Penningtons

by Pamela Oldfield

  A maid appeared at the back door and called ‘Telephone!’

  Hettie rolled her eyes. ‘Will that silly girl ever learn?’ she demanded of nobody in particular. To the gardener she said, ‘Pick some. Fill the small wheelbarrow. Cook might be able to make apple jelly with them.’

  Seething with what she considered Mr Trew’s insolence, Hettie wished she could sack him but he had been with her for nearly three years and that was a record. Most of her gardeners left within a year.

  In the hall she snatched up the telephone and held the receiver to her ear. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s Daisy. I’m Mont— I mean I’m Mr Pennington’s housemaid. I thought you should know that . . .’

  ‘Put Miss Dutton on at once. Housemaid indeed!’ She sniffed.

  ‘Miss Dutton’s not here. She’s had to . . .’

  ‘What do you mean she’s not there? Where is she?’

  ‘She’s left. Gone home to nurse her mother.’

  ‘How very inconsiderate. Montague relies on her for everything. For how long?’

  ‘Forever. Given in her notice. I thought you should know. I thought maybe you’d . . .’

  ‘He’ll have to replace her. Tell him to ask around. There’s always someone who wants a job. Ask Miss Dutton. She might know someone who would step in . . . Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes. I was hoping you’d be able to sort out a few matters.’

  ‘Naturally I would if I had a moment to myself but at the moment it’s quite impossible. We have the decorators coming tomorrow to put up the new wallpaper for the third bedroom, not to mention four friends coming to dinner tonight and Albert and I have tickets for the Theatre Royal the day after tomorrow.’ She gave a theatrical sigh. ‘’Twas always thus! You could ask Dilys. She’s on her own and has plenty of time although she would like us to believe otherwise. Montague has her telephone number. Now you must excuse me . . . What did you say your name was? Maisie?’

  ‘Daisy. Daisy Letts.’

  ‘Thank you for letting me know, Daisy. I’m sorry I can’t be more help.’

  ‘But what about tonight and all the other nights? I’m a daily. Miss Dutton lived in.’

  ‘A daily? Good heavens, girl, use your common sense. You’ll have to stay full time for the moment. You can’t leave my brother on his own during the night. Anything might happen. Make up a bed in one of the spare rooms.’

  Hettie replaced the receiver. ‘Sort out a few matters?’ she repeated. ‘What impudence. Daisy is going to have to explain herself. Sort out a few matters, indeed! I have better things to do with my time.’

  She stood thoughtfully for a moment or two then made her way into the large sitting room where Albert, her husband, was settled in a deep armchair with a glass of malt whisky in his right hand.

  ‘Before you ask,’ she said, ‘that was one of Montague’s minions – Daisy or Maisie or some such – asking if I would help sort out their problems for them. And before you ask, “Which problems are they?” it’s the disappearance of their housekeeper who has apparently left them high and dry to go and nurse a sick mother. The selfish nature of some people never ceases to amaze me.’

  ‘Damned awkward for poor old Montague!’

  ‘Most certainly but hardly our business.’ She smiled. ‘I referred her to Dilys. Let her play fairy godmother!’

  Albert downed the last of his whisky. ‘What could we do anyway?’

  ‘Exactly. And why should we? What has he ever done for us?’

  Her husband frowned. ‘Now steady on, old thing. When have we ever asked Montague for help?’

  ‘Exactly. But if we did he’d refuse.’

  ‘We don’t know that! He’s my brother, Hettie, and I know him better than you do.’

  She gave him a strange look, opened her mouth to speak then changed her mind and closed it.

  Alerted, he said, ‘What’s that about?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Come on, old thing. Spit it out!’

  ‘I’ve always suspected that there was something going on between those two – Montague and Miss Dutton – and before you protest I’ll tell you why. One year when we called in on his birthday I went upstairs and caught Miss Dutton coming out of his bedroom. She didn’t see me but I saw her . . .’

  ‘And . . .?’

  ‘She threw him a kiss!’

  ‘Miss Dutton? Never!’ He glowered at her. ‘My brother and the housekeeper? I don’t believe it.’

