by Betty Neels
Debbie looked relieved and then asked, ‘But what will you do?’
‘Oh, I can turn my hand to anything,’ said Olivia airily, and took herself off to the canteen. She shared a table with two clerks from Admissions, older than herself, competent, hard-working ladies both.
‘There’s a nasty rumour going round,’ one of them said to Olivia as she sat down. ‘They’re cutting down, starting with the domestics and then us.’
‘Is it just a rumour or for real?’
‘We’re to get letters tomorrow, warning us, and at the end of next week we shall get notes in our pay envelopes if we’re to be made redundant.’
Olivia pushed shepherd’s pie and two veg around the plate. Something would have to be done about Debbie. Her own wages would be missed at home, but they wouldn’t starve and they had a roof over their heads whereas Debbie’s family would be in sore straits. She ate prunes and custard, drank the strong tea, and went along to the secretary’s office.
He wasn’t there, but his PA was—a nice girl, who Olivia knew slightly. ‘I want you to help me,’ said Olivia in a no-nonsense voice.
She was listened to without interruption, then the PA said, ‘I’ll do my best—shall I say that you’ve got another job lined up? The hospital manager will be delighted; he’s going to be very unpopular.’
Olivia went back to her work, and spent the rest of the day doing her best to reassure Debbie.
It was pay-day in the morning and, sure enough, everyone had a letter in their pay-packet, setting out the need to retrench, cut costs and improve hospital services.
‘How will they do that if there aren’t enough of us to go round?’ demanded Debbie. ‘I shan’t dare tell my mum.’
‘Not until next week,’ cautioned Olivia. ‘You haven’t got the sack yet.’
The next week crawled to its end and Olivia opened her pay packet to find a note advising her that she had been given a week’s notice. Although she had been fairly sure that she would be the one to go, it was still a blow—mitigated to a certain extent by Debbie’s relief. ‘Though how I’ll manage on my own, I don’t know,’ she told Olivia. ‘I’m always filing things wrong.’
‘No, you aren’t. Besides, you’ll be extra careful now.’
‘What about you? Have you got a job to go to?’
‘Not yet, but we can manage quite well until I find something else. Look, Debbie, we’ve got next week—let’s check the shelves together so that everything is OK before I go.’
She hadn’t told her mother yet; that could wait until she had actually left. Thank heaven, she reflected, that it’s spring. We can economise on the heating if only we can get Grandmother to co-operate, and not go round the flat turning on lights that aren’t needed and switching on the electric fires and then forgetting them. It was, after all, her flat—something of which she reminded them constantly.
They worked like beavers during the next week, and although Olivia was glad that she need no longer work in the dreary underground room she was sorry to leave Debbie. She put a brave face on it, however, assured her that she had her eye on several likely jobs, collected her pay-packet for the last time and went home. The bus was as usual crowded, so she stood, not noticing her feet being trodden on, or the elderly lady with the sharp elbows which kept catching her in the ribs. She was regretting leaving without seeing that nice man who had been so friendly. Doubtless back in Holland by now, she thought, and forgotten all about us.
She waited until they had had their supper before she told her mother and grandmother that she had lost her job. Her mother was instantly sympathetic. ‘Of course you’ll find something else much nicer,’ she said, ‘and until you do we can manage quite well…’
Her grandmother wasn’t as easy to placate. ‘Well, what do you expect?’ she wanted to know. ‘You’re not really trained for anything, and quite right too. No gel should have to go out to work—not people of our background…’ Mrs Fitzgibbon, connected by marriage to the elderly baronet and his family who never took any notice of her, was inclined to give herself airs.
‘All the same,’ she went on, ‘of course you must find something else at once. I, for one, have no intention of living in penury; heaven knows I have sacrificed a great deal so that both of you should have a home and comfort.’ She stared at her granddaughter with beady eyes. ‘Well, Olivia, perhaps that young man of yours will marry you now.’
