Roberta Leigh - Cinderella in Mink

by Roberta Leigh

  "I can manage on my own, Miss Morgan," she said in dulcet tones. "There's at least two days' work for me here."

  "You won't be able to do it the whole day. You'll have to give a hand with the washing up."

  "That'll be a welcome diversion from ironing."

  Joanna's eyes flickered, but without any answering humour, she turned and walked out.

  Immediately the three girls grinned at Nicola and introduced themselves. "Don't let Joanna worry you," the eldest of the trio - Carole Stritch - said. "She's nice when you get to know her."

  "She takes things too seriously," the youngest of the three said in a pronounced Midland accent.

  "You're not forced to work set hours either," added the third girl, the lank-haired blonde who had commandeered Barnaby Grayson's attention after breakfast that morning. "Joanna makes out we can only stay here as long as we pull out our fingers, but Barnaby says we needn't work if we don't want to."

  "Fat chance you'd have of staying here if you didn't," Carole said. "The trouble with you is you believe everything Barnaby says."

  "I don't."

  "You do," said Carole, and added a profane word more by way of endearment than anger.

  "Don't you call him Doctor?" Nicola said hastily.

  Carole laughed. "You must be kidding! He couldn't care less what we call him, so long as he thinks he's getting through to us." : "Is he?"

  "Not as far as I'm concerned. I stay here because the grab's good, the bed's clean, and the place is warm. Come summer and I'll be off again."

  "Is it as simple as that?" Nicola was unable to hide her surprise. "I thought this was a sort of clinic."

  "So it is, but there are no rules here. You can leave when you like and you can come back too - providing they've got room."

  "You'd better make your reservation for next winter, then," said the lank-haired blonde?

  "I might not be in England," Carole shrugged. "I fancy hitching to India." She resumed her pounding of the mincemeat, arms flailing as though she were enjoying the expenditure of energy.

  Nicole began to iron, laboriously ensuring that the sheet | remained on the ironing board, a feat which soon became an impossibility. She had never ironed anything in her life before, though she had occasionally gone into Maria's sewing room and watched her at work. It was a pity she had not taken more notice of how it was done. At least she might have learned how to control a cotton sheet.

  She was glad when a break was caused by lunch - ham and mashed potatoes with the inevitable bread and butter and mugs of tea. Twenty people crowded into the kitchen for it, squeezing round the table and helping themselves liberally. Their departure left a mound of dishes to be washed and dried, and though the lank-haired blonde helped her, it was well into the afternoon before Nicola was finished.

  "I'm off to my session," the girl said.

  "What session?"

  "Barnaby's." The tone expressed surprise at Nicola's ignorance, and reluctant to compound it further by questioning, she watched in silence as the girl dropped her apron on the table and raced out of the room.

  Heaving a sigh of relief at being alone, Nicola dried her hands on a damp tea towel and dropped exhaustedly on to a chair. Three hours' ironing and an hour at the sink had left her more enervated than a whole night spent dancing at a discotheque. She stared at her hands - red and wrinkled from the soapy water. The masquerade was fast losing its amusement. One more dirty dish and she'd walk out right now. She re-activated her flagging spirits by rehearsing what she would say to Barnaby Grayson when the time came, and then gave herself an additional fillip by envisaging Joanna Morgan's reaction too.

  There was a clatter of steps down the stairs, and anticipating one of the people she had met at lunch, she did not move. But it was Barnaby Grayson who came into the kitchen, looking unexpectedly austere in a navy suit.

  "I know," he said with a slight smile before she could speak. "I'm too late for lunch and too early for tea."

  "You mean you haven't eaten?"

  "Too busy." As he spoke he filled the kettle and set it to boil, then disappeared into the larder, coming back with the remnants of the ham, some slices of bread and butter liberally covered with jam, and a lump of pickle.

  "For a doctor you're not very protein-conscious," she commented, as he started to eat.

  "I had egg and bacon for breakfast," he replied, "and I'll be eating dinner."

  The kettle began to sing and she moved over to make the tea. Water splattered on the stove as she filled the teapot. She dropped the teaspoon to the floor and splashed milk in the saucer.

  "Not very domesticated, are you?" he said pleasantly, looking at the leaves swimming gaily on the surface of the tea she set before him.

  "I've got other qualifications," she snapped, and seeing the way he raised his eyebrows, she went scarlet. "I don't mean those sort."

  At once the humour left his face. "Why do you always think I'm standing in judgment? I told you, Nicky, once you're accepted here, your past is forgotten."

  "Can people forget their past so easily?"

  "Some can."

  "And those that can't?"

  "They need different help."

  "What sort of help do 7 need?" she asked lightly.

  "I'm not sure. I don't like making off-the-cuff judgments. It might help if you came along to our sessions though. I think you'd enjoy them."

  "What do you do?"

  "Sit and talk."

  "About what?"

  "Anything you like. Occasionally I'll start the ball rolling, but in the main it's left to you."

  "Group therapy," she commented. "Poor man's analysis!"

