by Sheila Burns
They came to the hotel with Fiddler’s Hill rising behind it. The nearer she drew to it, the more afraid she was because she could imagine what Mrs. Burman would say, and she could not possibly go back for the last two hours on duty tonight, as would be expected of her. Her head was aching dully. She felt him stop the car, and then put an arm round her.
‘I’m taking you inside with me.’
‘I’m scared stiff.’
‘That old witch! You just leave all this to me and I’ll see you through.’ He put an arm round her, supporting her with it, and they entered through the side door. It was a smaller hall here, where people kept their golf kit, old macs and such things. The hall led into a back room which was seldom used because usually it was cold. She saw the red light on in it and they walked into it. A woman was tidying the magazines which lay on the carved table, and she turned sharply to them. It was Mrs. Burman. She stared at them.
‘There’s been a slight accident,’ Simon said. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not as bad as it looks. Lindy must go straight to bed, she got a bang on the head, and the doctor says she will be all right tomorrow.’
‘She should never have gone,’ Mrs. Burman clipped the words, for she was in her worst mood. ‘I don’t know why she did go.’
‘It was her half day off and I took her to Oxford,’ he reminded Mrs. Burman, and spoke sternly. At this moment Lindy saw how ice-cold he could be, his tone almost froze her.
‘To Oxford?’ Mrs. Burman repeated the words as though he had said ‘To Bedlam’.
‘We went to a small inn and there was a fight. Something was thrown and Lindy was hit. A doctor came to her and there is no bad damage, tomorrow she will be all right, but for now she had better go straight to bed.’
Still Mrs. Burman stared at him. ‘She is supposed to do two hours at the reception desk tonight,’ she said.
‘And she can’t do it!’ he snapped. Lindy hardly recognised him, for he had become so cold.
Mrs. Burman gave him a contemptuous look, and if looks could have wounded, this would have been the death blow! ‘Very well. Then she had better go to bed,’ she said.
‘She needs a hand. She’s weak from the loss of blood.’
Mrs. Burman rang the bell, and in a very short time Davies arrived. He saw immediately what had happened and took command of the situation. He led Lindy away, speaking soothingly for his great charm was that he was a villain who had been born with a kind heart. One could not help but like him. The moment the door had shut behind the two of them, Simon turned on Mrs. Burman.
‘Does the firm who own this hotel know how you behave to your employees, and what you expect of them?’ he asked.
She was unmoved. ‘I happen to have managed many hotels and all of them entirely successfully. I have been doing the work for some twenty-five years, in fact ever since my husband died,’ she replied coldly.
‘And this will be your last one, for I shall report you.’
‘There is nothing to report. The girl should not have gone all the way to Oxford, it was absurd. How can she expect me to be pleased about it?’
‘Oxford is not so far. Just an afternoon’s run in a suitable car. Nobody could have foreseen an accident. I think that your attitude to her was unforgivable. She could not help being hurt.’
‘Hotels do not live on charity,’ she said, ‘and anyway, I shall be obliged if you vacate your room before noon tomorrow.’
He turned on her then. His face was hard and he was in a furious temper. There was a sharpness in his eyes which was not good to see in anyone so young. His mouth could have been a sword. He said, ‘Will you kindly put through a call to the chairman of your board, Lord Havington? It’s Regent 22922, and he happens to be my uncle. We will then see whether I leave in the morning, or whether you do.’
He had never thought that she would go to pieces quite so rapidly. In an instant he saw her as being a woman alone in the world, entirely dependent on what she earned, who had served this hotel well. It was possible that her income was not adequate, and if she was dismissed she was already too old readily to get another post.
She said slowly, ‘It is ever inadvisable to act in a hurry.’
‘Then do I presume that I keep my room?’ He was half ashamed that his voice had sharpness in it.
‘I would dislike to turn a guest away.’
‘You mean that I stay?’
He had forced her, and possibly she would never forgive him for it. ‘Yes. Yes, you stay.’
