She shrugged. ‘That’s his problem. They’re only my responsibility this side of the front door. He’ll just have to find somewhere to put his own clothes back on, or behave in a very ladylike manner till he gets home.’
I shook my head in astonishment. ‘I can’t believe he agreed to it!’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, it’s in the contract.’
‘The contract?’
‘The agreement. If they want to come back here, they have to do as I say. And any man who really, truly wants to come back will agree to anything, believe me. As I’m sure you know,’ she said kindly.
‘What about getting in?’
‘Once the guard-dogs are asleep, nothing wakes them. But you do have to be patient. Now Pamela, what can I do for you?’
After all that, my nervous taking about clothes seemed very small beer, but I was here now.
‘I wanted to ask your advice.’
‘Ask away.’
I explained my predicament, being sure to include Darblay’s comments to spice things up a little.
‘Jiminy,’ said Louise. ‘I see the problem.’
This at least was a relief. ‘I’m so glad you do. I don’t usually worry about this sort of thing.’
‘Don’t you? God, I do, all the time. But then it’s my business.’ I knew she worked at Maison Ricard, a fashion house in Chelsea, both as an assistant and a mannequin, modelling clothes for the rich clients.
‘That’s why I thought you’d be the person to ask,’ I said humbly.
‘Right.’ She adopted a businesslike tone. ‘Here’s my opinion, for what it’s worth. You went to the interview dressed as you normally would be for work.’
‘Yes.’
‘And this man hired you on the spot.’
‘Well, not on the spot exactly—’
‘All right, but from what you say he must have made up his mind almost at once, or he’d never have contacted you so soon afterwards.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘So why change?’ Louise raised her shoulders, and hands, palms uppermost. ‘You were obviously exactly what he was looking for.’
‘Perhaps, but now I’m actually due to start work there I’m worried that I won’t fit in.’
‘Just a moment ago,’ she reminded me, ‘you were worried about fitting in too well. And besides,’ she overruled my rising objection, ‘you have no idea whether anything that poisonous man said was true. I mean, who would you rather work for, that pig or Christopher Jarvis?’ She read the answer in my face at once. ‘There you are then.’
‘So,’ I said, ‘you think I should wear the same suit?’
‘Not necessarily exactly the same suit.’ Louise couldn’t conceal a note of mild exasperation. ‘But you don’t have to pretend to be something you’re not. You could always add a little something, a gesture towards your changed circumstances.’
‘Such as what?’
‘I don’t know . . .’ She dropped her cigarette end in her coffee cup and went over to a lopsided wardrobe in the corner of the room. When she opened the door, colourful clothes burst from it like some sort of conjuring trick. ‘Sorry, not very tidy – let’s see . . . I know . . .’
After a moment’s rummaging she brought forth a silk scarf printed in a geometric pattern of fuchsia pink and blue. She motioned me to stand in front of the mirror on the mantelpiece, twirled and furled the scarf with a practised hand and held it beside my face.
‘It suits you. It’s Fortuny, it was a present, but it does nothing for me.’ She laid the scarf over my shoulder and went to close the wardrobe, saying over her shoulder: ‘Have it.’
‘Are you sure? Thank you.’ She had been so friendly and generous with her time that I could hardly turn her down, though I was by no means sure whether I wanted the scarf.
‘I tell you what,’ she said, ‘I’m quite jealous of you going to work for those people.’
‘Why would you be jealous?’
‘Not of the work itself,’ she explained hastily. ‘I couldn’t type or manage anyone’s life to save my own – but seeing the artistic crowd at close quarters. Be honest, Pamela, you’d be disappointed if they weren’t just a little bit louche.’
I considered this as I sat on the bus en route to my parents’ house next day. I supposed Louise was right to the extent that I had been seduced by the disordered elegance of Seven Crompton Terrace, and the slightly eccentric charm of its owner. She was also right that I should not allow spiteful innuendo to affect my attitude before I had even begun. The proof of the pudding was in the eating. As to the scarf, it was a well-meant present but I doubted I would wear it.