  Hettie sat down on the arm of the opposite chair. ‘Well, it’s the truth. So then I wondered what she was playing at and I thought he’d probably promised her something in his will. We all know he’s got plenty of money, thanks to your stupidity.’ She gave him a venomous look.

  ‘Now don’t bring that up again, Hettie. Montague followed Father into the family business and I chose not to. We all understood what was at stake. He is the oldest child and was due to inherit. When he dies what’s left will come to me.’

  ‘It made him wealthy,’ she said bitterly. ‘And Cressida added to it!’

  ‘Ah! Cressida.’ He glanced down at his hands. ‘No one expected her to inherit so quickly. No one could have known that her father’s ticker was in such a state. Give her her due, Hettie, she was devoted to her parents. You’ve never been fair to Cressida. She nursed her parents, married Montague and ended up nursing him.’

  Hettie tossed her head. ‘She should have married someone her own age.’

  ‘Montague was only twenty years older.’

  ‘Twenty years’ difference! My point exactly!’

  ‘He was a good husband to her,’ Albert protested.

  ‘No he wasn’t. She wanted a large family – she said so many times. Your brother was too old.’

  ‘What has age got to do with it?’

  ‘Well then, the problem must have lain with Cressida.’ She gave him a triumphant look.

  ‘Not everyone is blessed with a family, Hettie. We only have one child.’

  ‘I only have one child. You have two but your first attempt is nothing to boast about!’

  Albert made no reply. The child by his first marriage had turned out badly and they rarely mentioned him. The child he shared with Hettie was a source of lesser disappointment but a disappointment nonetheless. George Albert, now in his twenty-fifth year, had left Cambridge University in his last term to marry a French student (against his parents’ wishes) and was now farming in Brittany. Albert and George had once been close but Hettie had resented the closeness and George had responded by leaving them at the earliest opportunity – first to go to college and then to enter a hasty marriage with Monique.

  The familiar recriminations never failed to upset Albert and Hettie, and they now lapsed into a cold silence until Albert remembered the mention of Miss Dutton and his brother.

  ‘As for Montague and Miss Dutton,’ he blustered. ‘He must have been lonely after Cressida died but really, if you are right . . . that housekeeper! That’s extraordinary. There’s no way you could call the woman desirable. A suet pudding tied round the middle with string!’ He shrugged dismissively. ‘Good-hearted, maybe but, I mean, after Cressida . . .’

  ‘Oh yes. I forgot.’ She glared at him. ‘You have always had a soft spot for the wonderful Cressida!’

  ‘So you said, dear! It was news to me.’ He gave her his practised innocent look.

  Hettie went on regardless. ‘And don’t forget he’s been housebound for years. You know what they say – beggars can’t be choosers. It will be interesting to see whether or not he leaves her anything in his will – a “little something” for past favours!’ She raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

  Albert shook his head. ‘You have a wonderful imagination, my dear. It has always impressed me.’

  She recognized the sarcasm but ignored it. ‘We shall see, shall we not?’

  ‘Miss Dutton?’ He shook his head again in disbelief. ‘Not the Montague I know – and he is my brother!’

  ‘And he has been
getting rather vague of late. We did pass comment about it on his birthday, if you remember.’

  He frowned. ‘Vague? No. I don’t recall him being vague.’

  ‘Forgetful then. You never notice these things.’

  ‘I think I know him better than you do.’

  ‘Rose-coloured spectacles, Albert!’ Hettie laughed. ‘Anyway. it may all be immaterial now because Miss Dutton has blotted her copybook by leaving him stranded. Left him in the lurch, so to speak. Ruined her chances of a bequest, I should imagine. Poor old Montague.’ She watched him closely for a moment, anticipating a reaction but there was none forthcoming so she smiled sweetly and dropped the subject.

  Daisy went back upstairs feeling very uneasy. Her employer had been right about Hettie. Would his sister be any better, she wondered.

  Moments later she stood beside his bed, having told him the results of her telephone call. ‘So shall I try the other one?’ she asked.

  The old man pursed his lips. He had finished his bread and milk and the cup of tea and waved them away impatiently. ‘Dilys? Hmm. Yes, give her a call.’