‘Can I be sure that food is sent to Lindy?’
‘Of course, but Sir Simon, you seem to have got the wrong ideas about the girl’s employment here. She is temporary, taking the place of Miss Herman who is in hospital.’
‘Surely temporary employees should be helped in the same way as permanencies?’
‘Naturally,’ and she said it abruptly, for that arrogance with which she always armed herself, was back.
He left her, but of course he was furious with her. He met Alan Pearce in the hall, where he was waiting to see Lindy; he had remembered that she was out and had become worried, and he stopped Simon. He asked about her, and Simon told him. She would be all right.
Simon went off and up to his room; on the stairs he ran into Davies. Davies was naturally quick enough to make the most of any good position in which he found himself.
‘Poor young lady!’ he said, ‘but never mind sir, she’s better now. I took her a nice tray of supper, the best, for you can trust me.’ A piece of paper changed hands, for Simon was lavish with tips. ‘Do everything you can for her,’ he said.
‘Of course, sir,’ and in confidence and a sepulchral whisper, ‘I hate the old witch as much as you do, sir,’ and off he went.
Simon went to his room and stood there staring out of the window at the garden below, and the golf links beyond that. The trees were ghosts which seemed to beckon to him. The mist was rising, and he felt that it promised the world a fair day on the morrow. He seemed to be restless.
What has happened to me? he asked himself. He was a hard man, so people said, a man who guarded his heart with a coat of mail. Too much lay behind him, more than he wished to admit, and he thought of the other Fiddler’s Hill which he had bought with a sudden determination merely because the ruin attracted him. For the first time he was asking himself, how would a sweet young girl take to the place?
He had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and he had suffered so much. His life had been short as yet, but he had gone through quite a lot. Doubt speared through him. What do I do now? he was asking himself.
Chapter Five
Davies did well by Lindy. He had his finger in most pies, and the supper he had got for her was the best, and most certainly not the one that Mrs. Burman had ordered.
The Inkermans, the Jewish family who were staying here, had had an argument. The younger son was involved in a car accident, and any involvement in the Inkerman family always went a long way. Mrs. Inkerman had a series of heart attacks. In the normal person they would have been called faints, but the heart attack sounded better.
Mrs. Burman hated the Inkermans, but they did occupy the best suite, never complained about the cost or the ever mounting extras, and she had to put up with them.
Meanwhile Davies was making the most of it. Mrs. Burman was upset, what with the row with Sir Simon, and his unfortunate relationship to the chairman, and now trouble with the Inkermans. She left the office, and so Davies got access to the petty cash, always an opportunity not to be missed, and he availed himself of it.
The next morning Mrs. Burman had a bad headache and breakfast in bed, something never known before. She’ll have another headache when she finds out about the petty cash! Davies gleefully told himself. Lindy arrived feeling weak and also with a headache, but the bruise was not as bad as she expected and she was sure that she could manage.
She tidied up, did the flowers which the gardener had left for her by the side door, and was half-way through their arrangement when Sim
on came down the stairs. It was warmer and he was dressed for spring. A lithe figure wearing light fawn trousers, a pale blue polo-necked sweater and dark brown suede shoes. He looked like a film star, and although it was absurd to be carried away by appearances, he delighted her.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘Much better, it was really nothing, and I just made a fuss. Thank you for all you did for me.’
‘It was nothing! I was terribly sorry that it ever happened. I’m afraid I had a row with old Ma last night, but I don’t think that you’ll get the sack or anything like that. My uncle is her chairman, and I let her know it. I’m not surprised that she’s got a bad headache this morning, I rather thought she might have.’
‘Oh dear!’
‘Not “Oh dear” at all! It’s a damned good thing to put her in her place.’ He lifted her hand from amongst the flowers and kissed it. She had never thought that the touch of his mouth could thrill her so much.
‘You ‒ you know that some guest in the hotel could see you?’
‘Sorry, but I wanted to do it.’
