by Janet Woods
Martin’s first instinct was strong. The factory was overstaffed and it was bleeding money. ‘I’ll need to speak to your salesmen.’
‘Salesmen?’ The man smiled. ‘Toys from the Howard factory speak for themselves. We’re renown for quality and use only the finest materials and workmanship. I don’t hire salesmen; the customers come to us. That’s why we have a showroom.’
Which was empty of possible customers – and that was another reason why they were losing money, Martin thought. This place was a challenge and it was obvious that his role to manage would be hampered by the owner’s sentiment.
‘I’d like to look over the staff files.’
‘You might as well know that I have no intention of dismissing any of them.’
‘Yes, you’ve made that quite clear, sir. I was thinking more along the lines of having a catalogue printed up and sending a couple of the younger men out with samples to hand sell the products to shops and department stores. They could sell on a commission basis, you know. The more they sell the more they will earn.’
Benjamin gazed at him for the moment, then he smiled. ‘There . . . I knew you’d come up with something. As long as they have a basic wage to rely on first.’
This was no businessman, this was a philanthropist, and Martin’s heart sank.
When his pocket watch chimed, Benjamin took it out and gazed at it. ‘Three o’clock. My daughter will be here in a moment or two. We’ll take the lift.’ He opened the concertina door to the lift and they stepped inside. Operating it by way of the ropes and pulleys they rumbled down to the ground floor and stepped out.
A woman was standing outside the door with a smile on her face. Martin was overwhelmed by an impression of elegance, beauty and an elusive fragrance. His senses sucked her in and breath left his body in a rush.
‘There you are, Daddy, you’re five minutes late,’ she exclaimed.
‘Am I dear? My watch must be slow. How was lunch?’
‘Enormous. I shall have to walk home to burn it off.’ A pair of green eyes surrounded by dark lashes flicked his way.
‘This is our new manager, dear, Dr Martin Lee-Trafford. You might just remember him from childhood . . . our holidays in Bournemouth.’
‘Yes, of course, how could I forget that when it was the first time I’d ever been to the seaside? But Lord, how you’ve changed.’
‘Have I?’
A practised smile spread across her face. ‘You were beastly the last time I saw you, and acted rather superior. You dropped a worm down my dress and I’ve been scared of worms ever since.’
He felt uncomfortable. So much for her not remembering! Julia Howard was fashionably thin and expensively dressed. Her make-up was perfection, her jewels classy. She reminded him of his mother, who’d been too shallow for words. He preferred less emaciated-looking women, and raised an eyebrow. ‘I recall that you were a spoiled little tattle-tale.’
Her eyes widened a fraction and she said lightly, but with what seemed a blatant attempt to goad him, ‘Are you suggesting my parents didn’t raise me properly?’
He remembered his manners just in time. ‘Of course I’m not. I was about to apologize for that incident.’
Too late, for the air was suddenly filled with frost. ‘Oh, you really needn’t bother, Dr Lee-Trafford. I’d quite forgotten about it until I saw you.’ She kissed her father. ‘I don’t think I’ll take tea with you, Daddy, since the pair of you will have plenty to talk about. I’ll collect my parcels from the office and be on my way. I’ve brought your favourite cake, as I promised.’
‘Thank you, dear. Excuse me a minute, I need to talk to Sam,’ Benjamin said, and he moved off, leaving Martin with room to negotiate with Julia Howard in private.
Martin put a detaining hand on her arm. ‘Sincerely, Miss Howard, I’m sorry. We got off to a bad start so don’t leave on my account, else I’ll feel guilty.’
She shrugged. ‘I shouldn’t have said you were a beast.’
‘I don’t see why not, since I’ve just proved I am still one.’
A slight grin edged across her face at his honesty. ‘Yes . . . I suppose you have, but you apologized nicely.’
‘You’ll stay then . . . please?’
‘Since you ask . . . all right, I will. When you see the amount of parcels I have you’ll be perfectly justified in your description of me as being spoiled and quite comfortable with the label you’ve hung on me.’
