The Angel Tree

by Lucinda Riley

  Every day for a week Greta dropped Cheska off at Mabel’s and spent the mornings going to interviews. She’d begun to realise that mass post-war unemployment, a problem that had seemed so distant and unrelated to her while she was at Marchmont, was having a marked effect on her prospects of finding a job. Greta soldiered on, though, the thought of returning to Wales and Owen making her all the more determined.

  On Friday she deposited Cheska with Mabel as usual and set off on the bus for Mayfair. She wasn’t optimistic about her interview, which was for the position of receptionist with a firm of solicitors. Yesterday a prospective employer had given her a typing test, which she’d failed miserably.

  Taking a deep breath, Greta rang the bell on the side of the imposing black front door.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The woman who opened it was young, with a friendly smile.

  ‘Yes. I have an appointment with Mr Pickering at half past eleven.’

  ‘Right. Follow me.’

  Greta walked behind the girl and was ushered into the reception area. The room had oak-panelled walls, a thick carpet and leather armchairs.

  The girl indicated one of the chairs. ‘Do sit down. I’ll go and tell Mr Pickering you’re here.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Greta watched the girl open a door at the back of the room and disappear, closing it behind her. She wondered whether it was worth staying. In a smart practice like this, she was sure they’d want someone with years of experience.

  She looked up as the door at the back of the room reopened.

  ‘Greta Simpson, I presume?’

  Greta stood up and held out her hand to a tall, very attractive man, whom she guessed was in his mid-thirties, dressed impeccably in a pinstripe suit. He had piercing blue eyes and thick black hair that was receding slightly at the temples. ‘Yes. How do you do?’

  Mr Pickering took her hand and gave it a firm shake. ‘Very well, thank you. Would you like to follow me?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Greta accompanied him to the door at the back of the room, which he held open as she passed through.

  ‘In here.’ Mr Pickering guided Greta into a large, untidy office. The desk was laden with papers, and heavy legal books lined the shelves behind it. ‘Do sit down, Mrs Simpson. I apologise for the mess, but I’m afraid it’s the only environment in which I can work.’ He smiled pleasantly as he sat down behind the desk and studied her, his fingers forming a steeple under his chin. ‘So, tell me a little bit about yourself.’

  Greta went through her story, but didn’t mention Cheska.

  ‘Right. Any experience working in an office?’

  After a week of lying Greta decided to come clean.

  ‘No, but I’m extremely eager and willing to learn.’

  ‘Well –’ Mr Pickering tapped a pencil on his desk – ‘the position we’re offering is not really a technical job. We deal with some very wealthy, important people and we like to make sure they’re looked after from the minute they walk into the building. We’d expect you to greet our clients, offer them tea and, above all, to be discreet. Most of the clients are coming to visit us because they have a . . . personal problem of some sort. The telephone on the desk in reception would be your responsibility, as would the appointments diary for myself and my partner, Mr Sallis. We also have Moira, our secretary, who handles the typing and office administration very efficiently, but you’d be called upon to help her out on occasions. You’d be replacing Mrs Forbes, whom you met in reception. We’re sorry to lose her, but she’s having a baby in the New Year. You’re – er – not thinking along those lines, are you, Mrs Simpson?’

  Greta managed to look suitably shocked. ‘In my present circumstances as a widow, I doubt that is an option open to me.’

  ‘Good. Continuity, you see, is key. The clients like to establish a rapport. And I’m sure, with your pretty face, you’ll be able to charm them. So, would you like to give it a try? Start on Monday?’

  ‘I . . .’ Greta was so surprised she couldn’t think of what to say.

  ‘Or would you prefer to go away and think about it?’

  ‘No, no,’ she said quickly. ‘I’d love to take the job.’

  ‘Excellent. I think you’ll be perfect.’ Mr Pickering stood up. ‘I do apologise, but I have a lunch appointment. If you want to know any more, have a word with Sally . . . I mean, Mrs Forbes. She’ll fill you in. The salary is two hundred and fifty pounds a year. Is that acceptable?’

  ‘Oh yes, absolutely.’ Greta stood and reached her hand across the desk. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Pickering. I won’t let you down, I promise.’