She said tenderly, ‘You’re kind, and you spoil me.’
‘What are you going to do when Miss Herman is better and comes back here?’
‘I shall have to find another job, I suppose.’
‘My uncle could probably help.’ He was deeply attracted to the girl. He admired her gentleness, those very dark eyes against the very light red hair, which was entirely straight.
‘I’d be very grateful to your uncle.’
They walked into the lounge together; she had her arms full of hellebore and budding sprays with some almond blossom. It was just then that they heard a sound at the reception desk which told them quite clearly that Mrs. Burman had mastered her headache, and was now fiddling about there. She leant across it and called to Lindy.
‘Could I have a word with you, please, Miss Thorpe?’
‘Yes, Mrs. Burman?’
‘There is a dreadful deficiency in the petty cash.’
Simon heard her, and he followed Lindy. He was now furiously angry with this woman and everything that was happening. Mrs. Burman was in a teetering rage, and went on talking.
‘I want a word with Miss Thorpe. There is a discrepancy which must be explained.’
‘I am interested,’ he said.
‘You are a guest, Sir Simon, Miss Thorpe is an employee. The petty cash has been tampered with.’
She said it because she meant to involve Lindy, and although her face was a mask, Simon knew. He was defiantly angry. ‘The matter affects me,’ he said, ‘I insist on being here and hearing what goes on. I share Miss Thorpe’s difficulties for we are engaged.’
Lindy spun round. She stared at him. This was one of those crazy daydreams from which she would wake, but for the moment it was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her. He put out a hand and took hers; she gave it to him almost as if she said ‘I will’ in the same breath. They stood staring at Mrs. Burman hand in hand, and she gasped. It was so entirely unexpected, the last thing that she had thought possible, and she plainly did not know what to do.
‘What you have to say to Lindy, you say also to me,’ he told her.
For Mrs. Burman it was the end. Last night there had been the Inkerman trouble, chaos, and the reception desk left open to the world. All the same, very few people knew where the key to the cash box was kept. This morning four pounds had gone from it. She said so.
‘Davies, I imagine,’ said Simon slowly, ‘and I will give you the four pounds.’
‘Davies has not got access to the cash box.’
‘That’s what you think!’ and he laughed. ‘I should think that a chap like Davies has access to anything that takes his fancy.’
She stared at him. She faltered, something most unusual for her. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said, and a single tear came into her small eyes.
And I do not know what to do, Lindy was thinking. She could not believe that any of this was true, or even happening. Simon had said they were engaged, and they were not.
She said weakly, ‘Might I sit down for a minute?’ and collapsed into a chair with the world spinning round her. She covered her face with her hands, not knowing if she was conscious or not. Was all this a dream? Some fantasy? Something quite unreal? When she recovered, Mrs. Burman had gone; it had probably been the sound of the door shutting which made Lindy take her hands from her face. Now Simon was lighting a cigarette from a golden lighter, and his hand was trembling. ‘Well, that’s that!’ he said.
‘But you said …’ and she gulped, then started again. ‘I know nothing about you.’
‘If it comes to that, what do I know about you? Does it matter? for I happen to love you. I’m impulsive, I make up my mind quickly.’ He said it simply; there was no sign of passion in his voice, as though the one truth was dominant and forceful, and this was what he wanted her to know.
‘But we can’t do this.’
‘We can, you know.’
‘I ‒ I don’t know anything about you,’ and she was crying.
He put his arms round her, and drew her to him. ‘You know that I love you and want you, that I’ll be faithful, that I’ll care for you my whole life. You did say that you liked me.’
It was more than liking, of course! It had come upon her like an avalanche, only this wasn’t cold as snow, it was warm with sunshine, overwhelming in its power. In her own heart she felt that love was inescapable, and when it came into a woman’s heart it came for ever. She had never felt like this for any other man, it was devotion. Yet he had been twice married already, said he was impulsive, restless and difficult to live with, and she could hardly believe that this actual moment was real. She stared at him.
