The Owl Inn was very old but recently it had been done up and renovated so it presented a very pleasant appearance. It was clean and comfortable with a fine array of bottles and shining glasses on the shelves. Louise often came here with her father so she was warmly welcomed by the innkeeper and his wife. Mrs. Palmer had been a cook before she was married and for this reason The Owl was able to provide an excellent meal.
While they were eating Mr. Palmer came in and chatted to the girls, asking after the doctor and discussing the local news. He told them that The Owl was doing well now; it was gradually getting known all over the district for its excellent fare—all due to Mrs. Palmer of course. Recently he had been asked to provide meals for bus-parties but Mrs. Palmer thought he ought to refuse. She thought it would change the whole atmosphere of the place and they would lose their regular customers.
“Oh, she’s right!” exclaimed Louise.
“She’s usually right,” agreed Mr. Palmer with a smile.
After lunch the two girls went out and walked along a path by the river. There was a ford here, which had given Shepherdsford its name. Long before the bridge had been built shepherds from the Cotswold Hills had used this ford when they brought their bales of wool to market. In those days the Inn had been known as The Wool Pack; the shepherds had rested here and had a meal—and probably a glass of ale—before they crossed the ford.
“The Wool Pack!” said Bel thoughtfully. “I wonder why they changed it to The Owl. It isn’t nearly so nice, is it?”
“Perhaps it changed itself,” Louise suggested. “The two names are rather alike, but The Owl is shorter. I must ask Mr. Palmer about it some day.”
It was now time to return, for Louise was going to see her friend at the hospital. She was to be there at four o’clock.
This was the night of the dance at the Ernleigh Golf Club but after some discussion they had decided not to go. Louise was not in her usual spirits today, she was feeling too sad about Joan’s baby, and Bel was quite pleased to remain at home. Bel’s nature was shy and retiring so she had not been looking forward to the dance and she was able to assure her hostess quite truthfully that she would infinitely rather spend her last evening quietly at Coombe House.
“Well, if you’re sure——” said Louise doubtfully. “It seems a shame that you should be done out of the party, but if you really don’t want to go we’ll just have a quiet evening at home. Daddy has to go to a meeting so he won’t be here. There will just be you and me.”
“That will be lovely,” declared Bel. “Much nicer than going to the dance.”
“You must have the pink frock,” said Louise firmly. “Yes, really, Bel. Please take it. I want you to have it. We’ve altered it to fit you and it suits you much better than it ever suited me.”
Bel did not want to take it (she did not see when she would ever have the opportunity of wearing it) but she saw that Louise would be hurt if she refused the present so she accepted it with suitable gratitude.
*
4
It had been a beautiful day but the evening turned cold and wet so Louise lighted the fire in the drawing-room and they settled down comfortably to talk. Louise was making a rug and Bel offered to help her so they sat together on the sofa and got on with the work.
“I’m so glad we didn’t go to the dance,” said Louise. “Dances are fun when you’re feeling in the mood but I’m not feeling in the mood tonight. This is so nice and cosy, isn’t it?”
Bel agreed.
“I’ve done most of the talking,” continued Louise. “All the time you’ve been here I’ve talked and talked. It’s your turn tonight. Tell me what you do in the office. I’ve no idea what sort of things you do in an office.”
“I find it very interesting,” Bel told her. “Of course you know I work for Mr. Brownlee. He tells me all that’s going on so I’ve learnt a good deal about the business of the firm. I’m very lucky in that way. Miss Snow, who is secretary to Mr. Wills, just types letters and does personal business for him. He doesn’t talk to her or tell her what’s happening.”
“Not so interesting!”
“Not interesting at all,” agreed Bel. “I’m awfully glad I’m Mr. Brownlee’s secretary. Before that I was in the typists’ room—I didn’t like it at all.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“Lots of things,” said Bel smiling ruefully. “Lots of things were wrong with it, but principally Miss Goudge. She’s been there for years so she’s the boss and she’s very disagreeable. She’s always finding fault and they all quarrel and snap at each other. The typewriters clatter all the time and make a horrid noise. I used to have a headache every night when I worked there—partly because of the noise and partly because Miss Goudge wouldn’t have the windows open.”