Sunday dinner with my parents (it was always ‘dinner’ – ‘lunch’ wasn’t in their lexicon) had an unvarying pattern. I would arrive at midday, and my father, newspaper in hand, would open the door, with a ‘Hello Pammie!’ and a warm kiss. My mother would emerge from the kitchen, removing her apron, and we’d exchange a more restrained greeting before all going into the front room. It often took us a while to shake down together, and we had developed a routine for dispelling the slight initial awkwardness. When we’d exchanged kisses and ascertained that I was fine and they as well as could be expected, my father would clasp his hands together and announce that he was ready for a bottle of ale, and ask whether I’d ‘be wanting anything’. I would, naturally, decline. My mother, familiar with this exchange and its outcome, would already have bustled off to the kitchen, and would return with the beer, and a glass, on a tray which she’d place on the side table. Then all three of us would sit down in the front room and make what could only be described as small talk for about ten minutes. During this period it was understood that while we might very well cover matters of life and death – the birth of a neighbour’s grandson, or the demise of the old man from next to the shop – we would touch on nothing personal. There was a time and a place for everything.
When my mother rose, saying she must go and get on if we were any of us to have any dinner, it was my cue to offer to help. She would say no, but suggest that I might like to come and keep her company, since my father was probably going to ‘have his nose in the paper’ anyway.
My father would give his blessing to our departure by saying, with a wink that he knew when he wasn’t wanted and he’d expect his dinner piping hot in front of him at one. My mother and I would raise our eyes at one another and retreat. It was during this next half-hour in the kitchen that my mother and I would exchange whatever confidences we chose to. Then, over the dinner table, my mother would relay what I had told her to my father, being sure to sift out anything she deemed contentious or unsuitable.
‘Pam’s starting a new job tomorrow,’ she announced over the mutton and caper sauce.
‘Is that right?’ said my father admiringly. ‘Congratulations. I can’t keep track of you, girl.’
‘I’ve been at Osborne’s for over two years,’ I reminded him. ‘I needed a change.’
‘What’s the money like?’
‘That’s not the point, Gerald,’ reproved my mother.
‘Pardon me, but it is – they’re paying you more, I hope?’
‘They are, actually.’
‘Jolly good show!’ said my father, picking up on my ‘actually’ to parody my new posh way of speaking. ‘How much?’
‘Gerald!’
I told him. He whistled. ‘By the centre! Well done, Pammie.’
‘The man runs a picture gallery,’ said my mother, as if my princely salary required some explanation, ‘and his wife’s a very busy woman, so Pam will be working for both of them.’
‘Sounds like you’ll be run off your feet.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Just make sure they don’t take advantage,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry, Dad, I will,’ I assured him. He can have had no idea how fervently I meant it.
I presented myself at Crompton Terrace, scarf and all, on the dot of nine o’clock, having arrived early at the bus stop a
nd dawdled for some minutes to achieve this perfect punctuality. A bottle of milk stood in the porch. As I waited, I felt a swift rush of air above my head and remembered the swallows’ nest. One of the adults had just returned; its sleek forked tail protruded from beneath the eaves. I reminded myself that to get off on the right foot I must keep my voice down.
The door was opened by a pretty, distracted-looking woman with round blue eyes that drooped at the outer corners.
‘Hello? Yes, hello?’ she asked, as if talking on the telephone.
‘I’m Pamela Griffe,’ I explained, very quietly. ‘I start work here today?’
‘Oh my goodness, yes of course . . . Come in.’
I had the distinct impression she’d forgotten all about my arrival, if she’d ever known at all, an impression reinforced by her saying as she closed the door after me: ‘I’m afraid my husband’s not here. Maybe,’ she added vaguely, ‘he’ll have left some instructions for you.’
Sothis was Amanda Jarvis. After two minutes I could already see what Christopher Jarvis had meant by her needing assistance. I had rarely met anyone who gave off such an air of helplessness. It was oddly comforting to realise that I could be genuinely needed.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Jarvis,’ I said firmly. ‘Even if he hasn’t, I can be busy familiarising myself with things – or perhaps there’s a job you’d like me to do?’
