Gone Away

by Marjorie Moore

  “Drive toward the park. I’m not quite certain of my destination for the moment.” Patricia slipped a coin into the waiting porter’s hand, then, tilting her chin in the air, stepped quickly into the taxi.

  They were scarcely round the corner and out of sight of the hotel before Patricia leaned forward and tapped on the glass partition.

  “Please, I don’t really want to go to the park. I want to find a room ... apartments you know. I ... I don’t know London very well; perhaps you’d take me to the right district for that sort of thing, she suggested timidly. A broad smile lighted the chauffeur s face. So that was the trouble; they’d been rooking her at the hotel, like most of those places did, and she’d walked out on them. Quite right too in his opinion.

  “Well, miss, let’s have a think. There’s places and places, as they say, some good and some bad. Now it’s respectable you want, that’s what I say; never mind the place nor yet the rooms, but respectable they must be.”

  “But not too expensive,” Patricia broke in hurriedly.

  “Now if I haven’t thought of the very place!” His mouth broadened into a smile, “My aunt, she takes in lodgers—only nice people, mind.” He added firmly, “Mrs. Jutson is very respectable and reasonable, and I’m sure she’d be glad to oblige.”

  “Then please take me there. I’m sure, if you say so, it will be just what I want,” Patricia said gratefully.

  Patricia sank back against the shabby upholstery of the taxi with a sigh of relief. This was independence, true independence. Never again would she act with the thoughtlessness of the past two days. From this moment her freedom would commence. Kay must be put right out of her mind; she had a job, and a good chance of room and shelter from the respectable Mrs. Jutson.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The branches of the wind-swept trees swayed rhythmically in the gale, bending their stems against its force. Waves of yellowed leaves billowed across the roadway, and swirled around in circles before piling themselves into hillocks in the gutter. Patricia, trying somewhat unsuccessfully to keep her coat closed and clasping her beret firmly to her head, struggled along the rain-washed pavement. With a sigh of relief she pushed against the rusty iron gate of a tall, somewhat decrepit house, which only differed from the others in the crescent in being a little more shabby, and possessing a little less recognizable paintwork. This evening Patricia was spared her usual pang of irritation at the unprepossessing appearance of her lodgings; she was far too glad to reach the sheltering stone porch and, for the first time during her hurried walk from the bus stop, to breathe with any degree of comfort. The customary odor of cooking assailed her as she crossed the hall and made her way up the stairs. She crinkled her nose distastefully. It didn’t seem to matter what time she came home, there was always the same unsavory smell to greet her. Oh well, she mused, it might be a nuisance having an attic room, but, once she reached it, she was certainly spared not only Mrs. Jutson’s penetrating voice, but also the odors of her landlady’s doubtful culinary efforts.

  Patricia closed the door of her room behind her and, before removing her outdoor clothes, crossed quickly to the gasfire and applied a match. Burning at its brightest the fire gave out an inadequate heat, but during her months of sojourn in this little room, Patricia had become quite used to that. With all its faults, she had grown strangely fond of her quarters. Although cramped and somewhat poverty stricken, the room was, as the taxi driver had said, “respectable,” and the perfect Mrs. Jutson had proved, despite some irritating habits, a very kind landlady. After the strangeness of her new existence had worn off, Patricia had found herself settling down quite happily to her life. The fascination of living in a city had never been dispelled, and even after months of familiarity, the crowded streets, shops, and theaters still held her enthralled. For weeks the memory of Kay had troubled her; it had been easy enough to run away from him but not nearly so easy to escape from her troubling memories. A hundred times she had wanted to rush out and seek him; a thousand times she had longed to recapture that short-lived happiness.

  Patricia could have found a measure of both contentment and happiness in her new life but for one distressing factor. Her job, so eagerly accepted and started with such high hopes, had proved definitely disappointing. She did not dislike the work, but the unwelcome attentions of the senior partner were becoming increasingly disturbing. She was fully aware of the danger of giving up a fairly remunerative job before finding another post, but with the added self-confidence of a few months’ work, she was now determined to make a change.