  ‘I’m sure you won’t. Good day, Mrs Simpson.’

  As Greta left the office and walked into the reception area, a wave of euphoria overwhelmed her. Not even three weeks in London, and she’d managed to find herself somewhere to live and a means of supporting herself and her daughter.

  ‘How did it go?’ asked Sally.

  ‘He offered me the position. I start on Monday.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that! He’s seen lots of girls, you know. I was beginning to think I’d be giving birth at my desk if he didn’t find someone soon. No one seemed to be quite charming enough, if you know what I mean!’

  ‘I think so. Have you been happy here?’ asked Greta.

  ‘Very. Mr Pickering is easy to work for, and the old man – sorry – Mr Sallis, the senior partner, is a sweetie. Mind you, just watch out for Veronica. That’s Mr Sallis’s daughter. She’s married to Mr Pickering and an absolute harridan! She floats in here from time to time on her way to somewhere frightfully grand for lunch. She rules her husband with a rod of iron. She’s the real power behind the throne. If she doesn’t like you, you’re out. My predecessor left because of her.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But don’t worry. Her Majesty doesn’t grace us with her presence too often, thank goodness. Anything else you’d like to know while you’re here?’

  Greta asked a few questions, which Sally answered in detail, then she looked at her watch. ‘Oh dear. I didn’t realise it was so late! I must be going.’

  ‘Well, nice to meet you. I’ll be here for a few days after you’ve started, to show you the ropes, but I’m sure you’ll do fine.’

  ‘Thank you. When is your baby due? I—’ Greta only just managed to stop herself before she launched into sympathetic conversation about the last tiring months of pregnancy. ‘See you on Monday. Goodbye.’

  Greta hurried out into the street and treated herself to a taxi, anxious to get home as soon as possible. She decided she would ask Mabel if she was interested in minding Cheska on a permanent basis during the day. If she wasn’t, she’d have to place an advertisement in the local newsagent’s window.

  When Greta arrived home, a smiling Cheska, her face smeared with chocolate, came running out of Mabel’s flat to greet her.

  ‘Hello, darling.’ Greta swept her daughter up in her arms. ‘Have you had a nice time?’

  ‘We made fairy cakes, Mummy.’ Cheska snuggled into her mother.

  ‘Has she been good?’ she asked Mabel, who’d appeared at the door.

  ‘As gold. You have a lovely little girl there, Mrs Simpson.’

  ‘Oh, please call me Greta. Do you have a spare five minutes, Mabel? There’s something I’d like to ask you.’

  ‘Yes. Come in, dear, do. I’ve just brewed up.’

  Greta picked Cheska up and carried her into Mabel’s flat, which was cluttered with heavy, old-fashioned furniture. It smelt faintly of violets and disinfectant.

  Mabel sat them down in her sitting room, then brought through a tray on which was a teapot covered in a bright, knitted tea-cosy, cups and a plate of rather burnt fairy cakes.

  ‘There you go.’ Mabel passed Greta a cup of strong tea. ‘Now, what was it you wanted to ask, dearie?’

  ‘Well, this morning I managed to find myself a job working for a firm of solicitors in Mayfair.’

  ‘Ooh, aren’t you the clever one? Never learned to read and write mese
lf. Women didn’t in them days, see.’

  ‘Well, the problem I’ve got is Cheska. I have to go out and earn a living but obviously I can’t take her with me.’

  ‘No. ’Course you can’t.’

  ‘So I was wondering whether you’d be interested in minding her on a regular basis? I’d pay you, naturally.’

  ‘Well, let me see. What hours are we talking about?’

  ‘I’d have to leave at eight-thirty and I wouldn’t be back until six.’

  ‘Five days a week?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, we could give it a go, couldn’t we?’ Mabel smiled at Cheska, who was happily eating a cake on her mother’s knee. ‘She’d be company for me an’ all.’

  They then agreed a wage of fifteen shillings a week.

  ‘That’ll be fine,’ said Mabel. ‘Any extra pennies come in handy these days. My husband’s pension only just covers the rent and food.’