‘Heavens!’ She gave a nervous little laugh. ‘I shall have to think. May I say, that is a terribly pretty scarf you’re wearing.’
I wished Louise had been there to hear it. ‘Thank you.’
She touched the corner gently with her fingertips. ‘Silk . . . it’s absolutely sweet. Where did you get it?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t remember,’ I said. ‘But I do love it.’
God forgive me, what a good liar I was. Still, I fancied I’d given the desired impression – of a woman who bought enough elegant scarves for it to be hard to recall the provenance of any one.
‘Let’s just peep in here,’ she said, opening the door of the room in which I’d had the interview. She stepped inside cautiously, as though wary of what she might find. It looked much the same as on my last visit. Jarvis’s desk was in turmoil, the one assigned to me was empty.
‘I don’t know . . .’ murmured Mrs Jarvis. ‘I wonder what’s best.’
I decided to take the initiative. ‘When will your husband be back?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said again. If the Jarvises were ever to have a coat of arms this phrase should clearly be on it. ‘He was at an opening in Hampstead last night.’
From this I inferred he’d spent the night elsewhere. I felt a flutter of anxiety in my stomach, but squashed it.
‘I’m here to make myself useful in any way I can,’ I said. This may have been rash, but she seemed so loath to give instructions of any sort I was pretty sure I was safe from heaving coal or washing the windows. ‘Perhaps there are some calls I could make for you?’
‘I suppose there might be.’
‘I’ll tidy up in here,’ I said. ‘And if there’s anything at all you’d like me to do, you can let me know.’
‘Thank you . . .’
I put my handbag down beside the desk, and draped Louise’s scarf over the back of the chair. Mrs Jarvis hovered. But when I advanced purposefully on my employer’s desk she darted forward as if electrocuted.
‘Oh, Mrs Griffe! No, I’m sorry, he doesn’t like anyone fiddling with his papers.’
‘I just thought I might straighten things out for him. I assure you I’d be wholly discreet, and I wouldn’t throw anything away.’
‘No, I know, it’s not that – but I still think it would be best if you didn’t. Until he gets back.’
‘Very well,’ I smiled cheerfully. It had now become a point of honour with me to be of some assistance to this fluttery, jittery butterfly of a woman. ‘May I make you a cup of tea, or coffee? If you show me where everything is that could be one of my tasks.’
‘Yes, what a good idea!’ Her relief at this suggestion was painfully obvious, but it wasn’t an offer without self-interest: a hot drink would be welcome, I needed something to do, and I was curious to see more of the house. I was also interested to know whether there were any domestic staff at Seven Crompton Terrace. I had yet to see any, but it seemed unlikely that a reasonably well-to-do couple like the Jarvises, whatever their bohemian pretensions, would employ no help at all. If that turned out to be the case, it didn’t bode well for me.
I followed her down the hall, and the passage, to the back of the house. There was a second small staircase here, presumably service stairs, or leading to a servant’s room of some sort. Beyond this to the left I glimpsed a dining room, the predominant colours yellow and black, with elegant modern furniture, the walls covered with bold, startling abstract paintings. At the end of the passage the door stood open on to an untidy garden; a cluster of basket chairs crowded on the small terrace, and a couple of sparrows, pecking the ground around the legs of the chairs, flew off at our approach.
Amanda Jarvis waved a hand towards the garden and pulled an apologetic face.
‘Not our strongest point, I’m afraid, but so pretty. And the other night we heard a nightingale – would we have a nightingale if everything was tidy?’
I agreed that they probably wouldn’t.
She led the way through a door on the right, entering, as before, with an air of extreme caution, like a lion-tamer approaching his charge with a whip and a chair. I saw that her lack of confidence made her almost a stranger in her own home.
‘Here we are,’ she murmured. ‘The kitchen.’