  Patricia proceeded to scan the advertisement columns of the newspaper she had brought in with her.

  A sharp knock at the door, followed by the entry of Mrs. Jutson carrying a loaded tray, roused Patricia from her search.

  “Here’s your supper, Miss Dare, and nice and savory, too, although I says it myself.” The landlady dropped the tray on the table with a clatter. “My word, I’m out of breath; these stairs fair get me.” She pressed a work-worn hand to her heaving chest. “Now, mind you eat it up. I said to Mr. Jutson, ‘That young lady don’t eat enough to feed a sparrow.’ If it wasn’t for the other lodgers I’m sure I wouldn’t take the trouble to cook for you at all.” She removed the dishcover with a flourish. “Liver and bacon! Now isn’t that enough to tempt anyone?”

  Patricia smiled. “Very nice. Thanks awfully.” She hoped her voice sounded convincing. “I’m quite hungry. I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.” She drew her chair toward the table as if in preparation for her meal, but Mrs. Jutson was not to be so easily dismissed.

  “Any news about changing your job, Miss Dare? I see you’ve been after the adverts again. What’s this here? ‘Personal Column.’ Don’t one sometimes find jobs there?”

  “Long lost relations, even fortunes, but never jobs!” Patricia laughed. “That’s the romantic column; it’s the more practical ones that I search.”

  Mrs. Jutson, her eyes still glued to the paper, seemed unaware of her lodger’s remark. Stooping over the table, she read it more closely, as if something had suddenly attracted her interest.

  “What have you found, a lost relation or a legacy?” Patricia inquired laughingly.

  Unfettered by her lodger’s mockery, Mrs. Jutson picked up the paper and somewhat slowly and laboriously read:

  “ ‘Wanted. Young lady travelling to Straits Settlements early New Year to chaperon another. Fare will be paid. Apply Box 60.’ ”

  She looked up inquiringly at Patricia. “What about that?”

  “But I’m not travelling anywhere, certainly not to the Straits Settlements,” Patricia laughed. “How on earth would that help me?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know where the place is”—the landlady looked doubtful—“but there seems to be someone ready to pay your fare there and maybe not so many secretaries knocking about in that part of the world,” she ended practically.

  “You mean go out there ... just take a chance?” Patricia raised her eyebrows in amazement at the suggestion. “Do you realize that the Straits Settlements are the other end of the world?”

  “Well, I must say I never knew that; the name sounds English enough too.” There was slight disappointment in Mrs. Jutson’s voice. “Still, you’ve always said as how you’d love to travel,” she added, with a return to her former cheerfulness.

  “The name’s English because it’s a British possession.” Patricia sighed. “No, I’m afraid it’s not feasible. If it were a real job offered there, I’d jump at it quickly enough,” she concluded a trifle wistfully.

  “But with your fair paid and all, it’s well worth going to have a look—at least, that’s, what I say,” Mrs. Jutson affirmed stubbornly.

  “Let me see.” Patricia stretched out her hand for the paper, and scanned the close print. “They are just trying to find someone who is sailing at that time; you sometimes see advertisements like that. They pay your fare and you help with children or chaperon another girl, or act as a sort of companion. I’m not actually going
out; I’m not really a genuine applicant—that is, if I ever got an interview.”

  “Who’s to know you’re not really going out? They pay your fare, don’t they? That’s all that matters. You do the travelling and someone else pays for it. Fine, I calls it.”

  “Yes, that’s all very well, but they don’t pay my fare back,” Patricia gently reminded Mrs. Jutson.

  “Not pay your fare home?” Mrs. Jutson was taken aback, but only for a moment. “You’ll get a job and soon save enough to get back—that is, if you don’t like foreign parts,” she ended complacently.