‘Perhaps he will,’ said Olivia brightly, thinking to herself that perhaps he wouldn’t—she hadn’t heard from him for almost three weeks—and anyway, the last time they had been out together he had told her that he had his eye on a new car. The nasty thought that perhaps the new car might receive priority over herself crossed her mind. Rodney had never been over-loving, and she had told herself that it was because they had known each other for some time and his feelings had become a trifle dulled. Perhaps it was a good thing that they hadn’t seen each other for a few weeks; he might look at her with new eyes and ask her to marry him. Something he had not as yet done, although there was a kind of unspoken understanding between them. Anyway, now was not the time to worry about that. A job was the first thing she must think about.
She had been given good references but it seemed that her skills as a filing-clerk weren’t much in demand. She went out each day, armed with the details of suitable jobs culled from the newspapers, and had no luck at all; she couldn’t use a word-processor; she had no idea how to work with a computer, and a cash register was a closed book as far as she was concerned. The week was almost up when Rodney phoned. He sounded—she thought for a word—excited, and she wondered why. Then he said, ‘I want to talk to you, Olivia, can we meet somewhere? You know how it is if I come and see you at your grandmother’s place…’
‘Where do you suggest? I’ve things to tell you too.’
‘Yes?’ He didn’t sound very interested. ‘Meet me at that French place in Essex Road this evening. Seven o’clock.’
He rang off before she could agree.
He had sounded different she reflected as she went to tell her mother that she would be out that evening. Mrs Fitzgibbon, reading the newspaper by the window, put it down. ‘And high time too,’ she observed. ‘Let us hope that he will propose.’ She picked up her paper again, ‘One less mouth to feed,’ she muttered nastily.
Perhaps you get like that when you’re old, thought Olivia, and gave her mother a cheerful wink. It was of no use getting annoyed, and she knew that her grandmother’s waspish tongue was far kinder to her mother, an only daughter who had married the wrong man—in her grandmother’s eyes at least—and it was because Olivia was more like her father than her mother that her grandmother disliked her. If she had been slender and graceful and gentle, like her mother, it might have been a different kettle of fish…
She dressed with care presently, anxious to look her best for Rodney. The jacket and skirt, even though they were four years old, were more or less dateless, as was the silk blouse which went with them. She didn’t look too bad, she conceded to herself, studying her person in her wardrobe mirror, only she wished that she were small and dainty. She pulled a face at her lovely reflection, gave her hair a final pat, and bade her mother goodbye.
‘Take a key,’ ordered her grandmother. ‘We don’t want to be wakened at all hours.’
Olivia said nothing. She couldn’t remember a single evening when Rodney hadn’t driven her back well before eleven o’clock.
Perhaps, she mused, sitting in an almost empty bus, she and Rodney had known each other for too long. Although surely when you were in love that wouldn’t matter? The thought that perhaps she wasn’t in love with him took her breath. Of course she was. She was very fond of him; she liked him, they had enjoyed cosy little dinners in out of the way restaurants and had gone to the theatre together and she had been to his flat. Only once, though. It was by the river in a new block of flats with astronomical rents, and appeared to her to be completely furnished, although Rodney had listed a whole lot of thin
gs which he still had to have. Only then, he had told her, would he contemplate settling down to married life.
It was a short walk from the bus-stop and she was punctual but he was already there, sitting at a table for two in the corner of the narrow room. He got up when he saw her and said ‘hello’ in a hearty way, not at all in his usual manner.
She sat down composedly and smiled at him. ‘Hello, Rodney. Was your trip successful?’
‘Trip? What…? Oh, yes, very. What would you like to drink?’
Why did she have the feeling that she was going to need something to bolster her up presently? ‘Gin and tonic,’ she told him. A drink she disliked but Debbie, who knew about these things, had assured her once that there was nothing like it to pull a girl together.
Rodney looked surprised. ‘That’s not like you, Olivia.’
She didn’t reply to that. ‘Tell me what you’ve been doing, and why do you want to talk, Rodney? It’s lovely to see you, but you sounded so—so urgent on the phone.’