‘What about the tattle-tale bit?’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I shall observe everything you say and do, and I’ll give Daddy my considered report over dinner tonight which will qualify that remark. That’s really why I came – to look you over, Dr Lee-Trafford.’
He laughed at that. ‘I’d better behave myself then.’
‘Oh, my father won’t take any notice of my opinion. He makes up his own mind about people and won’t allow me to sway him one little bit. He thinks that most women are scatter-brained, this one in particular. And yes, he does spoil me, because I’m his daughter and he loves me. I’m not about to deny him that pleasure, or myself the pleasure of spoiling him in return, since he’s all I’ve got.’
He glanced at her hand. ‘You’re not married then?’
‘I was engaged to a man called Dickie Henderson. He was lost in the war, missing, presumed dead. I was dreadfully upset at the time, but it all seems so remote now. Life just goes on for some, and we have to leave them behind.’
‘I’m so sorry. There are still many soldiers missing, or bodies without names. I doubt if they’ll all be found, or identified now . . . though some of them might.’
‘How sad that they fought for their country and died unrecognized. Sometimes I imagine Dickie might still be alive somewhere, or I wonder where his body is, and—’ She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t do to imagine the unpleasant aspects, does it?’
Something Martin had already learned to his cost, but he doubted if this young woman’s imagination would stretch to how bad things could actually get. It was a conversation he could have done without, and being the comforter when he’d so recently been the comforted, didn’t sit easy with him. ‘He deserves a decent burial; they all do.’
Abruptly she changed the subject, placing a slim, cold hand on his and saying softly, ‘But you’ve been there, haven’t you?’
He noticed that she had blood-red nails – sharp and oval-shaped, like scalpels.
‘Shall we go to the office?’ she said. ‘It’s warmer there with the gas fire on, and I’ll make the tea.’
Anger flared sharply at the gesture. What did this beautiful young woman in her expensive clothes and sparkling diamonds know about the war? So she’d lost her fiancé, he thought, but thousands of women had lost their men. She needed the closure of a burial and a funeral to make things neat and tidy – they all did.
What if she saw Henderson’s body smashed and bloody, covered in stinking mud and smelling of gangrene? But she wouldn’t. If the man were ever found she’d never see the face of that death. She’d visit his grave for a year or two, say a prayer for his soul and place a red rose on his allocated plot. She would find herself a new man before too long – one who could afford her, for her father would want her to move on up the social scale.
Martin didn’t want her pity. He moved his hand away from under hers, for it had begun to tremble, and he put those images he didn’t want to remember from his mind. It was gone – behind him – like she’d said earlier.
As they moved off, she said, ‘Tell me, Dr Lee-Trafford, what do you think of the factory?’
He swallowed his ire, reminding himself that she was the sum of her upbringing, and was not to blame for the war. He was being totally unfair. Cautiously, he said, ‘One factory is very much like another. I do have some changes in mind, but I need to think them through carefully. If you don’t mind I’d rather you didn’t address me as Doctor.’
He held open the office door for her and she wafted through it in a subtle fragrance of something expens
ively French – though like nothing he’d ever inhaled in his time there. It reminded him at first of spring, and of drifting blossom, only there was a piquant undertone to it that hit him after the first impression had faded.
He looked round as she put the kettle on a gas ring. There was a bit of a pop as she lit it. One corner of the office had become a depository for paper carrier bags with quality names on them – Harrods, Selfridges, Liberty.
She turned and gazed at him in surprise. ‘Oh . . . why ever not use your title? My father introduced you as doctor . . . I understood that you were one.’
‘I am, but no longer practise medicine, and nobody but my mother and father ever called me by my first name of Martin. Lee-Trafford will do.’
‘Lee-Trafford? That has a typically male, arm’s-length quality to it? Martin is such a nice name. If you connect me to your mother you might relax a little.’
‘On the contrary, Miss Howard . . . from what I remember of my mother, she’s the least relaxing person I know.’
‘She’s not deceased then?’