  “I wonder...” Patricia spoke to herself, almost unaware of the other’s watching eyes. “I wonder ... dare I?” She picked up the paper and again read the printed words. “Straits Settlements. Singapore, Kuala Lumpur ... Just names that I have only dreamed of,” she said aloud.

  “Take no chances and get nowhere, that’s what I always says to Mr. Jutson.” As Patricia made no reply, Mrs. Jutson continued speaking. “Well, I’d better be getting along.” Just before disappearing through the door, she turned around for a final word. “You think over what I’ve said. I reckon that’s a job worth going after.”

  Patricia watched the door close behind the portly figure of her landlady before turning her attention again to the folded paper before her. For a few moments she stared at the printed words in wondering contemplation. Could she consider such a thing? Of course not! Surely she wasn’t allowing herself to be influenced by an entirely ignorant if well-meaning woman. Imagine finding herself stranded in a strange country, without a job, without a friend. Patricia pushed back her tray and, rising from her chair, took a cigarette from a packet on the mantelpiece. She stared unseeingly into the blue flame of the fire while she drew meditatively at her cigarette. Of course, she mused, if one never took a chance. If one was never prepared to risk anything...? There might, of course, be jobs in plenty abroad, well-paid jobs too; she’d met girls who had found wonderful opportunities. Patricia tapped her foot impatiently and then with a deliberate gesture stubbed out the end of her cigarette in an ashtray. Crossing the room, she seated herself at the desk. For a second she sat irresolute, then began to write, fluently and without hesitation. With a quick reference to the newspaper she addressed the envelope; then, putting on her coat, hurried down to the post.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  With a certain trepidation Patricia Dare mounted the steps of the rather formidable-looking house in Kensington. Taking a slip of paper from her bag to reassure herself that the number was correct, she rang the front doorbell. Ever since she had heard her letter drop into the impregnable depths of the letterbox she had lived in a state of exaltation, alternating with moods of despondency. She had told herself over and over again that it was useless to speculate, and that in any case she was unlikely to get a reply. When, after a day’s interval, an appointment for an interview had arrived, she hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry. Even now, she argued with rising agitation, as she waited for her ring to be answered, she had only committed herself to an interview; she hadn’t actually been accepted for the job.

  “I want to see Miss Hanny. I have an appointment,” Patricia blurted out.

  “Certainly. This way, madam.” The maid, entirely unaware of the visitor’s discomfort, ushered Patricia across the thickly carpeted entrance hall to what appeared to be a drawing room. “I’ll tell Miss Hanny you’re here. What name shall I say?”

  “Miss Dare.” Patricia waited for the maid to leave the room, then allowed her gaze to wander. She’d always believed that rooms betrayed in some unaccountable way the temperament of their owners; in this case she decided, the predominant note of the room, and probably also of the owner, was one of old-fashioned propriety. There was a stifling atmosphere about the over-pictured walls, the handsome yet uncomfortable-looking armchairs, the mantel and tables littered with ornaments. What sort of person would this Miss Hanny be, and what relation to her could the “young lady” be for whom she was so desirous of obtaining chaperonage that she was actually willing to pay two fares? Girls travelled almost everywhere alone these days. Of course, Patricia’s thoughts wandered on, the girl might be very young ... she hadn’t considered the possibility before, but supposing she herself were considered too young for the job! Patricia suffered a pang of apprehension, and at the same time realized that, despite the doubts of the last few days, she hadn’t the slightest intention of refusing this heaven-sent opportunity, if she were given the chance of accepting it.

  “Good day. Miss Dare, I believe?”

  Patricia rose to her feet and took the extended hand of the tall, angular woman who had just entered the room. For a second she felt her hand held in a limp grasp, then the older woman sat down. Patricia glanced surreptitiously at her companion; there was a hard, unyielding expression about the older woman’s face that was in no way softened by the strands of her silvered hair drawn tightly back from her forehead and fastened into a small bun at the nape of her neck. Miss Hanny’s clothes, Patricia decided, were probably of a most expensive nature, but she had evidently so controlled the ability of her dressmaker that the result, although thoroughly practical, was anything but smart. This interview was not going to be easy. Miss Hanny didn’t appear to be the type of woman who would be easily lulled into believing that the applicant for the post of chaperon was either more mature than her appearance suggested, or a hardened traveller.