He had no time to answer because the waiter handed them the menus and they both studied them. At least Olivia appeared to be studying hers, but actually she was wondering about Rodney. She asked for mushrooms in a garlic sauce and a Dover sole with a salad, and took a heartening sip of her drink. It was horrible but she saw what Debbie meant. She took another sip.
Their talk was trivial as they ate. Whatever it was Rodney had to tell her would doubtless be told over their coffee. He was an amusing companion, going from one topic to the next and never once mentioning his own work. Nor did he ask her about her own job or what she had been doing. She would tell him presently, she decided, and suppressed peevish surprise when he waved away the waiter with his trolley of desserts and ordered coffee. She was a girl with a healthy appetite and she had had her eye on the peach pavlova.
She poured the coffee and caught Rodney’s eye. ‘Well?’ she asked pleasantly. ‘Out with it, my dear. Have you been made redundant—I…’
‘Olivia, we’ve known each other a long time—we’ve been good friends—you may even have expected us to marry. I find this very difficult to say…’
‘Well, have a go!’ she encouraged in a matter-of-fact voice which quite concealed her shock. ‘As you say, we’ve been friends for a long time.’
‘Perhaps you’ve guessed.’ Rodney was having difficulty in coming to the point.
‘Well, no, I can’t say I have.’
‘The truth is I haven’t been away—I wanted to tell you but it was too difficult. I’m in love. We’re going to be married very shortly…’
‘Before you get your new car?’ asked Olivia. Silly, but what else to say?
‘Yes, yes, of course. She’s worth a dozen new cars. She’s wonderful.’
She looked at him across the table. Her grandmother was quite right: his eyes were too close together.
She smiled her sweetest smile. ‘Why, Rodney, how could I possibly have thought such a thing? I’m thinking of getting married myself.’
‘You could have told me…’
She gave him a limpid look. He looked awkward and added, ‘What’s he like? Has he got a good job? When are you getting married?’
‘Handsome. He has a profession and we intend to marry quite soon. Enough about me, Rodney, tell me about the girl you’re going to marry. Is she pretty? Dark? Fair?’
‘Quite pretty. I suppose you’d call her fair. Her father’s chairman of several big companies.’
‘Now that is nice—a wife with money-bags.’
He looked astounded. ‘Olivia, how can you say such a thing? We’re old friends—I can’t believe my ears.’
‘Old friends can say what they like to each other, Rodney. If I stay here much longer I might say a great deal more, so I’ll go.’
He got to his feet as she stood up. ‘You can’t,’ he spluttered. ‘I’ll drive you back; it’s the least I can do.’
‘Don’t be a pompous ass,’ said Olivia pleasantly, and walked out of the bistro and started along the street to the bus-stop.
Sitting in the bus presently, she decided that her heart wasn’t broken. Her pride had a nasty dent in it, though, and she felt a sadness which would probably turn into self-pity unless she did something about it. Of course it happened to thousands of girls, and she had to admit that she had thought of him as part of her pleasant life before her father had died, hoping that somehow or other she could turn back the clock by marrying him. She had been fond of him, accepted him as more than a friend, and although she had been in and out of love several times she had never given her whole heart; she had supposed that she would do that when they married.
‘How silly can you get?’ muttered Olivia, and the severe-looking couple sitting in front of her turned round to stare.
‘I counted my chickens before they were hatched,’ she told them gravely, and since it was her stop got off the bus.
‘It must be the gin and tonic,’ she said to herself. ‘Or perhaps I’m in shock.’ She unlocked the front door and went in. ‘I’ll make a strong cup of tea.’
The sitting-room door was half open. ‘You’re home early, darling,’ said her mother. ‘Is Rodney with you?’
Olivia poked her head round the door. ‘I came home by bus. I’m going to make a cup of tea—would you like one?’ She glanced across the room to her grandmother. ‘And you, Granny?’
‘You have refused him,’ said Mrs Fitzgibbon accusingly. ‘It is time you learnt on which side your bread is buttered, Olivia.’