“What is the office like?” asked Louise. “I mean what does it look like when you go in at the door?”
Bel smiled. She said, “Well, you go in through a revolving door. There’s a big hall with seats in it where people can wait. At one side of the hall there’s a window with enquiries written over the top of it. Miss Goudge sits there so that she can see all the people coming in. If they want to speak to her she opens the window and asks them what they want.”
“But you said she was boss of the typists’ room.”
“Yes, it is the typists’ room,” explained Bel. “Miss Goudge keeps one eye on the typists and the other eye on the hall. The window is being opened and shut all the time. Everyone who comes to the office has to run the gauntlet of Miss Goudge. Letters are delivered to her by the postman—and telegrams and all sorts of messages. She knows all that’s going on, I can tell you.”
“She sounds horrible.”
“She is,” agreed Bel. “I always try to be at the office early, before she gets there, so that I can slink past the window and take refuge in Mr. Brownlee’s room.”
“You haven’t told me what you do. What’s the first thing you do when you arrive?”
“That depends,” Bel told her. “If the letters have come I open them and make notes——”
“You open his letters!”
“Only the business ones. He doesn’t get many personal letters at the office.”
“What else do you do?”
“I type letters,” said Bel. “And I keep the ledgers. They’re enormous brown books which are stacked on a shelf in Mr. Brownlee’s room. I have to make entries in the ledgers and balance them once a week. Thursday is the day for the ledgers. Then of course I keep a note of Mr. Brownlee’s engagements—all the meetings he has to attend—and sometimes I go down to Copping Wharf with a message for Mr. Nelson. That’s fun,” declared Bel smiling. “It makes a change from office-routine, and Mr. Nelson is a dear. He’s been with the firm for thirty years and knows everything about it. Usually when I go to the wharf he invites me into his room and we have coffee together. I like to get him to talk about the firm, about its history and traditions and about all the ships that come from all over the world.”
“Tell me about the ships.”
Bel told her about the ships.
One day when Bel had gone to the wharf with a message for Mr. Nelson a ship had just come in from Greece and was being unloaded. Crates and boxes of all shapes and sizes were being brought up out of the hold by cranes which swung them on to the wharf and piled them neatly on to trolleys. The trolleys were driven away into the various warehouses and the goods were stacked. Mr. Nelson was busy so Bel had to wait until he had time to speak to her but that was all to the good. She stood and watched the process of unloading for at least half-an-hour. It was a fine sunny day, the sunshine twinkled on the ripples in the river and the seagulls swooped overhead uttering their weird cries.
“It was fascinating,” said Bel. “It all went like clockwork. It was all so neat. Afterwards when Mr. Nelson was ready to speak to me he told me that long ago it was all done by hand—hundreds of lascars running up and down the gangways with the crates and boxes balanced on their heads. He
showed me a picture of one of the first ships that ever came to Copping Wharf to unload its cargo.”
“He must be an interesting man.”
“Oh yes—and very clever. He can speak five languages! That’s tremendously useful when foreign ships come in. I wish I could,” added Bel with a sigh.
“You don’t have to meet the foreign ships.”
“No, but we get letters in all sorts of foreign languages. Mr. Brownlee deals with most of them himself. I wish to goodness I had learnt Spanish at school.”
“We hadn’t time,” said Louise.
“I’d have had lots of time if I hadn’t learnt to play the piano—the hours I spent practising scales! Absolutely wasted! I never was any good at music but I had to practise just the same. If I had learnt Spanish instead it would have been very useful indeed.”
Louise laughed and said, “But nobody knew you were going to be Mr. Brownlee’s secretary, did they?”
“No, but all the same——”
“Don’t you see what I mean?” asked Louise. “It would be no good teaching girls Spanish unless you knew what they were going to do. For instance Spanish would be absolutely useless to me.”
