Love Him or Leave Him

by Mary Burchell

  ‘Responsible, Miss Hemming?’ Mr. Palmer looked rather uncomprehending.

  ‘I mean, I should feel quite wicked about spending what someone else had saved so carefully,’ Anne explained.

  ‘There is nothing to prevent your saving it, in your turn,’ Mr. Palmer pointed out, a little austerely. ‘A nest-egg never comes wrong, as the saying is. Anyone can have an illness or—hm—lose their employment, Miss Hemming.’

  ‘True,’ Miss Hemming agreed, with unexpected fervour.

  ‘At the same time,’ Mr. Palmer added, a little reluctantly, ‘I am bound to tell you that our client—our late client—did express the hope that you will have some enjoyment out of the money. Her words in her last letter to us were’—he selected a letter from a thin file, adjusted his spectacles and read aloud, ‘ “Since Anne Hemming earned this money by giving me happiness, I hope she will not hesitate to spend the money in giving herself happiness.” ’

  ‘Oh—that was sweet of her!’ exclaimed Anne, with a little catch in her voice.

  ‘One need not, of course, interpret the word “happiness” too frivolously,’ Mr. Palmer pointed out. ‘Happiness can also mean security, Miss Hemming. However, it is not for me to advise you as to the disposal of your legacy. You are, of course, at liberty to put it to whatever uses you like. I think it is obvious that the late Miss Stebbings’ intentions were that you should enjoy your legacy in your own way.’

  ‘Yes—I see,’ Anne said.

  Then, having told Mr. Palmer where the money should be sent, she thanked him yet again—which seemed a little excessive, even with the extra three pence thrown in, she thought, with a slight tendency to giggle—and came out into the street once more.

  She sauntered along in the afternoon sunshine, feeling a person of means, a bloated capitalist, a member of the idle rich, and lots of other pleasing—but largely nonexistent—things.

  Presently she had tea in an unpretentious cafe and then, because she felt must share her good news with someone, took a train from Victoria and went to visit her uncle and aunt and her half-dozen assorted cousins. She knew that she would greatly enjoy hearing all their views on what she should do with the money. And still more would she enjoy, then, making a completely independent decision herself.

  Mr. and Mrs. Hemming and their family lived in a large, rather shabby, double-fronted house, which they all criticised but would not have changed for any other house in the world. Sometimes, when one or other of the daughters grew a little ‘uppish’ and had ideas above her natural status, the family argued passionately about the absolute necessity of emigrating to Hampstead or Richmond or even one of the more fashionable inner suburbs. But, on further discussion—and the Hemmings were all excellent at discussion—they always discovered that none of the places suggested could supply the various advantages of the large, familiar, comfortable house in which they had all been brought up.

  Only two of her cousins were at home when Anne arrived. Angela, who was a small-part actress of no mean distinction, and Owen, who was on holiday. But, before she had been there an hour, and had consumed the excellent second tea which her aunt hospitably pressed upon her, all the family had returned from their various pursuits. Even Monica, the ‘baby’, who was a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl.

  All of them were simply delighted to hear of Anne’s good fortune, and only too ready to tell her exactly how to spend the money.

  Only her aunt suggested her saving it. And to that Monica remarked with unusual solemnity that ‘one should respect a dead person’s wishes’.

  ‘But Miss Stebbings didn’t express any wishes,’ Mrs. Hemming pointed out mildly. ‘Anne doesn’t have to spend the money.’

  ‘Yes, she does. It’s burning a hole in her pocket already,’ Owen declared. ‘I can smell the tweed singeing at this very moment.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ retorted Anne briskly. ‘I’m not going to be silly about things, I’m going to save some of the money—half of it, at least. Particularly now I’ve lost my job.’

  ‘Lost your job!’ chorused the Hemming family.

  And there was a short, enjoyable interlude, while Anne explained the outrageous unreasonableness of Mr. Jerome, resulting in her walking out of the office at half-past eleven on a Friday morning.

