Confused and afraid, he took several deep breaths to try and steady himself but perched on the landing at the top of the stairs he felt horribly vulnerable. His legs were weak from years of inaction, he clung to the banister for support, and the thought of his bed was increasingly tempting. Perhaps, he thought, he should go back to bed and await developments.
At that moment he had another unsettling thought. If Daisy failed to return – he trembled at the very idea – how would he alert people to the fact that he had been deserted and was alone and helpless?
‘Now then, Montague,’ he told himself sternly. ‘You would do what had to be done. You would find a way.’
He could write a message and wrap it round a brick or something and drop it from the window . . . and the window cleaner would find it – wouldn’t he? The postman might want to deliver a parcel and when nobody answered his knock . . . but when did anyone last send him a parcel?
Slowly, his hands groping along the wall, Montague made his way back to his room and fell on to his bed with a gasp of relief.
‘Safe at last,’ he whispered.
As he slid back beneath the bedclothes he told himself that Daisy would return at any moment. And she would stay overnight. He would not be alone through the dark hours, listening to the odd creaks and groans of the house and wondering if any of them were more than that – the footsteps, perhaps of an intruder.
He was reminded of his first night at boarding school. Even though he was sharing a dormitory with other boys, he was only eight years old and far from home, and in an emergency his parents would not be there to help him.
‘But you’re too old now for monsters and goblins,’ he told himself sternly, with a belated attempt to see the funny side of his situation. When night came there would be no ghosts hovering in the shadows; no malicious trolls hiding under the bed; no demons waiting in the shadows to pounce on him as soon as he set foot outside the safety of the bed. Nevertheless he would take no chances but would remain in bed until Daisy returned – and if she left it too long and found his dead body, she would have only herself to blame.
Almost an hour later Daisy left her home with a basket on her arm containing her best flower-sprigged nightdress (rolled up) and a small cloth and a tin of Euchryl tooth powder. A large slice of meat roll and some cold boiled potatoes were wrapped in a clean cloth and a large Kilner jar contained a rice pudding. There was also a slim bundle of simple recipes copied in her mother’s almost illegible scrawl – sausage and mash, bacon and eggs and fishcakes.
Her mother, Martha, stood at the gate to see her off. ‘And no nonsense from old Monty,’ she reminded her daughter.
‘He’s over seventy, Ma!’
‘And Dais, make sure you lock all the doors last thing . . .’
‘I will, Ma!’ She hurried a little, anxious to be out of her mother’s sight and hearing. The last-minute warnings were starting to unnerve her.
‘. . . and the downstairs windows – and sleep with the keys under your pillow.’
‘I will!’
‘Maybe see you some time tomorrow then. I’ll make it all right with your pa . . . and ask the old man about you-know-what!’
‘I will. Bye!’
‘God bless!’
As Daisy rounded the corner she let out a sigh of relief. ‘You-know-what’ referred to a request for more money for the nights she would ‘stay over’. Part of a housekeeper’s wages, her mother had reminded her. Her pa would never countenance anyone taking advantage of his daughter and Daisy, willing and eager, was already making plans for the extra money she would earn.
At five past six that evening Monty found himself sitting up in bed, eyeing his supper which Daisy had placed before him with a proud flourish. She had warmed up the roll in the oven and fried up the potatoes and was now watching for his reaction.
‘What’s this then?’ he asked tremulously.
Daisy sat down beside him with a similar plate of food on his bedside table. ‘Our supper,’ she told him. ‘Meat roll and potatoes and there’s chutney if you want it.’ To encourage him she reached for a jar of Miss Dutton’s plum chutney and helped herself to a large spoonful.
‘Meat roll?’ He regarded her with dismay. ‘I mustn’t have meat. It’s too difficult to digest. Miss Dutton insisted that . . .’
‘She’s gone, sir, so you’ll have to get used to me until they find someone else. The potatoes are a mite burnt but they’re still edible.’ To demonstrate this, Daisy popped a large forkful into her mouth and chewed with relish.
‘I have to have fish,’ said Monty. ‘Sometimes steamed, sometimes boiled, sometimes . . .’