  "Don't minimise the results it achieves." He went over to the sink and poured out the dregs of his tea. He rinsed the mug and then carefully refilled it from the teapot, using a strainer to trap the leaves. All his gestures were controlled, giving indication that he was a man used to looking after himself.

  Not the sort to subsist on bread and jam if he were left alone Nicola suddenly knew, and was annoyed with herself for having been sorry for him when he had first started to eat that ridiculous mixture of jam sandwich, pickle and ham.

  "Have you ever had group therapy before?" he asked, returning to the table.

  "Certainly not. Whatever gave you that idea?"

  "Your comments on it were pretty pointed."

  "I've read books."

  "How old were you when you left school?"

  "Eighteen," she answered without thinking, and seeing the disbelief in his eyes knew she had said the wrong thing. "Er - fifteen," she lied. "I - er - wasn't very clever."

  "I wouldn't have said that."

  "I've got Reader's Digest knowledge," she averred and, unwilling for him to question her further, decided to do the questioning herself. "Where did you get the money to start this place?"

  "The house was given to me by the Council. I only had to furnish it. And find the rates each year," he added.

  "What about the running expenses? They must be high."

  "I manage," he said briefly.

  "How?" she persisted.

  "A few people help. I'd like more, but I manage."

  "What good do you hope to do? I mean, what's the purpose of a place like this?"

  "It's somewhere for people to come. A place where they can talk over their problems."

  "Do you get crazy people too?"

  "That word is meaningless. Every emotion that we can't control can become a craziness inside us. But when we see that craziness in perspective we can learn how to handle it."

  "Have you helped many people since you started?"

  "Enough to make it worthwhile." He leaned against the sink. "I like to think I help all my patients in some degree or another."

  "So we're your patients too? I'd have thought you'd like us to think of you as our friend or counsellor - or some such phoney euphemism." She was being deliberately rude, refusing to let herself be affected by his seriousness. She could not remember ever h
aving such a serious conversation with any man she had known. Excepting Marty, of course, but he was like her father and couldn't be counted.

  "Why are you on the defensive again?" Barnaby Grayson asked, putting his mug on the sink.

  "I'm not," she snapped. "I just can't stand idealists."

  "Neither can I. I'd shoot 'em all at thirty! After that age they tend to become fanatics."

  "You don't mean that."

  "I do," he assured her. "Work it out for yourself and I think you'll agree with me." He glanced at his watch, a large serviceable one, and pulled a face. "I'm late for the session." He moved to the door. "Coming?"

  "Just like that?"

  "It's open to everyone."

  "I'll listen," she said, "but I won't join in."

  He shrugged and went upstairs ahead of her, suddenly the doctor; no longer the man.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Nicola's first day at the hostel had been so busy that it was evening before she realised it. True to her word she had sat in on the group discussion, held in what appeared to be a general common-room, and furnished with dilapidated sofas and easy chairs. Expecting a serious, quiet-spoken meeting, she had been astonished when it had turned into a general free-for-all, with several of the young men and women speaking at the same time and one boy of about eighteen storming out in a temper. His departure provoked a further discussion, though his return some few minutes later evoked no comment, and was accepted as a natural course of events.

  Barnaby Grayson only spoke when the conversation reached a hiatus, and she noted that he always brought up a point that would lead to one or other of the group taking command, expounding their own thoughts which were then dissected by the rest. Sometimes the frankness was brutal, but it took little intelligence to see the therapeutic effect of such verbal cleansing, and though she held herself aloof from the discussion - as she had said she would - she could not help being deeply interested in it.

  Having enjoyed a carefree life, untouched by problems, she was surprised by her reactions to this totally alien world in which she was now living. It made her realise how barren her own life was, and she felt regret that she had not taken her headmistress's advice and gone to university. But the thought of studying for studying's sake had not appealed to her, it had seemed pointless to learn a profession which she would have no necessity to practise, and to get a degree in the arts or social sciences merely for the sake of having it had been less appealing than throwing up her studies completely and travelling round the world with her godfather to see all the Rosten factories.

  Unfortunately, on her return she had faced a blank future, and within six months the continuous round of pleasure-seeking had begun to pall, bringing with it a depression that could not be assuaged by buying new clothes or discovering a new restaurant for dinner.

  Her meeting with Jeffrey and her subsequent engagement had led her to hope she had met someone who would at last give her life more meaning, but he had merely seen their future as a continuation of the present, blessed by the legality of a wedding ceremony and possibly children, but not being seriously affected by either.

  More and more she had come to realise that one day she would have to make a decision about her life. But because she had been afraid where this would lead, she had fought against it, acting more gaily the more bored she became, becoming more extravagant the more guilty she felt by her wealth. Discovering Jeffrey in Deborah's arms had only been the spur to something which had already been formulating in her mind: a desire to change her life, to do something of value no matter how difficult the doing of it was. But not in her wildest imaginings had she thought to find herself in a haven for mixed-up youngsters of her own generation. Her idea of doing something worthwhile had veered towards making life pleasant for the impoverished gentility, providing television sets for the house-bound elderly or a beautifully equipped orphanage for talcum-sweet babies. She had certainly not seen herself taking an interest in girls who had left home at fifteen to become vagrants, or were so troubled by their emotional immaturity that the slightest problem created a trauma that shattered their ability to cope with life. Here was a rawness she had never anticipated and, even as it appalled and horrified her, it filled her with unexpected compassion.