  ‘You mean you gave the wretch your notice then and there? Good for you!’ declared Hilary, who was the most high-spirited and least manageable member of the family.

  ‘We-ell, no,’ Anne admitted regretfully. ‘He gave me notice. But I should have, if he hadn’t,’ she explained. Which slightly muddled remark was entirely intelligible to everyone.

  ‘Before you make decisions about spending a lot of money,’ her uncle put in firmly, ‘you’d better do something about getting a new job. That’s just common sense.’

  Anne was aware that it was. But, regrettably, she was not in a mood for common sense.

  ‘No,’ she said, with a determination which showed that—though she greatly enjoyed hearing her relations’ views—she had no intention of following any but her own. A course which her cousins applauded, rather than resented, since they would have done exactly the same. ‘No, Uncle. First of all, I’m going to have a really good—a luxurious—holiday.’

  ‘Earning your living is more important than having a holiday,’ her uncle pointed out drily.

  ‘Yes, I know. But, if I start in on a new job right away, I can’t possibly expect much summer leave,’ Anne exclaimed rather reasonably. ‘I mean to have a month’s holiday now, on a lavish scale. It’s probably the only time in my life that I’ll be able to have a whole month’s holiday. I’ll spend up to five hundred pounds on it—including a few clothes, I mean,’ she added hastily, blenching a little at the statement of her own projected extravagance. ‘Then, when I come back, I’ll start looking for a job.’

  All her cousins then simultaneously offered suggestions for the proposed holiday, while Monica dominated everything with a shrill, if somewhat unrealistic, demand that she should go round the world and really see something.

  ‘I’m going to the Lake District,’ Anne stated, before anyone could make an even more fantastic suggestion than Monica.

  ‘The Lake District, darling!’ Angela registered the pained surprise which was so effective in her latest role. ‘But how undramatic. I mean—one doesn’t celebrate in the Lake District. Surely Rome or Greece or even Majorca would be more in keeping with the festive mood.’

  To which Owen added that if it were good food she wanted the only possible choice was one of the continental countries, France for preference.

  ‘Why the Lake District?’ Hilary inquired.

  ‘Because I’ve always wanted to see it, and never had the money to do so,’ replied Anne unanswerably. ‘When I was at school, and we did the Lakeland poets, I always promised myself that I’d go and see Grasmere and Rydal Water and Helvellyn and the Saddleback and the Langdales and Derwentwater, and all those heavenly sounding places for myself. But I’ve never got around to it. Now I mean to do it in a leisurely and luxurious way, as though I were a real person of .means. It would cost the earth to give myself that pleasant illusion in any of the places Angela has named. But for five hundred pounds I can give myself a very creditable impression of being a rich young woman in the surroundings I’m choosing.’

  ‘To each his or her own form of celebration,’ retorted Owen sententiously.

  And Anne added:

  ‘I shall probably meet some nice, new people there, anyway. But I like a certain amount of communing with nature, if you know what I mean by that, Angela.’

  Angela said she was not at all sure what she did mean by it, and that to her the best view in the world was Piccadilly Circus and Shaftesbury Avenue on a warm summer’s evening, just as the lamps were lighting up. She then added that it was time she left for the theatre, anyway, and the discussion more or less broke up.

  Anne stayed at her aunt’s house for the rest of the evening. And, by the time she went home to her own place,
she felt in excellent spirits, and believed that she had almost forgotten the disagreeable scene of that morning.

  All the same, she dreamed that Mr. Jerome suddenly appeared in her flat and—apparently with full authority—forbade her to go on her holiday until she had righted the error she had so inconsiderately made. And, for what seemed to her to be the rest of the night, she was struggling to put things right and do her packing, and convince Mr. Palmer that she did not want to go round the world with him, but preferred instead to go to the Lake District on her own.

  During the next week, Anne had a superb time studying guide books and travel literature, and having long conversations with a helpful young man in a travel agency.