He gave a tight smile as he considered, his mother could well be dead, but anyway she didn’t live for him. She hadn’t for a long time now. ‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Oh, good . . . for a moment I thought I’d put my foot in it.’
Although she didn’t know it, she had. It was hard to ignore her smile and the quiet chuckle she gave, but he managed it, for the sad thing was, he hadn’t meant to be funny.
She must have sensed it for her smile faded and she said airily, ‘Oh . . . I see. You won’t mind, Mr Lee-Trafford, will you?’ and she made it sound like an insult. ‘You may call me Julia if you wish. Please sit.’ Her glance met his, all at once confrontational and he noted a faint flush of anger on her cheeks. Under her calm exterior was a passionate core. ‘Perhaps you’d care to take the seat behind the desk and try it out for size. If it doesn’t suit you I’m sure daddy’s finances will stretch to a new one.’
‘Here will do fine. After all, I’m not in charge yet.’ He took the seat he’d used during the interview with her father.
She turned a stiff back towards him and busied herself setting out cups and saucers on a tray. Water was poured into a plain white teapot. Steam writhed out of the spout as if a genie was about to appear. She replaced the lid with a definite clink, and, sliding a beaded cover from the milk jug, slanted a pair of startling green eyes his way. ‘Milk?’
He’d upset her. ‘Thank you, yes. Miss Howard, I—’
A plate supporting a small chocolate cake decorated with icing and cherries was in her hands when she turned. He nearly ducked, thinking she intended to throw it at him. Instead, she set it down on the desk, picked up a knife and stabbed it in the middle. Steadily she carved two even wedges from the round. She set cup and cake in front of him and placed the sugar bowl nearby.
‘You’re not having any?’
‘I don’t eat much cake . . . besides, I’m still full from lunch.’
He must apologize for his churlishness. ‘Miss Howard—’
‘Oh, do stop being so formal.’
The door opened and there was all at once a sense of busy relief about her. ‘Daddy, did you forget that you had a new employee to show the ropes to?’
Neat retribution. Even though he hadn’t physically taken the managerial seat, she’d set him firmly in the place he had taken.
‘I’m here now. Sam wanted to show me a photograph of his new grandson. He’s a bonny lad. One of England’s future.’
‘How lovely. I must congratulate him on the way out.’
‘You’re leaving already? But you’ve only just got here.’
‘Nonsense . . . it’s been half an hour, at least. I just remembered that I’ve forgotten something. I meant to buy some of those sweet little chocolate soldiers from Harrods for the Christmas tree. I’ll see you later. Don’t work too hard.’ She kissed her father’s head and looped her many carrier bags over her arms.
Martin was halfway upright when she said, ‘Don’t bother to stand.’
He straightened anyway, opening the door for her.
She nodded, said, ‘Mr Lee-Trafford,’ and her eyes speared him with her angst.
He wanted to smile. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Howard. It was nice to meet you again.’
‘Was it?’ When she gave a soft snort he couldn’t help it. He chuckled.
She swept away, leaving him to close the door behind her. He stood, watching her go from the open doorway, waiting for her to look back. She knew he was still there watching her; the self-conscious way she moved told him that. Besides, men would always watch her. But she stopped to talk to the man called Sam, inspected the photograph of his grandson, and moved on.
Behind him, Benjamin gently coughed. ‘Well, what do you think of my daughter now, Lee-Trafford?’
Martin still thought she was a spoiled, skinny brat. He also thought she had a sharper mind than she let on, and she certainly wasn’t short on wit. Julia Howard was an exquisite creature, a beauty with a vulnerable, fragile air to her. She was, in fact, a woman with elegance and style, and more strength that she’d first appeared to have.
He closed the door and went back to his cake and tea.
‘What do I think of her? That she must take after her mother for looks,’ he said, and Benjamin burst into laughter.
‘Where are you staying?’ Benjamin asked him a few moments later.
‘I’m occupying a small space in a friend’s flat. Arthur Feltham was a stretcher-bearer attached to my hospital. He’s in Brighton at the moment, but even when he does return I can stay there until I find a place of my own to rent.’