  Daisy retrieved the tray and made her way towards the door.

  ‘Look in our telephone book under Maynard.’ He instructed. ‘John Maynard was a very decent sort of chap. Poor man. Called before his time, as they say. Still, he left Dilys well provided for. I did hope she would eventually remarry – she’s a handsome woman in some lights although I shouldn’t say so since she’s my sister, but there. She’s had offers and turned them down. That’s the trouble with money, it makes a woman independent. Still, give her a call.’

  As she reached the door he asked, ‘What’s for lunch?’

  ‘Lunch? Lord knows, sir. I’ll have to look in the larder. Miss Dutton never said nothing about lunch – nor supper, neither – but then she hardly had the time. So upset about her mother.’

  He looked at her hopefully. ‘You can cook, I take it.’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I’ve never tried but it can’t be that difficult, can it. I’ll manage for a few days until the new housekeeper gets here.’ She gave him a cheery smile. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t let you starve.’

  ‘I should jolly well hope not. What’s your name? I did know it but my memory’s not as good as it was.’

  ‘Daisy. Daisy Letts.’

  ‘Well, Daisy, when you have telephoned my sister, please bring up my hot water and a clean towel so that I can wash while you remake my bed. We seem to have wasted a lot of time already with Miss Dutton’s disappearance and you may need to telephone the butcher with the new order . . . and has the newspaper come yet?’

  ‘I don’t think so but I’ve been too busy to notice.’

  ‘Miss Dutton always brings it up about this time.’

  Startled she said, ‘Lordy sir! I’ll need another pair of hands at this rate!’

  He looked startled by her tone. ‘Miss Dutton always managed without any fuss.’

  ‘Of course she did, sir!’ Daisy rolled her eyes. ‘She had me to run about for her. I’m me and I’ve got nobody else.’

  To show her disapproval she withdrew smartly closing the door behind her. ‘What does he take me for?’ she muttered indignantly. Downstairs she went straight to the telephone, found the number and rang the operator who then connected her to the Maynard’s number. A maid answered and explained that her mistress was busy with the chiropodist. ‘She suffers with her feet something terrible,’ she confided in a half whisper. ‘I reckon it comes from those fancy shoes they like to wear.’ In a louder voice she asked, ‘Will you ring back or shall I ask her to ring you?’

  Daisy hesitated. ‘Ask her to ring me, please, and say it’s about her brother Montague Pennington.’

  When she hung up the telephone she smiled, a cautious look of triumph. It wasn’t so difficult – the telephone. A lot of fuss about nothing, she told herself. She had rather enjoyed speaking to the operator who had been very polite if a little abrupt. Perhaps they had been told not to chat to people.

  Almost half an hour later the telephone rang and it was Dilys Maynard.

  ‘I want to speak to my brother,’ she said crisply. ‘I have very little time and . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s bedridden. I thought you knew.’ Daisy stared at the receiver in surprise. Surely his family understood that their brother was no longer able to get around. ‘This telephone is downstairs in the hall.’

  ‘Bedridden? No. We thought him largely confined to bed from choice. A bit of a recluse, perhaps. He has no disability that I am aware of – unless something has been hidden from us. Is that the case?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know that, Mrs Maynard. I’ve never looked after him. That was Miss Dutton. She spent a lot of time with him. He’s going to need a new housekeeper and . . .’

  ‘A new housekeeper? What’s wrong with Miss Dutton?’

  ‘She’s left. Given in her notice all of a sudden and rushed off to her mother who’s in hospital. That’s why I’m talking to you. Your sister-in-law thought you . . .’

  ‘Ha!’ There was a lot of expression in that short word. ‘Now I understand. You’ve been talking to Hettie – to Mrs Pennington! Montague’s housekeeper leaves him stranded and Hettie thinks she’s going to burden me with the problem! That is so like her.’ The silence lengthened. ‘So Miss Dutton has left him after all these years. So much for devotion. I am surprised.’ After a silence she asked, ‘So what exactly am I supposed to be doing about it?’

  ‘I think she was hoping you could find us a new housekeeper.’

  ‘Find a new housekeeper? Just like that! That really is typical of my sister-in-law!’