  In the end, she selected as her headquarters what appeared to be—from photographs and description—an enchanting country mansion, now turned into an hotel situated about half-way between Grasmere and Ambleside, and commanding, according to its descriptive folder, unrivalled views across Rydal Water.

  ‘It isn’t just one of those ordinary hotels,’ the young man explained, ‘nor even an ordinary luxury hotel,’ he added, drawing the finest of distinctions. ‘It’s something quite special. Tone, atmosphere, elegance, you know. And, of course, every modern comfort. Expensive, on the face of it, but definitely something in a class by, itself.’

  ‘Something in a class by itself’ sounded absolutely what was needed for the start of this holiday of holidays. So Anne instructed her adviser to reserve her a balcony room at Merring Towers, and a first-class corner seat on the train to Windermere. After that, all that was needed to give herself the complete illusion of being someone other than ordinary Anne Hemming was to add to her wardrobe one or two extravagances of the kind she could not possibly permit herself in the ordinary way.

  Anne was not a tall girl, but she was slim and carried herself well, and, with all proper modesty, she knew that really good clothes could not fail to look their best on her.

  Cinderella herself could not have had more pleasure from her fabulous ball dress than Anne felt in her mist-blue tweed trouser suit, or the white and gold patterned evening dress which she permitted herself.

  The trouser suit accentuated the deep grey-blue of her eyes, and the white and gold evening dress gave added delicacy and piquancy to her really beautiful complexion. If she wished that her face were an interesting oval, rather than ingenuously round, she could at least congratulate herself on fine dark eyebrows which, as Hilary said, gave distinct character to an otherwise rather distressingly innocent-looking face.

  All these preparations took up so much of Anne’s time and thoughts that, in a way, the holiday itself remained somewhat nebulous in hear mind. Not until the night before her departure did she reflect—with something rather like nervousness—that even the expenditure of so much money could only provide the frame for the holiday.

  Pretty clothes and first-class travel and luxurious accommodation were greatly to be desired. But, even with those provided, the success of her holiday was still in the lap of the gods.

  However, Anne was not one to indulge in nervous speculation. And, apart from an anticipatory tremor or two, she looked forward to the next four weeks with unadulterated pleasure and excitement.

  The next day, she left London in brilliant sunshine. The kind of sunshine which promised a perfect holiday.

  But alas for the fickleness of such promises. As they proceeded northward, the sky began to be overcast, the clouds grew thicker and darker, and by midday scattered spears of rain were streaking down the windows. By the middle of the afternoon, rain was coming down with a solid determination which literally damped one’s spirits.

  However, Anne had been warned to include a mackintosh in her luggage. And, although a two-year-old raincoat was not actually the outfit she would have chosen for her first entry into Merring Towers, what was a little rain, she asked herself, when everything else was perfect?

  The expression ‘a little rain’ grew more and more inaccurate as the journey continued. But when Anne finally reached Windermere Station, and peered out into a drowned world, she felt that she simply had not seen rain until that moment.

  She had been given to understand that there would be a car to meet her. But even the first-class arrangements of Merring Towers seemed capable of a hitch. No car awaited her. And, along with other unfortunates, she stood in the station entry watching the water pour out of the sky, and to all her inquiries about hired cars she received the unhelpful and self-evident information that ‘there was a great run on hired cars just now’.

  Anne felt her spirits drooping. The more so as the crowd was now thinning rapidly, as friends and neighbours arrived in various vehicles to collect luckier passengers.

  She heard cheerful, rather boastful snatches of conversation about flooded roads and difficulties only just surmounted. And she felt a little as Mrs. Noah must have felt before the dove came back.

  Once more she inquired about a car from or to Merring Towers, hoping against hope that one had arrived, though delayed. But her inquiry elicited nothing helpful, and she was just turning away dejectedly once more, when a young man, with the collar of his raincoat turned up, came over to her and said:

  ‘Excuse me—did you say you wanted to get to Merring Towers? I’m going out there now and will give you a lift, if you don’t mind cramming into a rather small car.’

