"Who's winning?" Jake Andrews's voice, deep and suddenly less harsh, broke into Laura's thoughts.
"Winning what?" she asked.
"The argument you're having with yourself. You don't like having your father defend your behavior, do you?"
"Not when it appears to be an excuse for it!"
The man laughed. "A quick and sharp answer. You haven't got red hair for nothing! But that still doesn't solve the problem. You can't go on sitting around here like a brood hen! You must get out and—"
"I'd rather you didn't tell me what to do. My father may be subject to your orders, but I'm not!"
There was a pause. Laura sensed her father's discomfiture though Jake Andrews himself appeared not to have any, and was rubbing a large hand against the side of his face. It was a well-shaped hand, she noticed automatically, and one obviously used to labor. His expression was remote and she could not decide if he was angry or was merely thinking of some other retort with which to goad her.
"I didn't intend it to sound as if I were giving you orders—at least not in the way you think," he said, his words surprising her by their mildness. "But I know you aren't happy living here and I want to help you. I may not have been tactful about it—"
"You weren't," she interrupted. "If you act like that with your men, you 'll be as bad as the city types you were just condemning!"
He grinned, unabashed, and went on as though she had not spoken. "Sometimes one has to be blunt—though I'd rather call it being honest—if you want to make your point strongly. And I do want to make a point with you, Miss Winters. If you intend to remain here, you must Mart to make the best of it. Otherwise you'd do better to't all it a day and return to London."
"I can't-"
"I know that would defeat the whole reason for your coining here in the first place," he cut in, "but since you did come here to make your father happy, the least you can do is try to complete the job."
"'Job' is the operative word," Laura flashed. "If I had a job everything would be fine. But I can't get one here. That's why I'm learning shorthand and typing."
"What a daft thing to do when you've got other qualifications! I offered you the chance of running our canteen. It would at least put your training to some use."
"I'm not a canteen supervisor, Mr. Andrews."
"I don't need a supervisor. I need someone who can take on the feeding of four hundred men. Six hundred by the end of the year. If that doesn't require a dietitian's training, I don't know what does!"
Laura swallowed hard. Her original refusal of his offer—now that she was being honest with herself—had been illogical in the extreme, coming only from an obstinate determination not to accept work from a man she disliked. Yet why had she disliked a man she had never met? Was it because she had felt he was overworking her father or because everything she had heard about him had made him the epitome of the brash, confident go-getter?
"I'll not be saying any more to you, Miss Winters." He was speaking again and moving to the door, dwarfing the room not only by his size but by the vitality he exuded.
A tiger ready to spring, she acknowledged, but said aloud, "You are perfectly welcome to stay, Mr. Andrews."
He shook his head and turned to her father. "See you in the morning, John."
"I'll be in early. Then we can go over those blueprints again."
"There's no need for that. Come at the usual time." Broad shoulders swung in Laura's direction. "What about you?"
"Me?"Surprise drew her to her feet.
"Yes. Can I expect you, too? My offer's still open if you've a mind to take it."
Her eyes stared into his, searching for a glint of triumph in their gray depths. But there was no triumph to be seen; merely an intense and searching probe that made her feel he understood her reason for having refused his offer before.
Pride fought with boredom and boredom won. "Yes," she said quietly. "You can expect me in the morning."
CHAPTER THREE
As Laura drove through the gates of Grantley's with her father the next morning, she knew she was entering a world that was completely sufficient unto itself. Seen at close quarters, the factory was even bigger than she had expected: the buildings shinier, the windows larger, the atmosphere far more clinical.
"That's because it's new," her father replied when she commented on it. "All designed for maximum efficiency!" He drew the car to a stop outside a building smaller than the rest, though the entrance was more ornate, with mosaic panels on either side of a plate-glass door and green plants growing profusely in the large reception area behind it.
"Is this the main office?"she asked.
"Yes. Jake told me to leave you here."