  Harriet Hanny adjusted her spectacles and studied a letter she held in her hand that Patricia recognized as her own. “I see you are journeying East early in the New Year?” The statement was in the form of a query.

  “Yes,” Patricia replied shortly while assuring herself that her answer in no way constituted an untruth. After all, if Miss Hanny was willing to pay her fare, she certainly would be journeying East.

  “I advertised on behalf of my niece. I have looked after her since her mother, my poor sister-in-law, died some years ago.” She shook her head a trifle mournfully. “I’m afraid my dear sister-in-law was inclined to be somewhat flighty, and, despite all the influence I have been able to exert, it pains me to admit that my niece also refuses to realize the responsibilities of life.”

  Patricia found it difficult to repress a smile. She could appreciate the worthiness of the woman before her, but could also readily imagine how disapproving she might be of the modern tendencies of the day. She wondered what sort of girl the niece really was, and could not refrain from pitying her the life she must have led under the guardianship of her aunt. There was such a Victorian atmosphere about everything—the way her companion spoke, the way she dressed, the old-fashioned luxury of her home.

  Apparently unaware of her companion’s silence, Miss Hanny continued speaking. “At Harrogate last summer my niece made what appeared to be a most undesirable attachment.” She spread her hands in an expression of helplessness. “I did what I could to dissuade her, but my advice was quite unavailing.” She pursed her lips severely. “She is twenty-one now, and I have no further control; my late brother very foolishly left her independent when she reached her twenty-first birthday. Maimie became engaged to this young man—a planter or something living near Singapore. Now she has come into her own money she insists on joining him there, and in spite of my disapproval, she leaves early in January to contract this ridiculous marriage.”

  “But why rid—” Patricia bit her lips. What on earth was the use of expressing her opinion? After all, she knew nothing about either the niece or this intended husband, and it wasn’t going to help her cause to show the older woman which way her sympathy lay. To cover her mistake, she spoke again hastily. “I quite understand. Naturally you are upset.”

  “Upset! Miss Hanny echoed the word. “That only mildly expresses my feeling. Since Maimie was ten I have been a mother to her; more than a mother; she has been my first consideration. Now she is independent, this is what I get—defiance, and entire disregard of my feelings and wishes! I’ve done my duty, and I’ll do it to the end.” Miss Ha
nny squared her shoulders. “No one shall say otherwise. That is why. I want a companion for her. I must feel she is adequately protected until the day of her marriage.” She sighed. “I cannot conduct her to that outlandish place myself; my health would not stand the journey or the heat; but, in spite of the way I have been treated, I won’t show any bitterness.” Her expression became one of resigned martyrdom. “She shall be properly looked after until my responsibilities cease.”

  “I shall be only too glad to be of service,” Patricia murmured.

  “I want someone used to travelling—someone reliable.” Miss Hanny frowned as her eyes searched Patricia. “You look rather young,” she added doubtfully, after her glance had taken in every line of her companion’s youthful charm.

  “Really I’m not—very,” Patricia protested, “and—and I’m quite capable. I’ve been living on my own for some time now, and I’ve had to look after myself.”

  “I suppose you could supply some kind of reference?” Miss Hanny broke in in a tone rather suggesting that she hoped her applicant couldn’t.

  ‘Of course.” There was relief in Patricia’s voice. Thank goodness the subject of travel hadn’t been pursued. It would have been awkward if she’d had to admit that Torquay was the farthest journey she had ever undertaken. “My father is a clergyman. He married again, that’s why I decided to live on my own. I’ve been in business too; a solicitor’s firm. I can easily get a reference from them.”