by Diana Hunt
I lay under the duvet wearing just my kimono, drinking coffee and reading crappy paperback novels. Then did my usual thing and fell asleep thinking of the problem that may await me in King’s Lynn. I came down to dinner about seven and found a table in the far right-hand corner of the dining-room. From there, I had a view down the high street. The tables were scrubbed pine, no tablecloths, but laid with quality cutlery and crisp white napkins. I didn’t bother with a starter, but went straight in with roast Norfolk chicken and a plate of vegetables. I sat back with a glass of merlot and waited for my meal. I was looking idly through the window, when a voice interrupted my thoughts.
‘Excuse me.’
I looked up. The girl who had taken my order was hovering; I noticed that the dining-room was filling. I smiled at her. ‘Yes?’
She looked over her shoulder, then back at me. ‘I wonder whether you would mind if that lady over there shared your table?’ My table could seat three, so I didn’t see why not. But first I gave the person the once-over. She seemed to be a well-dressed, middle-aged woman, about medium height, good figure, pleasant round features. I said:
‘Yes. Why not?’ The girl seemed relieved and hurried over.
‘This is very good of you. Who would have thought it being so crowded midweek?’ She wore a blazer in a plum-coloured fabric over a cream blouse; her maroon skirt came to just below the knee. She reminded me of Claire Pearson. I caught a whiff of her perfume; her make-up discreet; her auburn hair, well-coiffured. I said:
‘No problem. Please have a seat. I would welcome some company.’
We shook hands briefly. ‘Diana Hunt.’
She glanced at the menu. ‘I never know what to have.’
‘I’m having the chicken. But I suppose one should have fish in this town.’
She looked up at me. ‘I suspect that is true. Fine. I’ll have sole. After all, we’re on the doorstep of the Sole Bay Brewery. What are you drinking, Diana. May I call you that?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Mrs Hutton said: ‘At least I can buy you a drink - call me Rosemary.’ she glanced at the wine list, as the waitress hovered. ‘Sole, please, and a bottle of the Sancerre.’
I was impressed, but didn’t say anything except ‘Thank you’. Rosemary shook her head. ‘I never know what to order with wine - except red with meat and white with fish. My husband usually decides. That’s one of his favourites.’
We ate our respective meals in silence. I, for one, loved the wine. Mrs Hutton didn’t seem to notice; at least she didn’t remark on it. I was curious: here was this well-dressed, attractive, middle-aged woman dining alone in this hotel. Why? Meeting her husband later? Surely she would have waited for him? Rosemary broke into my musings.
‘Are you on holiday?’
‘Sort of. Are you?’
‘Er, no: I live here.’
‘Oh, I see.’ I didn’t of course. But what else could I say? I looked at her hands over the rim of my wine glass. There was nothing elegant about them: they were strong, her knuckles flat. On her ring finger was an engagement ring clustered with diamonds which was stunning. She said:
‘That dark-blue dress suits you; it’s just the right colour, Diana.’
I was startled. ‘Oh, thank you.’
‘You are a beautiful young woman.’ Now I was embarrassed. Rosemary laughed. ‘I’m sorry, that was too personal. But may I ask what you do for a living.’
‘I’m a hotel housekeeper.’
‘Really? Such responsibility for one so young.’ She took in my reaction. ‘Sorry again, Diana: I’ve overstepped the mark.’
It was my turn to laugh. ‘Don’t be silly. I also studied modern languages at college. I didn’t go on to university, because I wanted to earn my own living. I am on a break from my job in King’s Lynn. What about you?’ She could hardly refuse to supply her own biography.
‘As I said, I live here. Actually, my husband is the mayor. Which languages, Diana?’
‘Really - and do you do anything apart from being the mayor’s wife? French and Italian incidentally.’
‘I’m a magistrate. I had just returned from Ipswich. My husband is on council business, I didn’t feel like cooking so I came in here.’
‘No wonder the waitress was so nervous. Everybody must know you. A magistrate, eh? Is that why you have the urge to ask so many questions?’ For a moment I thought I had overstepped the mark. Rosemary frowned, then saw my expression, and she smiled.
We paid our respective bills and left. I walked down the high street with her, past the Swan Hotel. As one reaches the end of the street, the road diverges at the market cross: to the right is a narrow road that has all the usual small shops; to the left it leads eventually to the broad part of the promenade, through what they call the ‘green’. We reached the cliff and looked over to the sea. Below us, the beach huts painted with their variegated pastel colours. I’d heard that they were changing hands at £20, 000. I said:
‘I’d better get back, Rosemary; it’s getting dark.’
‘Oh, I wondered whether you’d like to come and have coffee.’ She pointed to a large, three-storey house overlooking the green. Alarm bells sounded. I thought, Oh, no. But I said: ‘Will your husband be at home?’ Rosemary shook her head, and put her hand on my arm. I took her face in my hands, and she put a hand on my breast.
.I stroked my thumbs along her eyebrows and kissed her lips and ran the tip of my tongue along her gums. She wrapped her arms round my waist. I said:
‘Do you really want me?’
