Capital Sins
Jane Marciano
© Jane Marciano 2012
Jane Marciano has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published by The New English Library 1975
This edition published 2012 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
To those I love and to Adam Szmigielski
and John Katten for their patience and consideration.
The matron smiled at the young girl standing across from her desk who was nervously twisting the strap of her handbag between long fingers.
'You'll be fine, Constance,' the matron said kindly. 'Don't worry.' She shuffled around some papers before her and brought forth a large brown envelope which she handed to the girl. In answer to the unspoken question in the girl's eyes, she explained, 'In here is everything you'll need, my dear, and there's also some money to help you on your way... in case of difficulties. It isn't much, but it's all the Home could afford.'
'It's very kind of you, Matron,' the girl mumbled, showing her tension in a stiff smile. 'I'm grateful for everything you've done for me, you and ... everyone else.' She controlled the wobbling of her chin, fearing to break down.
There was the suspicion of a tear in the matron's eye when she said, rather huskily, 'Go along with you, Constance. You've been a credit to us all and I can only say that I wish all our children would turn out the way you have done.' She smiled wistfully, remembering with affection that this girl had always been one of her favourites, and added, 'But you're no longer a child now – sixteen, aren't you? Yes, ready to try your wings.'
When the girl continued to look troubled, the woman went on briskly, 'You're a good girl, independent. Try not to allow things to get on top of you, and don't be overwhelmed by other people. Remember that there's nothing to be frightened of.'
'I'm not really frightened; more apprehensive.'
'Well, if you ever get into difficulties, get in touch with me here ... and come back to see us whenever you can.'
The girl nodded, and her silky hair, newly washed that afternoon, fell forward over her eves. She swept it back with an unconsciously graceful motion. The matron rose and held out her hand.
'If there's nothing else, you'd better be on your way before you miss the train. Now, you've got your ticket"/ Good. You'll find the address of your lodgings in the envelope; the landlady is a Mrs Withers. I have arranged an interview for you on Monday and, if you have any trouble in finding the firm, just ask Mrs Withers and I'm sure she'll help, she sounds very nice, and ... ' Her voice faltered for a second and the girl looked at her quickly, but she controlled herself. 'Don't forget that we're here if you need us.'
'Thank you, Matron,' Constance said, but inside she knew that she wouldn't go running back to the Home at the first sign of trouble.
She had to, wanted to, stand on her own feet and, although already experiencing a sense of loss, Constance knew she would overcome that in time, learn to be resourceful, and would never return. Perhaps the matron realised it too for, as she ushered Constance Sands to the front door, she hugged the girl against her motherly bosom.
'Look after yourself. Goodbye, my dear.'
And then the girl was outside the iron gates of the Home and on her own...
While Mrs Withers showed Connie around, the girl was trying to remember all the rules and instructions she had just been issued. She'd had no difficulty in finding the address, which turned out to be a large and seedy-looking old house, badly in need of repair or at least a coat of paint, but meeting the landlady had been more of a shock. Connie had imagined, and almost expected, a replica of the matron: a big, busty woman with a kind face and manner, greying hair, perhaps pulled back into a fat bun – but Mrs Withers was nothing like that.
The woman who had answered the door to Connie's rap had peered out with a suspicious look on her narrow face, and her eyes had been hostile as she looked her new tenant up and down. Connie squared her shoulders, refusing to be discouraged.
'You'll find that I'm very firm with my tenants,' Mrs Withers had warned Connie as, trudging heavily, she had led the way up the rickety stairs to show the girl her room. 'I won't stand no nonsense from anyone,' she went on in a grating voice. 'And if I find any booze in your room ever, out you go!'
'Yes, Mrs Withers,' Connie said meekly, nostrils flaring as the landlady's gin-laden breath fanned her face.
The woman idly scratched her obviously dyed strawberry-blonde hair which hung around her gaunt face like rats' tails (it needed touching-up because the roots were dark brown) and then inspected her fingernail intently for dandruff. She eyed Connie as she absently scraped the nail clean with her large front teeth.
' ... And no drugs.'
'I understand.'
' ... Definitely no men either, you hear? It's hard enough without me man around the place, curse him, to help me keep this a respectable boarding house, and I'd like it to stay that way.'
'No, Ma'am ... I mean yes, Ma'am,' Connie replied in confusion.
The woman turned on the stairs and looked at her sharply.
'You're from the Home you say? Been in care, have you?' Her eyes narrowed. 'Well, I s'pect you haven't learnt to be trouble some yet, in which case, don't mix with any wrong'uns and you won't get to be.'
Connie took the lecture in silence, too cowed by the other's behaviour to take it all in.
While Connie inspected the room, Mrs Withers stood by the doorway like a guard, arms folded across her flat chest.
'I'm sure you'll find everything to your liking, Missy. The rent's more than reasonable, you'll agree.'
'My name is Constance Sands, Mrs Withers,' the girl said with a touch of spirit, at which Mrs Withers sniffed.
The room was shabby and drab, but clean and Connie felt a surge of pride in at last having her own room.