"I feel like Daniel!"
"You won't be finding any lions." Her father patted her hand. "I'm pleased you came, Laura. I'm sure you won't regret it."
Feeling like a schoolgirl entering a new school, she watched her father's car disappear among a throng of others before she pushed open the glass doors and entered the foyer.
A young girl, barely more than seventeen, was sitting behind an oval mahogany desk, beneath which was a small battery of phones. None of them appeared to be in operation and Laura saw a paperback with a lurid cover resting on the girl's lap. So much for Mr. Andrews's efficiency, she thought triumphantly.
"Can I help you, love?" the girl asked.
"I'm Laura Winters."
There was no response other than a friendly smile that added no intelligence to the pretty but vacant face, and Laura tried again.
"Mr. Andrews is expecting me. I'm the… I'm the new canteen…" She stopped and then said quickly, "I'm the dietitian in charge of the canteen."
Instantly the smile became a beam. "The London girl. Of course! I've orders to send you to Mr. Carpenter—he's the personnel manager." She busied herself with one of the telephones and almost immediately replaced it. "He's waiting for you. First floor and turn right. It's the fifth door down."
Acknowledging the directions, Laura climbed the flight of marble steps to an airy corridor where open- plan rooms gave her a view of teeming groups of men, mostly in shirtsleeves, working at their desks. The fifth door, though partition would have been more apt, disclosed a small area occupied by only one man, his formal f>ray suit further indication of his higher rank. Here was a type she recognized and knew how to deal with. She coughed to indicate her presence and walked forward.
"Miss Winters?" The man rose to greet her. "I'm Bill Carpenter. I can't tell you how pleased I am to have you here. Looking after the canteen has been a nightmare."
"Don't tell me you've had to do it yourself?" She could not hide her astonishment. No matter how minimal one kept the catering, feeding several hundred men was no easy task.
"Not myself, personally," he answered. "Mr. Andrews brought in some caterers from Manchester. But I've had to do the supervising… and hear the complaints from the men!"
"I've brought along my references and qualifications," she said.
"No need for that. If Mr. Andrews hired you, that's all I need to know." He moved across to the window behind his desk and indicated for Laura to stand beside him. "The building beyond this one houses the canteen, the first-aid room and the rest rooms. We might as well go over there and I 'll show you what's what."
Thrilled as she had been by her first sight of the new factory, Laura was equally disappointed by the canteen and kitchen. They were designed to operate with maximum efficiency but were as bare and aseptic as a hospital ward.
"What's wrong with it all?" Mr. Carpenter asked.
"N-nothing."
"Come now, that's not a truthful answer. The kitchen and canteen aren't to your liking and I'm interested in knowing why. Don't be afraid of being honest. I like everyone to say what they think."
A man after Mr. Andrews's own heart, Laura thought wryly, and wondered whether he chose them because of it, or whether they naturally gravitated to him.
"The equipment is fine," she explained, "but
it all looks so dreary. It needs color and movement. Pictures, perhaps, and some greenery."
"Ina kitchen!"
"Well, not pictures," she smiled, "but certainly more color. And never those blue white fluorescent lights. They make food look gray!"
"You've a point there. Out with the lights for a start. Now what about the canteen? I take it you'd like it looking Swedish?''
"I'd like it just looking colorful. A few coats of paint would make a world of difference."
"Just decide what you want and do it," Mr. Carpenter stated. "But make sure Mr. Andrews passes the bills first! I'm sure he'll give you the go-ahead for anything that'll make things better for his men."
His men, Laura thought scornfully. That's all a boor like him thinks of.
"If you need any advice regarding decoration," Mr. Carpenter continued, "have a word with Robert Deen. He works in the drawing office and fancies himself as an interior decorator."