  ‘Well, I really am very grateful. Anyway, we mustn’t take up any more of your time today. Come on, Cheska, let’s go and have some lunch.’ Greta stood up.

  ‘You know what you want to do, don’t you, dear?’ said Mabel as she led them to the front door.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Find a new husband. I’m sure a good-looking girl like you could find herself a nice wealthy gentleman to marry and take care of the two of you. It’s not right for a mother to have to work.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, Mabel, but I don’t think any man would be interested in a widow and her daughter,’ Greta said with a rueful smile. ‘See you on Monday.’

  ‘Yes, dear. Mind how you go.’

  As Greta carried Cheska upstairs to their flat, she thought about what Mabel had said. Even if she were free to do so, she doubted she’d ever marry again.

  12

  Greta and Cheska spent an enjoyable Saturday afternoon shopping in the West End. Fashionable boutiques had been few and far between in Wales. At Marchmont, all she’d needed were warm, practical garments.

  Now the stores seemed to be overflowing with the kind of clothes Greta hadn’t seen since before the war. Cheska was fascinated by the huge department stores, trotting after her mother with an expression of wonder on her face. Greta bought two inexpensive suits and three blouses for work and also a cream Aran sweater and a tartan kilt for Cheska.

  On Sunday night Greta sat her daughter down and explained that Mummy had to go out to work so the two of them could have nice things to eat and pretty dresses to wear. She told her that Mabel would look after her during the day, but Mummy would be back home to put her to bed at night. Cheska seemed to accept this with little fuss. She announced that Mabel was nice and gave her chocolate.

  The next morning Greta left Cheska at Mabel’s flat. The little girl went to her without a whimper. Feeling relieved, Greta caught a bus to work.

  By the end of her first week she had settled down and was enjoying her job. The clients who came in were friendly and courteous. Moira, the middle-aged secretary, was very helpful and Terence, the office boy, was a cockney lad with a wisecrack for every occasion. She rarely saw old Mr Sallis, who only came in three days a week. Mr Pickering was either locked away with a client or rushing off for a lunch appointment. To her relief, the dreaded Veronica did not make an appearance.

  Cheska seemed quite happy with her new routine and, although Greta arrived home tired from her day’s work, she always found the energy to cook a nice supper, then read to her daughter for an hour before she went to bed.

  At the weekends, even though money was very tight, Greta made a special effort to organise treats. Sometimes they visited Hamleys toy shop and went for tea afterwards at a Lyons Corner House. And once, she’d taken Cheska to London Zoo to see the lions and tigers.

  Greta was surprised at how easily they had both adapted to their new life in London. Cheska rarely mentioned Marchmont, and as for Greta, her busy new schedule meant she had far less time to think about the loss of her precious son. She felt a pang of guilt each time she received a badly spelt letter from Mary telling her of Owen’s continuing decline. He’d had a couple of nasty falls and Dr Evans had tried to admit him to a hospital, but he’d refused to go. Morgan, his beloved Labrador, had died recently, and this had apparently sent him into further sustained bouts of drinking. He was too sick to look after the estate and Mr Glenwilliam, his solicitor, had taken over the running of Marchmont.

  Mary stoically told Greta not to worry, that she’d done the right thing for Cheska by leaving. Greta wondered when Mary would write to say that she was resigning, especially as she’d mentioned that Huw, the young estate worker who’d been courting her, had asked her to marry him. They were engaged and saving up for the wedding, but for now, Mary still seemed to be taking her master’s erratic behaviour in her stride.

  It was a month after starting her job that Greta first met Mr Pickering’s wife. She had just arrived back from her lunch break and sat down at her desk when an elegant woman dressed in a luxurious fur coat and matching hat walked through the front entrance and into reception without ringing the bell. Greta smiled up at her.

  ‘Good afternoon, madam. May I help you?’

  ‘And who might you be?’ The women’s gimlet eyes swept over Greta.

  ‘I’m Mrs Simpson. I replaced Mrs Forbes a few weeks ago. Did you have an appointment?’ asked Greta pleasantly.

  ‘I hardly think I need to make an appointment to see either my husband or my father, do you?’