'It's fine,' she said eventually and, lifting her suitcase on to the bed which creaked at the weight, proceeded to unpack.
Mrs Withers watched, her expression disapproving.
'You mind what I've told you, Miss Sands,' she said, heavily accentuating the name, 'Then you and me will get along fine.'
Connie dumped clothes on to the bed and took some wire hangers from the cupboard. 'You don't have to worry about me.'
'I hope so, but with looks like yours I'd be doubly careful.'
Connie felt her temper rising. She had done absolutely nothing to warrant such apparent hostility. This woman was being bitchy for no reason at all. Connie had had enough of being instructed on how she was to run her life for the past sixteen years and she was damned if she was going to take any more of it, particularly from a complete stranger to whom she owed nothing. Her pointed chin lifted proudly.
'Would you really, Mrs Withers?' There was no mistaking the mockery in her tone, and the landlady's face flushed unbecomingly.
'If you want anything, ask!' And the door banged shut behind her.
The room looked less bare and a little more homely once Connie had arranged her knick-knacks on the few wooden shelves and dresser. She decided she'd have to buy some vases – a few plants and flowers would brighten up things even more. True there were no photographs, no family portraits; nothing to show that the occupant had roots, but Connie couldn't help that.
After she'd prepared supper for herself in the kitchen downstairs which she'd been told was for the use of those living there, Connie went back up to her room and listened to her transistor for a while. She fiddled with the knobs until she tuned into music then, remembering house rules, turned down the volume so that she wouldn't disturb anyone – not that she'd met anyone else, for the house seemed deserted.
It was so quiet. The silence made Connie edgy for she'd always been used
to having people around: the chatter of the other youngsters with whom she'd shared the Home had been a constant background noise. Then she had longed for peace and quiet and time to herself, for occasional solitude in which she could think and work out her future – and now she had it. Complete and utter silence.
Connie glanced around, a rueful smile on her face. What the hell did you expect on your first day in the big city? she asked herself. It'll come in time, it'll all come, she resolved, almost fiercely. I'm going to have everything one day, everything I had a right to expect!
Having established this in her mind, she read a magazine for a while, sprawled across the bed, even beginning to enjoy her independence when she realised there would be no one round with the command, 'Lights off now, girls!' Connie could at last do as she pleased, was her own mistress, and even the hatchet-faced landlady wasn't going to bleaken her outlook.
She soon tired of flipping through the pages of the magazine, though. The exotic and beautiful gowns she saw pictured there excited, yet at the same time frustrated her because she didn't possess such clothes. But one day I will, Connie thought determinedly. And I'll marry a handsome man who'll adore me and give me anything I want – and kids, I'll have lots, see if it doesn't come true! She lay back on the covers and laughed to herself, delighted with her imagination.
Later, she turned off the transistor and prepared herself for bed. She sat at the scratched dressing table and began brushing her long hair, counting to fifty as she did so. Life at the Home had taught her to be neat so, when she had finished, Connie cleaned the brush and dropped the long golden hairs into the waste paper basket. She stared at her reflection for a moment, Mrs Withers' words returning to her mind. It was true, she thought, with not so much conceit but a matter-of-factness. Why coyly deny it? She could see for herself that she was very pretty.
She hadn't realised it herself until all the other girls at the Home had shown they wanted to be friends with her, wanted to be seen with her. It was a wonder Connie hadn't had her head turned with all the flattery. An angelic baby had been the first compliment. Later, such a pretty child, the Staff had whispered to each other admiringly. What an attractive little girl that Constance Sands is, she overheard them say of her as she grew older. Lovely, the doctor at the Home told her after a medical examination, his hands lingering perhaps a fraction too long on her limbs. And even if she had mistaken the awareness in his eyes then, it was confirmed later when the matron said, when they all knew she was leaving: 'You are going to be a very beautiful woman one day, Constance, and why shouldn't you have something that not everyone else has, for a change?'
Staring at herself now, Connie agreed. Of course she didn't spend each day thinking to herself how good-looking she was. She wasn't that conceited or narcissistic, but the knowledge was there, and she thought of her beauty as a gift that might help her to achieve what she wanted. The excitement mounted again and it was morning before she drifted off into a deep, satisfying sleep.
At nine o'clock, on Monday morning, Miss Sheila Delaney arrived at Jessop House, took the lift to the top floor, fifteen storeys up, and walked through the door with her name engraved upon it in gold lettering, into her office. She could just hear the clitter-clatter of typewriters from the other rooms and the sounds of mumbled talk and laughter issuing down the hallway. She crossed the thickly carpeted floor and flung open the windows. Far below the traffic crawled, its grumble distant and muted. The room, perched above surrounding buildings, was bathed in a golden glow as the sun appeared from behind clouds, enhancing Sheila's sense of well-being.
She had been working as Samuel Jessop's private secretary for nearly five years, yet her opulent surroundings, and the feeling of being part of the policy-making process could still fill her with wonder, a sense of achievement. Even if her social life was negligible, Sheila found compensation in the prestige that went with her job.