‘Oh, God, Diana; what have you done?’
‘Me? What is it with you nice middle-class ladies? Do you think you’re the first? Why do you deny your feelings all the time? To protect your status? You make me laugh. Just leave me alone - understand?’
She stared at me, appalled, stumbled, then ran across the road.
I didn’t look back: just made my way to the Crown Hotel.
The encounter with Rosemary Hutton upset me more that I would have thought. Why on earth did you let it happen, Diana? Don’t you know by now how strong your sexual vibrations can be? When I got back to King’s Lynn I was even more unsettled; I got through my work conscientiously and efficiently, but felt more and more out of place. I also started feeling guilty about Mike; and the gap that Melanie had left me was acute.
I was about to grasp any nettle that came my way (move to London, sign on with a domestic agency) when Max Gilbert came to my rescue. The fearful Mrs Bliss was retiring, so he offered me the job of housekeeper. You could say that I had the luck of the Devil. Well, whichever angel dropped the opportunity in my lap (fallen or otherwise), I didn’t hesitate. I took the position. You will see that it was the best move I was to make in my young life.
Chapter 11
LONDON: PIMLICO
‘AND HERE,’ said Max, ‘IS WHERE WE END THE TOUR!’. He pushed the door aside, and beckoned me in. An hour previously we had started what Max called the ‘grand tour’ of his house. We had started, appropriately enough, just inside the hallway which led on to a central staircase. To the left of the front door stood an old hall-stand, with with coat pegs either side of a mirror set in an ugly carved Victorian design. At its base was an umbrella and walking-stick container.
To the right of the door was the library with connecting sliding doors to the sitting room which led on to the conservatory. To the left of the stairs was a dining room; behind that, the kitchen. This had french windows leading to the long narrow garden.
The stairs led to four bedrooms on two floors. Max’s studio was on the third floor. Max’s dramatic gesture flinging open the door on the ground floor showed a narrow chamber with a lavatory and wash-basin: we were now at the back of the house. The toilet basin was another Victorian hangover; a hefty white bog decorated with blue flowers and a wooden seat - awfu
l.
‘Very funny, Max. Is that where I come whenever I’m taken short if working in the kitchen? What do you do if you need me - ring a bell?’
Max laughed aloud. ‘Diana - I’m so glad you are here.’
‘As a matter of fact, Max, so am I.’ I kissed him on the cheek.
‘Behave, child, and go and make a pot of tea: I’ll be in the library.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I had arrived the previous evening, tired, with my luggage at my feet, watching the taxi vanish down towards the Thames, and wondering if I had done the right thing. I looked up at the house, white painted, like all the remainder in the row (Edwardian, well maintained). There were four steps leading to the front door. I sighed and rang the bell. Max showed me to my room and left me to it. I had a double bed (with fresh sheets), a wash basin with a shelf above to hold a tooth glass; above that a cracked mirror (the whole ensemble looking as if it had been lifted from a cheap boarding house); a large old-fashioned burr-walnut wardrobe, two bedside tables, a three-tier bookshelf, and an armchair. All of it immaculately clean. OK so far - but I’ll be making some changes to the décor and the dreadful velour curtains. It seems Max had not strayed from the previous century. But all I wanted to do for now was have a bite to eat and then sleep.
So the following morning after the tour I served tea in the library and he and I got down to business. He said: ‘Now, Diana, are we agreed on our terms while you are here?’
‘As long as I can have it in writing,’
Max was amused. ‘Why - don’t you trust me?’
‘Of course not - you’re a man.’
‘You saw the terms in my last letter - twelve months employment, with a month’s notice either side. Your duties were as outlined. Free board and lodging with a monthly salary.’ He looked at me sharply. ‘Do you think the salary too small?’
I didn’t want to push my luck with him, but I replied: ‘One would always like a little more, don’t you think? But free accommodation and food in this part of London is not to be sniffed at. Perhaps if I have to accompany you to some function you can give me a dress allowance? You know I love being here. Just one thing, Max.’
‘Yes?’
‘What do your children think of this arrangement? Especially your daughter? I don’t want her getting funny ideas.’
Max laughed. ‘Funny ideas?’
‘You know very well what I mean. You make sure that she doesn’t think I’m after your money or your body.’
Max laughed again. ‘You don’t wrap things up, do you,Diana? I can assure you that Patricia is perfectly happy that someone is what she calls ‘‘keeping an eye on me’’. And frankly, I can’t imagine anyone taking the slightest interest in my old body. I noticed you slipped in something about a ‘‘dress allowance’’: what makes you think I attend what you coyly call ‘‘functions’’ ? All right, Diana; all right: let us sign the agreement.’
So that was decided upon....
Running Max’s house was hardly arduous, especially after my experience at The Ship. Mrs Bliss had employed a cleaner for three days a week, so I made sure that she was still available. Washing was confined to clothes: the sheets and bed linen went to the laundry, so washing and ironing was just a day’s job. I was used to rising early, but I was never sure when Max ate breakfast so I would hardly ever see him in the mornings; I just left things out. I dare not disturb him while he was working so I left a light lunch outside the studio door, knock, and go away. I crept upstairs later and it wouldn’t be touched. Initially, that annoyed me, for I hate waste; but after a while I shrugged and ignored it.