  Daisy stuck her tongue out at the absent Dilys and waited.

  Mrs Maynard said, ‘I wonder where Miss Dutton came from. Possibly an agency. You could look through the telephone book and see if there is anywhere in there that sounds like an employment agency. If there is ask them if they sent Miss Dutton and if they say “yes” ask them to send two or three names for us to consider.’ She paused and Daisy heard her muttering to herself. ‘In the meantime I may be able to come over and discuss the matter with your employer. Montague will know what wages he paid and the hours and so on . . . Yes, that will suffice for the moment.’

  The line went dead.

  TWO

  For Daisy, time passed in a blur of unremitting activity. Monty (as she continued to think of him) was a demanding invalid and she began to realize why Miss Dutton had always appeared harassed and had considered herself unappreciated. The bedside bell summoned Daisy upstairs too many times and at last she ignored it.

  ‘I’ll come up when I’m good and ready,’ she muttered.

  Ten minutes later when that time came she went up to him and announced that she was going home to tell her parents what had happened and to collect some nightclothes.

  ‘Mind you,’ she warned, ‘I don’t know what my pa will have to say, me staying overnight with just the two of us. If he says “no” then that’s an end to it and you’ll have to be on your lonesome until first thing tomorrow.’

  A look akin to horror dawned in his eyes. ‘You can’t do that!’ he begged. ‘Please! I’ll pay you more money. I’ll pay you another sixpence a night . . . no, ninepence . . . no, sixpence.’

  ‘Ninepence,’ she insisted, her eyes narrowing. ‘Ninepence might do the trick. My pa’s very sharp when it comes to money.’

  He nodded. ‘And as to it being just the two of us, tell your father, Daisy, that I’m in my seventies and have no interest in young ladies. He’ll understand.’

  Daisy nodded then smiled.

  ‘So when will you be making supper, Daisy? It’s nearly six o’clock already.’

  ‘I don’t rightly know but I’ll ask my ma what I should cook for you. She’ll know. Leastways she’ll have some idea.’

  When she left him she felt a twinge of pity for the old man. He was sitting up in bed and reminded her of a small and rather nervous schoolboy.

  Watching the clock,
Monty managed to stay in bed for forty-five minutes then, restless and uncertain, he slid carefully from the bed and tottered across to the window which looked across the garden to the lane which led to Arnsby Farm Cottage where Daisy said she lived with her father and mother. He stared from the window, through faded blue eyes blurred with age, hoping for a glimpse of Daisy on her way back, but apart from a shepherd with a small flock of sheep, he saw no one.

  Was she going to come back, he wondered, or would her father insist that she continue as a ‘daily’. Should he have offered her more than ninepence per night? Would her father consider the offer derisory? And if he did allow her to return would her mother have told her how to provide a reasonable supper?

  Perhaps he should telephone Dilys to tell her he was alone in the house. Perhaps his sister would take pity on him and hurry over to set things right? He tried to remember the last time he had seen her but the memory was vague and somehow disquieting. There had been a disagreement of some kind, he recalled – something to do with money.

  With a deep sigh he gave up his vigil and stared round the bedroom. The photograph of his wedding caught his eye and he swallowed hard. Cressida. She had been such a catch. He smiled. Prettier than Hettie – his brother had been so jealous. Even his sister had resented Cressida’s perfect complexion, naturally waved hair and beautiful grey eyes . . .

  He sighed again. His wedding day was a distant memory. Suddenly, without warning, he was sixty-eight, a pathetic old man confined to his bed, with no one to care. Even Miss Dutton had deserted him.

  Another glance from the window showed no sign of young Daisy returning along the lane and on impulse, he crossed carefully to the door of his room and opened it. A few more slow steps and he reached the landing. Peering over the banisters he saw the stairs stretching endlessly below – or so it seemed. It was so long since he had even seen the stairs, let alone made his way down them to the ground floor. Clinging to the banister rail he wondered what he would do if young Daisy failed to return. He would need to go downstairs to find food. He would need to answer the telephone if it rang, and answer the door if anyone arrived to see him. The latter meant he would have to be fully dressed – if he could remember where his clothes were kept.