The richly woven, plum-coloured carpet muffled her light steps as she walked over to her desk and removed the cover from the typewriter. There were fresh mimosa in the crystal vase on her desk, and Sheila smiled indulgently as she thought what trouble one of the messenger boys took to put them there each day when he delivered the post. She had made an effort to be pleasant to the shy newcomer on his first day at Jessop House six months before, as she did to all new employees when their paths crossed but, even so, his adoring glances which he had then and still now bestowed on her had surprised Sheila. She was unused to frank admiration from the male sex (she didn't count those men who thought that by charming her she would put in a good word on their behalf to Samuel Jessop) but even if the messenger boy was only a pimply youth with carroty hair and freckles, it was flattering to her ego.
She had never kidded herself about her looks. She'd been a plain child and a gawky schoolgirl, and now considered herself a very ordinary-looking woman of twenty-six, in spite of her numerous chic French and Italian outfits. She had worked hard at becoming a competent and efficient secretary, had been determined to reach the top of the ladder in her career and, since she was always cheerful, friendly and good-humoured as well, eventually had caught an important eye and won the coveted position as personal assistant to Samuel Jessop, founder and now chairman and managing director of the Jessop empire, the largest and most successful property developers in the country.
Sheila knew she had much to be grateful for, and most of the gratitude was personally directed towards her employer. She hadn't been working for him long when her father, a fairly successful businessman to whom she'd always been deeply attached, had become bankrupt and had fallen heavily into debt. His health began to fail and it seemed as if there was nobody to whom they could turn. His old friends who might have helped didn't want to know and it was in desperation that Sheila went to Jessop – not too proud to ask for help for her father. Jessop was more than generous, himself dealing with her father's creditors, paying off all debts and even sending him and Mrs Delaney on a cruise to restore his health.
By his actions, Jessop, purposely or not, had secured his secretary's loyalty for all time, and there wasn't anything Sheila wouldn't do for him from then on. He was a man dedicated to his work and consequently expected his staff to feel the same way. She determined to be on call whenever she was needed; Jessop had only to beckon. Her life revolved around her work. She had no time to think that her social life might suffer, for this was what Sheila wanted. So single-minded was she that she would have been content even had she occupied a less responsible position. What she thought of as her success was all the more gratifying because she acknowledged now that she hadn't been that bright at school or received such high grades. She was redeemed from self-satisfaction by her unselfish devotion. Her innate modesty saved her from becoming overbearing to her associates, a temptation to which others, less diffident, might have succumbed.
The huge machine of the Jessop complex rolled smoothly and efficiently, needing little oiling at its joints. A multi-million pound company, Jessop employed a dozen high-powered executives to make up the team that ensured its progress. Wherever the chief went, Sheila went. When he worked direct from Jessop House, Sheila was at his side. In his absence, she conveyed his thoughts to his executives and dealt as he would have done with the architects, contractors, surveyors and many others who besieged him. She was as familiar with the promotion of projects, advertising and public relations, as with basic day-to-day management. Her boss had even shown his confidence in her by asking her to keep an eye on a chain of shops that he'd acquired as part of a programme of diversifying his interests.
Jessop looked after all her comforts. He counted on her to arrange ceremonies, openings, functions and the many cocktail parties held for business associates. He always ensured she looked her best on such occasions, to the extent of picking out a dress that caught his fancy and taking an interest in the way she had her hair done. He took her with him on his business trips at home and abroad. He drove himself and her hard while he was examining a project in a str
ange city, using a suite in a good hotel as his base. When the telephone had stopped ringing and the last caller had gone they would dine in the restaurant and, with luck, would be left alone for a few hours to relax. They helped each other shed the problems of the last few hours over a pre-dinner drink.
Sheila had resisted falling in love with him. telling herself that this was one situation she would avoid, even though he was still unmarried at the age of thirty-five. But inevitably gratitude and loyalty had ripened into a love that she knew was no mere infatuation. She had been 'in love' during her adolescence like most of the girls in her class at school – realising later as she grew older that 'crushes' and 'fancies' soon passed, although it hurt just as much at the time, while love lingered or remained if requited.
Once before Sheila had experienced what real love was. She'd been in her late teens when she'd met a soldier at a supper dance. They'd been seated next to each other, so it had only been natural that they should talk. They'd had little in common she'd realised, except youth, but she'd fallen for his dancing eyes and rough charm. There were too many differences between them but these yielded to the defiance of youth. After spending two wonderful days and nights together, they had exchanged love letters when he'd been shipped abroad with his unit. Hers, so neat and sentimental, his almost illiterate and blunt in his adoration. The exchange ended abruptly when he was killed in action.
She never forgot him entirely; a man who resembled him ensured a second look from her,but it didn't mean she couldn't fall in love again.
She sensed Jessop was a lonely man, because she was able to identify with his moods, knowing too how lonely loneliness was. His office adjoined hers, and no one could gain access to Samuel Jessop unless they went through Sheila Delaney first – unless it was one of his girl friends.
He wasn't dating any one woman in particular, and his relationships never lasted long. He would even joke about them to Sheila sometimes, yet something in his manner told her that they didn't satisfy him.
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