I glanced around. Each room in the house appeared to have a distinct character – the rich, souk-like clutter of Jarvis’s office, the killingly chic dining room, and now this: a scarcely touched Victorian kitchen with a flagged floor, a stone sink, a black iron stove and a lazy-susan draped with damp cloths. A big deal table was littered with crockery and cutlery, both clean and used, a breadboard with a cut loaf, a pat of butter with a collage of crumbs, and a covered cheese dish.
‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Jarvis. ‘Dorothy’s late.’
Judging by the kitchen I was pleased to hear of Dorothy’s existence, but doubtful as to her competence. ‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘tell me where things are, it’ll be good practice.’
‘Let’s see . . .’
It was plain within seconds that my employer had no more idea than me where things were kept, but between us we assembled a tea-caddy, teapot, cups, spoon and sugar. There was half a bottle of milk in the larder, but it had turned sour. I remembered the bottle in the porch and went back to fetch it. The mere act of doing so made me feel more at home.
‘Christopher prefers coffee,’ volunteered his wife, sitting down at the table. ‘But I’m not sure where it is.’
‘Tea will be perfect,’ I said. While we waited for the kettle to boil I busied myself clearing the table, stacking the dirty things in the sink, putting the loaf in what I hoped was the bread bin, and the butter and cheese in the larder. Mrs Jarvis watched me with her hands to her cheeks like an astonished child – it was gratifying in a way. I opened cupboards until I found one containing crockery, and put the clean things away, all the time wondering if I was making a rod for my own back, and resolving to keep an eye on Dorothy when she condescended to put in an appearance.
‘. . . decided against having a live-in help,’ Mrs Jarvis was saying, as if reading my thoughts, ‘because we like to have house guests, and it means we can use the top-floor bedroom.’
I remembered the dim, swift-moving figure I’d spotted as I left the house on my first visit.
‘Is there anyone staying here at the moment?’ I asked.
‘Yes, there is,’ she replied. ‘Suzannah. We almost always have one or two orphans in residence. There are so many talented young men and women who can’t afford anywhere to live. It’s our pleasure to help them.’
During this little speech she was the most
animated I’d seen her. I remembered what Christopher Jarvis had said about his wife being very hospitable, and found myself warming to her; the combination of a generous, giving nature and a complete lack of domestic or organisational ability can’t have been easy.
While we drank our tea, she began to remember odd calls that needed making – a grocery order, her dressmaker, her husband’s god-daughter – and correspondence to be attended to, including bills, at the mention of which actual tears welled in her eyes.
‘Naturally,’ she said, ‘I can’t possibly ask you to help me with that sort of thing . . .’
‘Why not?’ I replied. ‘It’s what I’m here for. I’d be glad to.’
‘Really?’ She appeared incredulous. ‘I am such a stupid woman.’
‘Not having an aptitude for that sort of thing doesn’t make anyone stupid,’ I said. ‘And two heads are better than one. We could sit down together and be through it all in no time.’
‘Oh!’ She gave something between a little gasp and a sigh. ‘I should be so, so grateful!’
When we’d finished, she went off to make a list and look out the bills and I ‘got in the sink’ as my mother would have said. I’d washed up our cups and was well into the rest of the dirty crocks when the back door burst open and a girl burst in, pulling off her hat and coat in a great flurry.
‘Forgot my purse, then the bleeding bus was late, so crowded I nearly couldn’t get on, strap-hanging all the way, overshot the stop—’ She stopped abruptly. ‘Who are you?’
‘You must be Dorothy,’ I said, taking a slightly mean pleasure in having the advantage over her.
‘That’s right.’ Keeping her eyes on me like a rabbit with a snake, she reached for a far from clean pinny that hung on the back of the door, and put it on. ‘Dorothy Viney.’
‘I’m Mrs Griffe. I started work here today.’
‘In the kitchen?’ she asked warily.
‘No. In Mr Jarvis’s office. But he’s not here at the moment so I’m going to be helping Mrs Jarvis out with a few jobs.’
I detected a fleeting, sceptical look. I was too much of an unknown quantity for her to weigh in with her opinion, but I could guess what it was.
The Nightingale's Nest Page 7