‘And what else?’
‘Mashed potatoes or boiled potatoes, peas, runner beans . . .’
‘I mean what else besides fish.’
‘Nothing else. I have a delicate stomach.’
‘Who said so?’ She ate some meat roll. ‘This roll’s good. My ma made it. Try some.’
He pushed the plate away. ‘I’ll get indigestion. Or dyspepsia . . . or heartburn. At my age . . .’
‘Stop grumbling, sir. If you’re hungry eat it. If you don’t want it, I’ll have it.’ She gave him a stern look. ‘If you’re ill I’ll send for the doctor. If you’re not ill, you should eat. It’s nourishment. I’m afraid Miss Dutton’s been pampering you, sir. Giving you invalid food when you’re not an invalid.’ She sighed. ‘Just try it, to please me. I’ve done my best at short notice. Tomorrow I’ll send for some fish and make fishcakes. One of my ma’s favourite recipes and I copied it out. Pa’s very keen on . . .’
‘Fishcakes? Are they steamed?’ Tentatively he pulled the plate towards him and sniffed it. He lifted a forkful of meat roll to his mouth and closed his eyes.
‘No, sir. Fish cakes are fried and very tasty. I shall put an egg in and some chopped parsley from the garden and something else – it may have been potato.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘There! You enjoyed that, didn’t you?’
‘It was . . . better than I expected.’
‘Now try the potatoes.’
Ten minutes later Montague had eaten everything on his plate including a small sample of chutney. He had actually enjoyed it in a somewhat fearful way, expecting at any moment to feel the first pangs of whatever disorder it was going to provoke. Nothing had happened, however, and he now felt pleasantly full. When Daisy had taken the plates downstairs, he settled himself comfortably in the bed and closed his eyes. He had survived the first few hours of Miss Dutton’s disappearance and Daisy’s first attempt to provide him with a meal. Cautiously hopeful, he told himself that it would only be a matter of days before Miss Dutton’s replacement arrived.
It took very little time for Daisy to decide that she was not going to rush up and down the stairs half a dozen times a day. Somehow she must persuade her employer to venture downstairs for at least part of the day and she broached the subject with her usual lack of tact.
‘You’re wearing me to a shadow,’ she told him next morning, ‘so let’s see how you get on with a trip downstairs.’
His look of horror was no worse than she had anticipated and she gave him an encouraging smile. ‘You might trip if you come down in your nightshirt so you’d best put on some proper clothes. I’ll sort some out for you and . . .’
‘No, no,no!’ he cried, genuinely alarmed by her suggestions. ‘Miss Dutton warned me never to try the stairs because I’d fall head over heels and break my neck!’ He stared at her, his eyes wide with fear, his lips trembling.
‘But that’s the trouble,’ she insisted. ‘That way you lose the use of your legs. My old grandmother went down that road and lost the use of her legs. So what if there’d been a fire? She’d have been burned to a crisp, not able to save herself by escaping down the stairs! You’d be in the same pickle, sir.’
Folding her arms she stared back at him, daring him to contradict. While he continued to mumble protests, she set about collecting his clothes and left them on the bed.
‘I won�
��t embarrass you by helping you put them on,’ she told him. ‘You take your time. Then we’ll see how you go, sir, sitting on the stairs, one step down and then another. See that way you won’t topple forward. No chance of you breaking your poor old neck!’
Ignoring the panic in his eyes she went down to the kitchen to wash up and then into the hall to telephone the butcher with an order for sausages, and catch the fish man to buy some cod for the promised fishcakes. Later she would walk along to Arnsby Farm where her father worked, and collect bacon and another half dozen eggs.
Monty’s descent by way of the stairs worked better than she had dared to hope and by midday he was installed in the sitting room with a glass of Miss Dutton’s home made ginger beer and looking distinctly nervous. While Daisy busied herself peeling potatoes he sat with the cat on his lap thinking about the turnaround in his life and hoping that when her mother recovered, Miss Dutton would reconsider and come back to him.
The next morning Hettie waited until she had the house to herself then telephoned her sister-in-law. Dilys came to the phone in an irritable frame of mind and said, ‘Yes. What is it?’