Not certain if this was a suggestion or an order, Laura diplomatically went in search of Robert Deen the moment she was left on her own. Working here would be a source of irritation—reminding her, as it would all the time, of Jake Andrews—but it would at least occupy her mind and save her from dying of boredom. Yet no matter what job she was in, she would never feel part of this close-knit community. She was a Londoner born and bred and she would die one—even if she never set foot in London again!
So deep in thought was she that she did not see a man approaching until she bumped into him. She looked up instantly to apologize.
"Please forgive me," she said. "My thoughts were miles away."
"I'm glad you aren't!" He regarded her appreciatively. "Were you going anywhere in particular or just taking a stroll?"
"Would anyone want to take a stroll around here?"
"You'd be surprised." His voice, though still light, was serious. "There's quite a lot of top-secret work going on, and it isn't only the Russians who'd like to get a look at it. Some of our rivals have long noses and sharp ears, too."
"I'll watch out for spyglasses and black raincoats!" she said solemnly and made to walk on, pausing as she found he was still blocking her way.
It was then that she noticed how tall he was—at least six feet, and that did not take into account the quiff of mouse-colored hair that stood up from his forehead like a question mark, giving him a naive appearance contradicted by a pale, serious face. He was good-looking in an understated way: small mouth, round chin and short nose; the whole redeemed from effeminacy by thick brown eyebrows that marked deep-set brown eyes. His eyes, in fact, were his best feature, being large and long- lashed, and they were regarding her with the same frank curiosity with which she herself was regarding him.
"I suppose it would be too much to hope that you worked here?" he ventured.
"As a matter fact I do! Now if you'll excuse me…" Again she tried to walk past him but he barred her way.
"May I take you where you're going?"
"It's in the opposite direction," she warned. "Don't forget I walked into you!"
"Who's worrying about a detour?" He fell into step beside her. "You haven't been working here long," he added, "or I'd have seen you."
"I only started today."
"Then you must let me show you around."
"That won't be necessary," she said gently but firmly. "This is a factory, not a cruise ship!"
He laughed. "No offense meant; I was just trying to establish… Darn it, now I can't think of the word."
"Squatter's rights?" she suggested.
He turned scarlet. "You must think me awfully presumptuous?"
"Awfully young and male," she said solemnly.
"I'd have thought that an ideal combination!"
"Only for a female who's equally young!"
"Yes, grandma." He eyed her. "I'm twenty-four and that, I think, probably gives me a couple of years' edge on you."
"Two years, "she admitted.
"That's more than enough."
"For what?"
"To make me qualify. I refuse to believe you go for gray-beards!"
"I have a twin brother," she said firmly, "and that's put me off any man under the age of thirty."
He stopped and looked her fully in the face. In the pale sunlight she saw a faint sprinkling of freckles on the bridge of his nose, noticed, too, that he was thinner than he should be, with long arms extending from a thick sweater. How like Tim he was: young, amusing and friendly as a puppy. She had meant it when she had confessed that men under thirty did not appeal to her. Heaven alone knew the reason—some deep-seated psychological one, no doubt—but nevertheless it existed and this young man must be made to realize it.
"I want to get to the drawing office," she said firmly. "I'm in a hurry, so if you could direct me…"
"Of course." Whatever he had been about to say was left unsaid. Now he was solicitous, polite, only a quick flash in his eyes warning her he was biding his time. "I work there myself, as it so happens. Are you looking for someone in particular?"
"A Mr. Robert Deen."
His freckles disappeared under a pink blush that stained his entire face. "Then look no further." .
"Not you!" She gave a rueful laugh. "This will teach me to hold my tongue!"
"But I loved your frankness. At least now I know you like old men who aren't virile and hearty! I intend dyeing my hair gray and walking with a stick."
A gust of wind swept around the corner of the building and its sharpness made her shiver. "Can we talk somewhere warmer?"
"Sure thing."
Catching her by the elbow he raced her a good ten yards along the path to the entrance of a building larger but identical in shape to the one she had just left.
"It's the drawing office," he explained breathlessly, pushing open the swing door to let her precede him.