“Nobody can know the future,” Bel agreed. She added thoughtfully “I’m not sure it would be a good thing.”
There was a little silence after that; they both worked industriously at the rug.
Bel was envisaging her future. Her work at Copping, Wills and Brownlee was interesting, but when she thought of it going on and on for years it looked rather bleak. She would get older and older until at last she was too old for the job. Then she would retire with a small pension from the firm. Yes, rather bleak, thought Bel with a big sigh.
Soon after that Dr. Armstrong came home from his meeting and it was time for bed.
Chapter Ten
Bel’s visit to Coombe House had been delightful and everything had been so different from her usual life that she had felt like a different creature. She had settled down comfortably into the Armstrongs’ ménage so that she felt as if she had been with them for weeks. It was miserable to have to say goodbye and return to her flat in London. Bel missed the companionship of Louise; she missed the cheerful conversation; she missed the comforts of the well-run household and the beautiful garden. Her own little garden failed to charm her, she saw it with lack-lustre eyes.
Dr. Armstrong had given Bel some roots of aubrietia; she planted them carefully, of course, but even this task failed to raise her spirits. Poor little plants, thought Bel, as she tucked them into the corners of the big stone trough. Poor little things! It was a shame to bring you here. You would grow much more happily in the garden of Coombe House!
Bel had been away only for a few days but her flat looked dirty and neglected. Dust lay upon the table and the chimneypiece and upon every flat surface. Where did all the dust come from, wondered Bel, as she set about cleaning the place and putting things in order.
It was when she was dusting the book-case that she came across the brown-paper parcel which she had intended to give Mark for his birthday. She had forgotten all about it until this moment.
Bel stood there with the parcel in her hands, remembering how carefully she had chosen the wool for Mark’s socks and all the hours she had spent knitting them—and all the thoughts which had made the task pleasant. Then suddenly she turned and thrust the wretched parcel into the bottom drawer of her bureau and shut it out of sight.
It was not quite so easy to shut away all thoughts of Mark but she decided to try.
Mr. Brownlee was extremely pleased to see his secretary again; he appreciated her all the more because Miss Harlow, who had officiated for her during her absence, had been a very poor substitute. Miss Harlow was not interested in the work and was so distrait that Mr. Brownlee had come to the regretful conclusion that the girl was not quite all there. It was true that her shorthand was a good deal better than Miss Lamington’s but that did not make up for other things.
“Hallo, Miss Lamington!” exclaimed Mr. Brownlee with heartwarming enthusiasm. “Did you have a good time? Thank goodness you’re back! That girl is incapable of filing a letter or looking up an address; she can’t even get a right number on the telephone. I feel as if you had been away for weeks. It’s been awful.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Bel with rather less than her usual strict regard for truth.
Compared with Mr. Brownlee’s greeting Miss Goudge’s was somewhat chilly but that did not matter in the least.
The date for Mr. Brownlee’s trip to South America had now been settled. There was a great deal to do for he was anxious to leave everything in good order so that the business would flow on smoothly. It had been arranged that Mr. Copping would come to the office more frequently and keep an eye on things during his absence, but shortly before his departure Mr. Copping had a severe heart attack and was laid up in bed. This meant that Mr. Wills would be in complete charge—a state of affairs which seemed so unsatisfactory to the junior partner that if he could have cancelled his trip he would have done so, but by this time it was too late.
Mr. Brownlee endeavoured to comfort himself by the well-known saying that nobody is indispensable—but he found it difficult to believe. He felt himself to be indispensable; there were all sorts of things to be done which he alone could do. There were the foreign letters, for instance. The firm of Copping, Wills and Brownlee had a great many contacts with Spanish-speaking countries and also with German and Dutch. Ellis Brownlee was a good linguist and was able to deal with these letters himself. Mr. Copping had intended to take over this duty—but now, of course, he could not do so. There was nobody else in the office who had the ability to deal with them satisfactorily.
“There ought to be somebody,” said Mr. Brownlee to his secretary. “It’s a mistake to have nobody in the office who can deal with them. It didn’t seem to matter when Mr. Copping was coming here regularly. I think I shall have to get a clerk with a good knowledge of languages when I get back.”