  ‘No, of course not. I do apologise, Mrs Pickering. Which of them would you like to see?’

  ‘Don’t bother. I’ll go through and find my husband myself.’ Veronica Pickering peered down at Greta’s hands. ‘And I rather think you should find yourself an emery board. Those nails look dirty and unpolished. Can’t have our clients thinking we employ riff-raff, now can we?’ She gave Greta one last patronising glance, then turned and swept through the door leading to her husband’s office.

  Greta looked down at her perfectly clean, if unmanicured, fingernails and bit her lip. Then a client appeared in reception and she was kept busy making tea and chatting to him.

  Ten minutes later Mrs Pickering emerged with her husband in tow.

  ‘Take Mr Pickering’s calls, Griselda. We’re going out to buy me a Christmas present, aren’t we, darling?’

  ‘Yes, dear. I’ll be back by four, Greta.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Pickering.’

  As they walked towards the front door Veronica Pickering turned to her husband. ‘Not sure about that accent, James dear. Don’t they teach standard English in schools these days?’

  Greta gritted her teeth as the door shut behind them.

  Meeting Veronica Pickering unsettled her for the rest of the day. Mr Pickering didn’t return to the office, and the next time she saw him was the following morning. He stopped beside her desk as he walked through reception.

  ‘Good morning, Greta.’

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘I just wanted to apologise for my wife. I’m afraid it’s the way she is, and you mustn’t take anything she says to heart. We – I mean, Mr Sallis and I – are very pleased with your work so far.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Good. Carry on, then.’ Mr Pickering smiled at her in that sweet way of his and Greta wondered why on earth he had married such a ghastly woman.

  After that, Mr Pickering would often stop and have a chat with Greta when he passed her desk, as if to reassure her that he did not share his wife’s opinion of her. During one such chat Greta asked if she could have a typewriter so she could help out with any extra letters. Mr Pickering agreed and, with Moira’s patient assistance, she began to teach herself to type.

  There were only a few days to go until Christmas and Greta was looking forward to the week she had off over the festive season. She had already spent far too much money on Cheska’s presents, not wanting her little girl to think Father Christmas had forgotten her, and had booked two seats at the Sc
ala Theatre to see Margaret Lockwood in Peter Pan. Greta was determined to make sure their first Christmas without Owen and Jonny was as happy as the circumstances permitted.

  ‘Father Christmas will know where I am, Mummy, won’t he?’ asked Cheska anxiously as Greta tucked her up in bed for the night.

  ‘Of course, darling. I wrote to the North Pole and told him we’d changed our address. Next week we’ll go out and buy a tree and lots of nice decorations to hang on it. Would you like that?’

  ‘Oh yes, Mummy.’ Cheska smiled in pleasure and snuggled down under her covers.

  Moira went down with influenza and was sent home the following afternoon, and Mr Pickering began to hand Greta piles of typing.

  ‘I do apologise, Greta, but there are so many loose ends to tie up before the office closes for Christmas. Mr Sallis has already gone to the country, so I’m having to do everything. You couldn’t by any chance stay late tomorrow night, could you? We’ll pay you extra, of course.’

  ‘Yes, I think that will be all right,’ she replied.

  That evening Greta asked Mabel if she’d give Cheska her tea tomorrow, then put her to bed and stay with her until she arrived home.

  ‘I’d be so grateful, Mabel. I’ve seen a gorgeous doll in Hamleys that I’d love to buy her, and the extra money will pay for it. And you will be joining us for Christmas lunch, won’t you? Cheska has asked if you could come. She adores you, you know.’

  ‘Then I’m happy to help you out. As long as you don’t make a habit of it, mind,’ Mabel replied.

  It was past seven the following evening before the last letter was neatly typed, ready for Mr Pickering to sign. Greta picked them up and knocked on his door.

  ‘Come in!’

  ‘Here you are, Mr Pickering. All done.’ Greta put the letters on his desk.

  ‘Thank you, Greta. You are a wonder, really. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’ He scrawled his signature at the bottom of each letter and passed them back to her.

  ‘Well, that’s it for the day, I think. Now, how about I buy you a drink for all that hard work and to celebrate Christmas?’