Hettie bridled. ‘What sort of greeting is that?’
‘I’m sorry. The fact is I’m not very happy at the moment. I have a rather bad headache.’
‘I don’t feel too well either but I didn’t snap your head off! It’s Albert. I told him about Miss Dutton deserting Montague and he’s now insisting we rush over to visit and make sure he’s all right. Talk about a fuss about nothing. What can happen to him? Monty’s not alone. He’s got that maid.’
Dilys closed her eyes. ‘Don’t go over there,’ she said firmly. ‘We shouldn’t do anything in a hurry. You know what your mother used to say about fools rushing in!’
‘Don’t worry, Dilys. Whatever my failings, I do not panic. As a matter of fact I was going to telephone you later to suggest that you and I meet and talk things over.’
‘Tell Albert we both have things to do and we can’t be expected to . . . Talk things over? What sort of things?’
Hettie counted to ten and fixed a smile on her face in the hope that she would sound calm and composed. ‘The point is, Dilys, that I think we should get together and think about Montague’s future. He’s getting to the stage where he might need help with . . . with family matters.’ She held her breath.
‘Family matters? But he doesn’t have any family. Cressida failed to produce an offspring. You know that as well as I do. What are you talking about?’
‘I mean money matters, Dilys. He’s a rich old man who is becoming rather vague. He has no children to inherit his wealth so . . . what will he do with it? Has he made a will, for instance? Who will he leave it to?’ She waited, silently urging her sister-in-law to understand.
In a changed voice Dilys said, ‘A cat’s home? Is that what you mean. Something like that.’
‘A charity of some kind, maybe, or even Miss Dutton!’
She heard Dilys’s sharp intake of breath.
‘Surely not. After her defection . . .’
‘She might change her mind. If her mother died, for instance, she might want her job back.’
‘So are you suggesting we get together and . . .’
Hettie crossed her fingers. Dilys had always been a little slow on the uptake, she thought with an impatient sigh.
Dilys continued, ‘. . . and organize a new housekeeper – as quickly as possible?’
Hettie hesitated. ‘That, yes, but I’m more worried about his money. Is he, do you think, still alert enough in his mind, to deal with such things? His solicitor, for instance, might need to talk with him and is he . . . is he fit enough mentally?’
She heard Dilys sigh. ‘Don’t you think you should talk to Albert about this? He’s always very defensive about his brother and he might say we’re imagining it. I must say I hadn’t realized that Montague was in such a state but then it’s some time since we last saw him and even then, if you recall, Miss Dutton shooed us out very quickly saying he was tired and had had a sleepless night.’ Her voice brightened suddenly. ‘Should we talk to his doctor, do you think?’
‘No!’ It came out more forcefully than Hettie had intended. ‘Well, later maybe but all I want for the moment is for us to go over there and maybe interview a couple of housekeepers for him and at the same time see how he is.’
‘And bring Albert into the equation later if it seems necessary?’
‘Naturally. Now we’re seeing eye to eye, Dilys. I’m so glad we’re of one mind and, as you say, we’ll keep it between ourselves for the moment. No need to worry Albert.’
With the plan launched they agreed a date when the two of them would meet in Miss Maude’s Teashop and move things a step further. Hettie knew of an agency which might provide a housekeeper and Dilys had agreed to apply there and see what transpired. As Hettie hung up the receiver she breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Dilys had taken the bait.
The offices of the Placewell Agency were small but meticulously tidy. It was owned by Mabel Gillworthy who attended each day until twelve noon when she was replaced by one or other of her two part-time assistants. On the following Monday afternoon at three o’clock precisely, a Miss Robbins turned from her typewriter to greet the next client.
‘Miss Maynard?’ she asked, smiling.
‘It’s Mrs Maynard. I explained to Miss Gillworthy that my sister-in-law and I are trying to find a trustworthy housekeeper for my brother who is . . .’
‘Do please sit down, Mrs Maynard. I’m Miss Robbins. I have your notes and requirements to hand and have two people in mind who might suit your brother.’ Her smile lit up an otherwise plain face which might have been improved by a less severe hairstyle. She looked about thirty.