Cacooned by the warmth of sun-reflecting glass and central heating, she smoothed down her hair and told him who she was and why she had come in search of him.
"I'll be delighted to help you," he said almost before she had finished speaking. "I always thought the canteen an eyesore."
"Have you any ideas?"
"Loads. Come out with me tonight and—"
"About interior decoration,"she interrupted. "If you can't be serious, let's forget the whole thing."
"Sorry," he said at once. "It won't happen again." He paused. "How big a budget do you have for your improvements?"
"I don't know. But I don't want to spend more than a hundred pounds."
"That cuts out a proper repaint job. It would cost that much for the paint alone!"
Dismay held her silent; then she tossed her head. "Let's make it two hundred pounds. Then we can redo one wall at least and still have money left over for plants and paintings." Caught by enthusiasm, she would have elaborated further, but saw the humorous glint in his eyes and stopped herself. "But you put together a scheme," she continued, "and let me have something by the end of the week."
"Has Mr. Andrews approved of it?"
"Leave him to me."
"Delighted to. He's pretty tight when it comes to spending cash. I put together a scheme for flowerbeds around his own building and he nearly fired me."
"That's because you weren't suggesting spending money for his men. Now if you'd wanted to put flowers in the toolroom I'm sure he'd have approved it!"
Robert Deen grinned and rubbed one hand across his hair, making the quiff stand up even higher. "I never thought of that. Just shows how devious a woman's mind is."
"Not devious, Mr. Deen. Subtle!"
"I'll grant you that difference." Laughing, he put his hand on her arm. "I'll work out a few projects and let you have them. Will late Friday be suitable?"
"Yes." She hesitated. "It might be best if you could leave them in my office for me. Then I can take them home and study them during the weekend. I doubt if I'll get much time to do it here."
"How about my dropping them at your home? I don't live far from you."
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p; "Don't you?" she said, surprised that he knew her address.
"No one lives far from anyone in Eddlestone," he explained humorously. "Surely you've learned that by now!"
She smiled. "Then bring them over Friday evening and have coffee with us if you're free."
"That's a date."
"That's a business arrangement," she corrected firmly."I 'll expect you about eight."
For the rest of the week Laura was totally occupied learning how the canteen was run. The firm that Jake Andrews had called in was efficient and economical, but watching their method of bulk buying from a central organization, she was convinced she could do equally well on price and considerably better on quality, if she could obtain her main supplies from farms and local wholesalers. But that would take time, and for the moment her wisest plan was to continue with the present suppliers and introduce new sources gradually. The last thing in the world she wanted was to make a hash of this particular job. She'd show Mr. Andrews what a well-run canteen was like, even if she collapsed with fatigue in the process.
And collapse she nearly did. Running the Harley Clinic with its fifty or sixty patients was a far cry from totally managing a canteen that had to feed six hundred men in three shifts; to say nothing of the difference in the menus and the budget with which she had to work. Luckily her assistant was not only capable but also friendly, while the three cooks and six trainees, whose duty it was to prepare the meals she worked out, came from reputable colleges and, equally important, were still young enough to want to maintain their level of cookery above the usual mundane standard accepted in mass- production feeding.
Little by little she began to alter the menus; pork pies, sausage and mash, baked beans and the plethora of suet puddings were replaced by mixed grills, assorted salads, cold cuts and fruit desserts. Soon local market-gardeners were coming to her with their produce and offering highly competitive terms when they realized the quantity she wished to buy.
The appearance of the canteen had also undergone a radical change. The stark whiteness was a thing of the past, and one primrose yellow wall gave an air of permanent sunshine even on the gloomiest day. The money, which Jake Andrews had readily agreed she could spend, had quickly been used up, but both she and Robert Deen had worked in their own time—and without charge—in order to finish what they had set out to do.
Rachel Lindsay - Rough Diamond Lover Page 4