“But what are we to do while you’re away?” asked Bel in dismay.
“You’ll have to send them down to the wharf, that’s all,” replied Mr. Brownlee. “Nelson will cope.”
Another important matter to be settled was the appointment of the new agent at Leith. Mr. Brownlee interviewed several applicants for the post and decided upon a young man called Robert Anderson.
“He’s the sort of chap we want,” explained Mr. Brownlee to his secretary. “He hasn’t had a great deal of experience but he’s full of initiative and tremendously keen. He isn’t free till September but it’s better to hang on and get the right man for the job. Wills wanted an older man but I’ve managed to talk him over so you can write to Anderson confirming his appointment.”
Bel had always known that her “boss” did more than his share of the business but even so she was surprised at the number of matters which had to be delegated.
Mr. Brownlee had intended to spend three weeks in South America and then fly home, but so many people were anxious to see him that it was difficult to fit in all his appointments and soon it became evident that his visit would have to be extended. When Bel realised this she was appalled. How was the firm of Copping, Wills and Brownlee to carry on indefinitely without the junior partner? Her own private plans were disorganised too. She would have to put off her holiday; she would not be free to go to Drumburly with the Armstrongs. This was a great pity of course but she was not really very disappointed for the plan had never seemed more substantial than a dream.
What with one thing and another Bel was kept so busy that she had little time to think of her own affairs. The days passed and gradually Mark faded out of her mind. She thought of him less—sometimes she forgot about him entirely—and the receipt of a highly-coloured picture-postcard from Florence with the news that he was having a marvellous time failed to upset her in the least.
I’m cured, thought Bel in surprise. It really was rather strange that she had been cured so quickly. Of co
urse her visit to the Armstrongs had helped. Louise had consoled her. Louise had taken the sting out of the wound by giving Bel a very shrewd estimate of Mark’s character: gay and charming and utterly and absolutely selfish. “But you couldn’t know that, could you?” Louise had said.
This was true of course. Bel had imagined Mark as a sort of fairy prince. She had taken him at his face value and believed every word he said.
She remembered Louise saying quite seriously that she had been inoculated against Mark when she was a child. Bel had laughed—it seemed ridiculous nonsense—but now she saw that there was a good deal of sober sense in the assertion (just as there was sense in the other things Louise had said about her cousin). Bel had a feeling that she, too, had been inoculated against Mark. It had been painful and unpleasant—as inoculations sometimes are—but she was now immune. If she were to meet Mark tomorrow she could greet him without the slightest pang and, no matter how gay and delightful and charming he was, he would not affect her at all.
Experientia docet stultos, thought Bel, as she put the highly-coloured postcard on her chimney-piece. Yes, she had been a fool but she had learnt a valuable lesson, she would guard her heart more carefully in future, and especially carefully from young men with charming manners—like Mark.
Chapter Eleven
The office felt very strange when Mr. Brownlee had gone. Bel missed him even more than she had expected; she missed his smile which had welcomed her every morning and she missed his cheerful conversation; most of all she missed the feeling of confidence which he inspired. He was so absolutely dependable. The chilliness of Miss Goudge had not mattered when Mr. Brownlee was there but now it mattered a great deal.
Fortunately there was no trouble with Miss Snow. In fact Bel came to like her in a tepid sort of way. Nobody could have become really fond of Miss Snow—she was too cold—but compared with Miss Goudge she was admirable. She sailed along doing her duty, and doing it well. There was no meanness about her, no petty jealousy. She had exceedingly high principles. Mr. Brownlee had been a little unjust about Miss Snow, thought Bel. She might be “Faultily faultless” and “icily regular” but she was not “splendidly null”. And of course Mr. Wills was a difficult man to work for. He did not want a human sort of secretary; he wanted a secretary who would do what she was told—no more and no less—so Miss Snow gave him exactly what he wanted. Perhaps if she had had a more human sort of employer to work for she, herself, might have been more human.
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