  As the young people around her unburdened their problems, she found it difficult to remain aloof, and she was glad when the session ended and she could disappear to the safety of the kitchen, where she tried to make a pretence of helping with the preparation of supper.

  "You're a lousy bread-cutter," Carole said, taking the knife from her and surveying the inch-thick diagonal slices. "You're obviously used to buying it sliced."

  "I rarely eat bread," Nicola replied.

  "What do you fill up on - potatoes?"

  It took a moment for Nicola to understand the meaning, and she nodded and turned away to get the cutlery, which seemed to be permanently kept in a heap on a tray. "Do we always eat in the kitchen?" she asked.

  "There ain't no dining-room," a young man who had come down to slice the meat informed her.

  Everybody went into gales of laughter and Nicola bit her lip. She should have realised a dining-room would be considered a waste of space when every available room was given over to accommodation.

  "Don't mind us laughing at you." It was the lank-haired blonde girl - Gillian she called herself, but she had, it seemed, steadfastly refused to tell anyone her surname. "There isn't all that much to laugh at round here."

  "You all seem very happy," Nicola commented.

  "Don't let appearances fool you. This place is the land of limbo. You stay here for a while and pretend everything's going to be fine - except that you know that the minute you leave here the whole rotten world will come crashing down on your head again." "Aren't you rather young to write the world off as rotten?"

  "What's age got to do with it? Eldest of seven kids I was, with a mother who ran off and left us when I was ten. I soon got to know what the world was then."

  "How awful for you!"

  "No good harking back to the past," Carole intervened. "We all had a rough time."

  "What happened to you when your mother left?" Nicola asked Gillian, too interested to change the subject.

  "We were put in an orphanage. I ran away three times, and the last time they didn't catch me. Now I'm too old for them to take me back."

  "How long have you been here?"

  "Eight weeks. I never stay anywhere longer than that. If I do, things start closing in on me. That's when I pack up and run.

  "So you'll be leaving soon?"

  Gillian turned away. "Barnaby's on at me to stay. But I'm not sure."

  "Perhaps he thinks he can help you."

  "I don't want to be helped. I'm happy the way I am."

  The serving of supper prevented further conversation and Nicola, anticipating seeing Barnaby Grayson, was disappointed to find that Joanna took his meal upstairs on a tray, together with her own.

  "It's the only time she gets him to herself," Carole proclaimed. Of all the girls in the hostel she was the most vociferous, making loud comments on everything and everybody. Not that anyone took much notice of her - though this remark elicited several ribald ones.

  "The only reason dear Joanna puts up with us," said a young man called Frank, "is because Barnaby puts up with her."

  "She'll catch him one day," Gillian said.

  "You talk as if he hasn't got a mind of his own," Nicola put in.

  "He's got a mind," said Frank. "What he hasn't got is a life! And that's what Joanna's banking on. All work and no play is bound to give you the itch, sooner or later, and she'll be there to do the scratching!"

  "That's not the story I've heard," Carole took up the conversation again. "The nurses in the hospital fall for him ten a penny."

  Talk turned to the availability of women in general, and Nicola concentrated on her supper thinking longingly of what she might be eating if she were at home.

  It was only when washing-up w
as completed - her second wet immersion of the day - that she wondered where she would be sleeping that night. She had not considered this aspect when she had decided to stay here for a week, and disturbed by the prospect of sharing a room with three other girls, she debated whether to go and find Barnaby Grayson and tell him she was leaving after all.

  She was hovering uncertainly by the sink when he came in.

  "I'll have to call you Cinderella," he said.

  "Why?"

  "I always find you in the kitchen!"

  "You called me Cinderella last night too."

  "That was because of your clothes."

  "My haute couture dress, you mean," she smiled.

  He seemed pleased that she could make a joke about her dress, when only yesterday she had been furious with him for commenting on it, and seeing him relax she hastily asked where she would be sleeping that night.

  "Not in my room," he replied. "Once is permissible, twice would be permissive!"

  "I've no designs on you," she said coldly.

  "Good." As always, her sarcasm had no effect. "I've fixed up for you to sleep with Gillian. It's a small room and on the top floor."

  "Why didn't you suggest it last night?"

  "It would have meant moving beds around and waking up the household." He came closer, looming tall and broad above her. "You look like a washed-out haddock."

  "I'm not used to so much washing-up."

  "Didn't you do any when you were a waitress?"

  Too late she remembered her lie. If she spun her yarn any longer, she'd get tripped up by it! "I only carried trays," she said quickly. "Washing up was done by a machine. You could do with one here."

  "We could do with a lot of things."

  They were now in the upstairs hall and he motioned her to the sitting-room. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be with you in a minute."

  She glanced at the empty room and then over to the common-room where she could hear the sound of voices. Intercepting her glance, Barnaby shook his head. "I'd like to talk to you," he explained, and waited for her to move towards the sitting-room before disappearing round the back of the stairs.