‘Don’t you see that it can’t be?’
‘It’s going to be. I want you and you want me. You may not know it, but I’ll teach you the truth. Everything.’ He put his arms round her and kissed her. She lost all trace of time or of event. When she could, she spoke again.
‘Simon, we can’t go on like this. You know nothing about me, I am just a working girl with no qualifications. The reference I hope to get from this hotel is rapidly being destroyed for after this Mrs. Burman will hate me. I ‒ I’ve got to get that reference,’ and she knew that she felt rather sick.
‘You won’t want that reference now, for we are going to get married.’ He said it tranquilly, as though it were something that was completely usual. ‘I know that you did not touch her blasted petty cash. It was Davies!’
‘I don’t want him dragged into it. Davies has his own problems.’
‘I know,’ and Simon laughed. ‘Two prison sentences against him, and now a girl expecting and saying it is his baby. She has been dunning him for money, and that was probably why he had a go at the petty cash. We’ll see him through.’
‘Poor Davies!’
His hands tightened on hers. ‘I won’t have this woman throwing mud at you. I’m going to London and starting the wheels turning for a special licence. You see, I’m going to marry you, and this week!’
The whole of her world spun round Lindy. She felt lost again. She was in love with a dream shadow, for this was all that Simon could be to her. A guest staying at Fiddler’s Hill and coming from a house in Essex also called Fiddler’s Hill. It was all so strangely difficult to understand. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said.
‘I know what to do, and I’m doing it! We may be strangers, we may have met in some other incarnation, who knows? Old friends meeting again, and we are going ahead into the future together.’
‘But I know nothing about you.’
‘Then I’ll try to tell you.’ He perched on the edge of the table but still holding her hand, and he looked at her with his very blue eyes. ‘I was a posthumous child and a spoilt boy. I grant you that I am difficult, made that way. Too rich perhaps. I married my landlady’s daughter at Oxford when I was nineteen. Marigold was dying of leukaemia and I wanted to help.’
He paused. ‘I did help, I hope.’
‘I’m sure you did, and now you want to marry me out of kindness because maybe I shan’t get a reference.’
‘Nothing of the sort. I married again, for a young widower is at the mercy of sharks. Edna got me when I was sick for Marigold who died so young. She bragged that she had caught me, and the only redeeming features about Edna were her beauty and her love of children. One day I’ll show you her picture. Lovely, but hell to live with. In the end she cleared off with a Hungarian violinist who came along. My divorce was about to start when she was killed in a bad train accident in the States, the Hungarian also. An attorney wrote to me about it, it made me feel pretty sick.’
She said, ‘Is this true?’
‘I wouldn’t lie to you, sweetie, I love you too much,’ he answered, and his voice was warmly tender. ‘Never challenge me, for if you do I turn as hard as flint. Love me, because I’m hungry for it and want it so much.’
She knew then that there was nothing more to say, for the curtain had rolled down on the past. Poor, poor Marigold! Very naughty and scheming Edna, who loved children. When Simon released her, she whispered, ‘I don’t want Davies to suffer, he is a darling at heart.’
‘He isn’t going to suffer, don’t worry! If it comes to it, we’ll waft him away to the other Fiddler’s Hill where he shall be our butler-handyman.’
‘I’d adore that.’
‘Now,’ he said, ‘I speak to Mrs. Burman and then go to London.’
They parted, but there would come the time when they did not part any more. However foolish she felt it was, she knew that this would happen. She herself would be going to the other Fiddler’s Hill.
Chapter Six
She went into the lounge to tidy up. Here charm bracelets jingled as overdressed ladies played Bridge. Some said good-day, others ignored her. Suddenly she saw herself as being Lady Leeson, quite a different personality, and waved the dream away. She’d wake up and find none of it was true! She went back to the office and totted up the accounts, and she did not meet Mrs. Burman until long after Simon had gone to London in the Jag.; then she came into the office.