  ‘Oh, thank you!’ exclaimed Anne, who would not have minded cramming into a barrel at that moment, provided she could be transported to Merring Towers, dry and in reasonable time. ‘I thought they were going to send a car for me, but there seems to have been some mistake about times or something.’

  ‘Too bad,’ the young man said. ‘They’re usually very reliable. But anyway, I’ll get you there all right. Is this your luggage?’ And, snatching up Anne’s charming striped suitcase with an expert air, he led the way to a small car, which appeared to have pushed its way impertinently between two much larger and more imposing creatures.

  In a couple of minutes he had everything, including Anne herself, stowed into his car, and they were nosing their way out of the station approach, and taking the road towards Ambleside.

  ‘Your first visit here?’ he inquired. And, when Anne said that it was, he added, ‘Don’t go by this damp first impression. The weather can clear up like magic here. It will probably be a wonderful day tomorrow.’

  And such was the effect of the young man’s cheerful air of confidence that Anne felt positive that it would be a beautiful day on the morrow.

  ‘Are you staying at the Towers, too?’ she inquired, hoping quite frankly that he was.

  ‘Oh, no. No—I actually live in the district, about a quarter of a mile from the Towers,’ he explained. ‘My name’s Robin Eskin, by the way, and I live with my aunt, Mrs. Eskin, and my cousin Deborah,’ he added, with what Anne could not help thinking was a rather engaging willingness to make her free of family information.

  In return, she told him her own name.

  ‘I’m going to the Towers now, to join my cousin and her fiancé,’ he went on presently. ‘He’s here from London, staying with us. We go across to the Towers quite often for dinner and dancing. They have a pretty good ballroom there.’

  The rain began to matter much less, so as far Anne was concerned.

  ‘I was told that the Towers was a good choice if one wanted a little social fun as well as scenery,’ she said demurely.

  ‘Oh, rather! You get a nice type of visitor there. Present company not excepted,’ he added gallantly. ‘Are you here on your own?’

  Anne said that she was.

  ‘Well, it’s a bit early for the big rush yet, though of course the season here starts about May,’ he said. ‘I always think the Lake District is a first-class choice, if you have to take your holiday early. Was it choice with you, or staggered holidays or something?’

  Anne recalled how little this selection of free time had been her choice, and laughed.

  He glanced at her inquiringly.


  ‘Was that funny?’ he asked.

  ‘Only in the particular circumstances. I had a terrific row with my boss and was sacked,’ Anne explained, with a nice sense of drama.

  ‘I say!’ He looked impressed. ‘Pretty bold of you to choose that moment for a holiday, wasn’t it?’

  She saw no reason why she should be less informative than he, so she laughed and said

  ‘Yes. But for the fact that I was, most improbably, left a small legacy on the same day. Somehow, the two things seemed to fit too well to be ignored.’

  He laughed a good deal at that, and gave her a second glance which was distinctly admiring.

  ‘So the raging boss was a blessing in disguise?’

  ‘I suppose he was. But well-disguised,’ Anne said with feeling.

  ‘A real old horror?’

  ‘Yes. At least—not decrepit, exactly. I never thought about his age. But sarcastic and unjust and arrogant, you know. Horribly efficient and quite inhuman.’

  ‘I know,’ Robin Eskin agreed sympathetically. ‘I know. I used to work for one like that myself, in my young days.’

  ‘That must have been an awfully long time ago,’ Anne said, sympathetic in her turn.

  They both laughed then.

  ‘Well—five years ago, let’s say. One feels, looking back, that one was awfully young then. I sometimes think now of the way I’d handle him nowadays, and the things I wish I’d said, if I’d only thought of them. But of course, one never does think of them at the time,’ he added regretfully.

  ‘Hardly ever,’ Anne corrected, with pardonable pride. ‘I managed to say a few choice words to my menace before I went.’

  ‘Good! Workers of the world unite, eh?’

  ‘Well, I suppose, if it comes to that, he was the absolutely prize worker himself,’ Anne felt bound to say.