Dilys Maynard narrowed her eyes. ‘May I ask how long you have held this position?’
‘I have worked for Miss Gillworthy since the turn of the century – that is, for two years.’ Her smile faltered a little at what she saw as a lightly veiled criticism.
Dilys sat down. ‘I ask because the women you recommend must be of the highest moral calibre and I want to feel certain that I can trust your judgement. My brother is very frail, frequently forgetful, and suffers with his digestion so needs a delicate diet. He may also need help dressing as he is, I suspect, a semi-invalid. He’s sixty-eight and has been alone for four years since his wife died. He’s almost bedridden and . . .’
‘Ah!’ Alerted, Miss Robbins held up a tentative hand. ‘We may have a slight problem, Mrs Maynard.’
‘A problem?’ Dilys asked indignantly. ‘Miss Gillworthy appeared quite satisfied by our requirements. She seemed to think you could find a suitable . . .’
‘The problem is the state of your brother’s health, Mrs Maynard. Have you considered that a nurse might be better than a housekeeper? It sounds to me that your brother . . .’
‘I know exactly what my brother needs, Miss Robbins. He has managed for years with a housekeeper. He isn’t ill therefore a nurse would find very little to do.’
Miss Robbins bit back a sharp reply. She was beginning to dislike the client but tried not to show it. ‘We are properly trained to offer advice when we feel it is necessary.’
‘But I haven’t asked for advice. I have merely said that I want to be able to trust your judgement.’
‘I see. Then let us investigate this further. We can now dispense with one of the names I had selected for you to look at.’ Miss Robbins hid her sense of triumph at the immediate change in the client’s attitude. Holding up the card she held in her hand she said, ‘Miss Adams has specified “no nursing”. In my opinion an elderly man who is already almost bedridden will need help dressing and maybe washing and possibly other bodily functions may prove problematic.’
‘I’ve already told you that the last housekeeper . . .’
Miss Robbins intervened. ‘Like you, our ladies rely on our judgement, Mrs Maynard. I would never recommend Miss Adams for the position you offer. I would feel I was deceiving
her. No nursing. Never mind.’ She replaced the card in her folder.
‘I don’t like your tone, Miss Robbins!’ The client was reddening with irritation. ‘Placewell Agency sent Miss Dutton to us originally and she has never complained that she had been misled. Not one word!’
Miss Robbins managed a frosty smile. ‘Is that so, Mrs Maynard? When did she first work for your brother?’
‘She was with him for years. I don’t know exactly.’ The hands clutching her purse were white with tension.
‘That explains it. When she first came your brother was almost certainly a much fitter man so Miss Dutton was simply his housekeeper. In the intervening years he has obviously deteriorated.’ She made a great show of studying the second card. ‘Now let’s have a look at the second choice I found for you.’ She held up the card. ‘Mrs Amy Torrance – a charming woman in her forties. She’s a first-class cook, used to complete household management including servants . . . extra qualifications are floral arrangements, wedding catering . . .’ She nodded.
‘Wedding catering? How ridiculous!’ Obviously exasperated, Dilys rolled her eyes.
‘But with all that expertise she is naturally very expensive.’ She turned the card over. ‘Ah! I almost missed this – she is very emphatic about her church attendance every Sunday morning and no dogs or children.’
Dilys was breathing rapidly and her mouth was a thin line of repressed anger. ‘You must have more than two people to offer me!’
‘I’m afraid there are no others at present but we could give you a call if anyone else is added to the list. Good staff are always hard to find, Mrs Maynard – and just as hard to place.’
Dilys glared at her but Miss Robbins’ professional smile was firmly in place.
‘Perhaps your best option would be a nurse and a part-time housekeeper. I could show you . . .’
‘No thank you! You have wasted enough of my time!’ She stood up. ‘I shall speak to my sister-in-law and we will direct our enquiries elsewhere. I think you have been less than helpful and I don’t care for your attitude. I shall write to your employer to tell her so. Good afternoon!’
Penningtons Page 3
