a great deal to consider.”
Another chuckle came from behind the plants and I tried desperately to see the man hiding there. But I was facing the window and the bright light obscured my vision.
“Of course there’s a great deal to consider and you’ll need time to think it over,” he said.
I looked down at the polished floorboards my thoughts in turmoil. Twelve hundred pounds sounded wonderful. I could do so much with that.
“You’re a music teacher?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered, without raising my eyes.
“What do you teach? Piano? Singing?”
“Both those.”
“Can you sing?”
I raised my head and stared at the open window, wishing he would show himself. “Enough to teach it,” I said.
“Then let me hear you sing.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Sing me a song.”
I raised my chin defiantly. “No, sir. I certainly will not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not here to sing. If you want singing lessons then I charge one shilling and sixpence an hour.”
This time his laughter echoed round the conservatory and I couldn’t help thinking what a pleasant voice he had. I wondered what he looked like.
“So, my dear. Do you wish more time to think about it?” said Mrs Holland.
I nodded. “Yes please, just a few days.”
“I’m always at home at four every afternoon. When you make up your mind then just call in to see me.”
“But be warned, Miss Pritchard,” said the gentleman. “We can’t be kept waiting. If you don’t turn up after seven days then your application is rescinded. And don’t forget that you promised to keep all this confidential.”
That night I tossed and turned amongst the covers, hoping that my restlessness didn’t disturb Danny sleeping in his cot. I reached across and held his tiny hand in mine. His birth had been relatively easy, so why shouldn’t a second child be just as trouble free? By next summer, financial security could be mine and I could have the means of entering the academy.
As sleep finally claimed me I was heartily relieved that I had removed my wedding ring and assumed my maiden name. The gentleman might want to be anonymous but so did I. I had to protect my true identity. It would be a terrible betrayal of my darling husband and his precious memory. As I fell asleep whispering his name, I hoped he would forgive me for what I was thinking of doing.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Charity! Greensleeves is a love song. It’s said that it was written by Henry the eighth for Anne Boleyn.”
The young girl sniffed in disgust. “Didn’t he chop off her head, Mrs Asquith?”
My fingers rested on the piano keys and I sighed. “Yes, he did. But before doing that, he was very much in love with her and he wrote this song expressing his love. It’s supposed to be sung with feeling.”
“I’m trying to sing it with feeling.”
“Let’s start again. But try and imagine that you’re in love.”
Charity giggled and I found myself smiling. I suppose eleven is not the age for imagining you’re in love. I gave her the introduction once more and she started to sing. I cringed with every note and then Mrs Reynard swished into the room. She stood quietly, listening and when we reached the end, she clapped her hands in rapture.
“Oh, I think she sounds so delightful.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said dryly. There was no telling these mothers. They were obviously very hard of hearing or just plain stupid.
I left the house feeling very despondent. Three days had passed since my interview with Mrs Holland and the unknown gentleman. They had given me seven days’ grace and my conflicting thoughts had haunted my every waking hour. What should I do? Was it a sin to contemplate such an idea? What would Mr Price back in Cwmdare think? I sighed as I walked towards the house I shared with Nan. But then I had an idea and suddenly I was jumping on the omnibus and heading towards Regent’s Park and the music academy.
Once there, I stood outside the impressive white building and listened. It was another hot day and the window
s were open. I could hear the various melodies drifting on the slight breeze and my heart longed to be part of it all. Every fibre in my body ached for it. I glanced at the fob watch pinned to my blouse and before I knew it I was walking back through the park and catching the omnibus. Not for home, but for the large house in Gibson Place, Ealing.
It was only three-thirty when I arrived and conscious of the fact that Mrs Holland said she would be at home at four, I strolled around the neighbourhood. It was such a pleasant part of London, with chestnut and lime trees lining the avenues and crescents. It was mostly the middle-class that lived in this area and the numerous carriages that rumbled along the cobbles gave testimony to the money spent on the luxurious living enjoyed by the residents. They were wonderful vehicles, glinting with brass fittings and polished leatherwork, pulled by two fine horses. Drivers sat aloft, in smart livery. The ladies and gentlemen riding in them looked smug and self-satisfied. All about me were nannies pushing perambulators or servants cleaning windows or sweeping the pavement.
Suddenly I was filled with disquiet as I wondered if the gentleman who wanted to employ me, might live close by. Perhaps he was watching me now, from an upstairs window? I glanced around but then my common sense prevailed. It was unlikely for him to be a resident of Ealing, since he would want to distance himself from his intentions. If he wanted to stay anonymous then he probably lived in another part of London.
At four o’clock precisely, I knocked on the door, my hand trembling. Then I realised I had forgotten to take off my wedding ring. I quickly pulled it from my finger and stuffed it in the leather pouch that held my music. The maid showed me into the parlour. This was a very pleasant room its décor in pink and white, with vases of flowers on two occasional tables placed against the wall. A comfortable couch and two armchairs stood by the richly decorated fire-screen and all around were the ornaments and photographs associated with the life of an elderly widowed lady.