‘You’re quite right, Granny, his eyes are too close together, and he’s going to marry the daughter of a chairman of several large companies.’
‘Do not be flippant, Olivia. What do you intend to do?’
‘Put the kettle on and have a cup of tea,’ said Olivia.
‘You’re not upset, darling?’ asked her mother anxiously. ‘We all thought he wanted to marry you.’
Olivia left the door and went to drop a kiss on her mother’s cheek.
‘I’m not a bit upset, love.’ She spoke with matter-of-fact cheerfulness because her mother did look upset. Unlike her daughter she was a small, frail little woman, who had been cherished all her married life and was still bewildered by the lack of it, despite Olivia’s care of her. ‘I’ll make the tea.’
She sat between the two of them presently, listening to her grandmother complaining about the lack of money, her lack of a job, and now her inability to get herself a husband. ‘You’re such a big girl,’ observed Mrs Fitzgibbon snappily.
Olivia, used to this kind of talk and not listening to it, drank her tea and presently took herself off, washing the tea things in the kitchen, laying her grandmother’s breakfast tray and their own breakfast, before she at last closed the door of her room.
Now, at last, she could cry her eyes out in peace.
CHAPTER TWO
DEBBIE looked up from the piles of folders on the table in the Records Office as the door opened and Mr van der Eisler came in. Her disconsolate face broke into a smile at the sight of him, although she asked with a touch of wariness, ‘Oh, hello—have I sent the wrong notes up again? I can’t get anything right, and now that Olivia’s not here to sort things out for me I seem to be in a muddle the whole time.’
He came unhurriedly to the table and glanced at the untidy piles on it. ‘I expect it will get easier once you have got used to being on your own. And I do want some notes, but there’s no hurry. Do you have to file these before you go home?’
She nodded. ‘It’s almost five o’clock and I daren’t leave them until the morning; there’ll be some bossy old sister coming down and wanting to know where this and that is. Interfering so-and-sos.’
‘Ten minutes’ work at the most,’ declared Mr van der Eisler. ‘I’ll sort them into alphabetical order, you file them.’
‘Cor—you mean you’ll give a hand? But no one ever does…’
He was already busy, and after a moment she did as he suggested.
‘I expect you mis
s Olivia,’ he observed presently.
‘You bet I do.’
‘Does she come to see you?’ His voice was casual.
‘No, worse luck. Doesn’t live near here. Her granny’s got a flat Islington way; she and her mum have to live with her since her dad died, left them badly off. Not that Olivia told me much—shut up like an oyster when it came to her private life.’ She laughed. ‘Not like me.’
He handed her another pile of folders. ‘You live near the hospital?’
‘Five minutes walk. Me dad’s out of work, Mum’s part-time at the supermarket. Was I scared that I’d get the sack? Olivia didn’t tell me, but the girl in the office said as how she had another job to go to. This wasn’t her cup of tea. Been to one of those la-di-da schools, I dare say. Always spoke posh, if you see what I mean.’
Mr van der Eisler agreed that he saw. ‘Not many jobs going in Islington, I should have thought.’
‘Not where her granny lives—one of those dull streets with rows of houses with net curtains. Had a soppy name too—Sylvester Crescent.’
Mr van der Eisler’s heavy lids drooped over the gleam in his eyes.
‘Very fanciful,’ he agreed. He handed over the last pile, waited while Debbie filed the folders away and came back to the table, made his request for the notes he needed, listened with a kind smile to her thanks and, with the folder under his arm, took himself off.
Debbie, bundling herself into her jacket, addressed the tidy shelves. ‘Now there’s a real gent for you. That was a nice chat too—no one knows how dull it is down here these days.’
Mr van der Eisler, discussing the next day’s list with the senior surgical registrar and the theatre sister, wrung from that lady a reluctant assent to begin operating at eight o’clock in the morning instead of an hour later, gave her a smile to set her elderly heart beating a good deal faster, and took his leave.
‘That man could wring blood from a stone,’ declared Sister. ‘I’m sure I don’t know why I let him get away with it…’