‘My mother would expect my body to be handled with respect, so if I ever catch a bullet or a bayonet I want you to look after me,’ Arthur had once said to him.
Odd that such trivia should come to mind. Martin managed to stop himself from retreating into the past and concentrated on what his employer was saying.
‘I know an estate agent who owes me a favour. I’ll give him a ring and see if he’s got anything half decent on his books, as long as you’re not too fussy.’
‘That would be kind of you, sir.’
It didn’t take long. The next day Martin was the tenant of a sparsely furnished, but roomy basement flat in Finsbury Park, which had its own entrance at the bottom of a flight of steps from the street.
‘The last tenant took some of the furniture,’ the landlady grumbled, ‘not that the bed was much good after he finished with it, and with you being a doctor and all you wouldn’t want to sleep in somebody else’s bed. He left the place dirty. I’ve got all the rubbish out, but I haven’t had time to clean it yet. And the curtains need washing. If you take them down I’ll do them for you.’
‘I’ll give the walls a lick of paint while they’re down if you don’t mind.’
‘As long as it’s tasteful, mind. This place used to belong to an aunt of mine. She’d turn in her grave if she saw it like this. There are some ladders and things in the garden shed. They belonged to my Bert . . . not that he ever used them, the lazy bugger.’
‘Was Bert a casualty of the war, or was it Spanish flu?’
‘Neither . . . He ran off with some floozy who worked at the Dog’s Dinner and is working as a bookie. She’s welcome to him.’
Martin didn’t know whether to laugh or not, so he smiled. ‘If you know anyone who will come in once a week to clean I’d be grateful.’
‘I’ll do that, sir, for a few shillings extra, and your laundry as well, if you like. It will be handy for us both since I live upstairs. But I’ll get it clean for you to move into first. And I’d be grateful if you didn’t have any noisy parties, though I’ve got no objection to you entertaining . . . friends. When do you want to move in?’
‘I’d appreciate it if you let me have a key now, so I can move bits and pieces in, and get the walls painted. I have to buy bedding and pots and pans, and it would be easier to bring them here than move them twice.’
He settled a month’s rent on her and then had a busy two days, shopping and painting.
A knock came on the door on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. It was Benjamin Howard.
Martin stood to one side and let him in. ‘I was just about to hang the curtains. You can pass them up to me if you don’t mind.’
‘I came to see if you’d like to spend Christmas Day with us.’
Martin hadn’t gone to any trouble for Christmas, since he’d intended to celebrate it alone, and eat out of tins. ‘That’s kind of you, but won’t Julia mind?’
‘Why should she mind? In fact, it was her idea in the first place. It’s on account of the turkey.’
‘The turkey?’
‘It’s twice as big as she expected it to be. The two of us won’t be able to eat it by ourselves easily, and that means a week of eating leftovers until it reaches the inevitable soup stage, by which time I’ll never want to look at a turkey again, let alone eat one. Julia is a wonderful cook. I can thoroughly recommend her.’
Martin chuckled. ‘Then yes, thank you, I’d be glad to help you out. I haven’t had a decent home-cooked meal for ages.’
‘Good.’
‘I can’t offer you a drink, I’m afraid. As you can see, I’m not properly moved in yet. I’ve decorated my bedroom and this living room, but intend to do the kitchen next. Then I’m going to try and get down to Hampshire and bring a few furnishings back to make the place look a bit like home. Not that I can carry much, but I can send a couple of trunks by rail. The rest of the personal stuff will have to go in storage for a while until I decide what to do with the house. Lease it furnished for the time being, I imagine. The weekend after New Year I’ll move in here. The rest of the redecorating can be done while I’m in situ.’
Benjamin handed the first curtain up. ‘You’re doing a good job with the paint-brush.’
‘I’m quite enjoying the exercise, though artistically I belong to the basic, slap it on and slop it around, school. The last tenant left the place in a mess, but my landlady seems to be very helpful and is working with me to set it to rights.’