I would then have my sandwiches, a cup of green tea, then put my feet up for half-an-hour. In the afternoon, I would assist Max in the forthcoming exhibition and auction of his paintings. This was obviously very imprtant to Max, not only professionally, but also in thinking of his late wife. He made a great fuss in organizing the catalogue raisonnee. To me, it was mainly a matter of working methodically and efficiently. He of course chose the paintings and limited edition prints.
We would have dinner together in the evenings, sitting at a small table in the conservatory, with a bottle of wine. He would talk and I would listen about his early career as an artist and illustrator. We would watch the sun fade (it was still summer). Not only would I listen, but I would watch Max as his face became animated as he described the artists he had studied with as a young man, such as David Hockney (‘the finest draughtsman I had known’) and Allen Jones (‘ who would have thought Allen would have become famous by making lif-size plastic dolls of young women?’).
What all this amounted to of course was that Max liked having the company of an efficient young woman about the place so he didn’t have think about anything except his work. And I wasn’t a bad cook - I just learnt as I went along. But - you may ask - what about my past life? My brother Peter and Penny? Melanie? Penny and Peter left for their honeymoon sailing the Mediterranean in a cruise ship. And Melanie? Well, I wasn’t too pleased with Mel, as you will gather from the following letter.
Hi, Di
Sorry I haven’t replied to your previous 2 letters, but this term has been pretty hectic. I’ve done pretty well in the first year exams - got top marks with another undergrad; his name is Paul. Actually, we’ve got pretty close, and I’ll be spending most of the long vac with him in Boston (Mass, not Lincs!). His father is a physics prof at MIT.
I hope everything is going well with you at the Ship.
Love - Mel.
As you can imagine, I was very pissed off with young Melanie. OK, I wasn’t surprised that she’d met someone, but I didn’t take kindly to being dismissed. So I didn’t tell of my move to London: she didn’t want to seemingly continue our friendship, so why should I bother with her?
One morning (it was about 11 a.m.) I was sat in the library with one of Max’s books in front of me; actually a text-book of his father’s. I wasn’t actually doing much reading, just staring out of the window. Then I had a thought. I drained the rest of my cup of coffee, took the crockery into the kitchen, then ran upstairs to Max’s studio. I knocked on the door. ‘Max! Can I come in?’
‘Yes, yes.’
Again, as I entered, I got that feeling of intense light. ‘Max, I’m going out. The accountant needs details of picture sales from last year and other documents, including my national insurance. All right?’
‘Yes of course; whatever you say.’
‘I won’t be back until later this afternoon - OK?’ But I don’t think he heard me. The month was late August, but the sun still held its warmth. I was wearing a cream shirt-waister dress, tan suede shoes. Around my waist, a red leather belt (£9.99, from Next); around my neck, a chain of red bumpy beads (£6.99, from Accesorize). The accountants’offices were just off Sloane Street, in an anonymous concrete and glass building. There was a wide faux-marble floor leading into a double-door lift; on the wall was a list of businesses. Max’s accountants were on the fifth floor. I took the lift: there were no stairs. On the glass panel in the door the sign rred: ‘PARTINGTON & CO. CHARTERED ACCOUNTANTS’. Underneath that, the announcement, Please Knock and Enter. I didn’t knock, I just walked in. There was a skinny blonde woman sat behind a black glass desk with the usual minimalist fripperies. She was speaking quietly into a phone in an accent she wouldn’t use at home. She put the phone down and frowned: I obviously had broken the ‘please knock’ rule.
‘Yes?’
You snooty cow, I thought. I said:
‘Yes what?’
She backed off then. ‘I mean, do you want something?’
‘I have some documents for Mr Jeremy Partington.’
‘I’ll give them to him.’ She held out her hand (I can’t stand women who use black nail varnish).
‘In person - and I shall require a receipt.’ I could see that she was still going
to give me an argument; but at that moment another door opened, and a middle-aged man came through. ‘Is there a problem, Jane?’
I said: ‘Mr Jeremy Partington?’
‘Yes, and you are..?’
I held out my hand. ‘Diana Hunt: I have papers from Max Gilbert?’
‘Of course - please come in, Miss Hunt.’
I sat opposite Jeremy Partington, crossed my legs and watched him as he flicked through papers. He was above medium height; longish face, with lines either side of his mouth, as if he might have a sardonic humour on the rare occcasion when he smiled. He wore a conventional dark, three-piece suit. He was quite good looking in a fifty-ish sort of way. He looked up. ‘Everything seems to be in order, Miss Hunt - which makes a change for Max Gilbert! In fact, I see that you have listed all the documents separately, when received, and in date order. Very efficient.’
‘I wanted to save you time...’
‘Thank you. Are you his secretary, or...?’
‘His housekeeper, and general dogsbody. By the way, who’s the snooty cow on the front desk?’ I wanted to see whether I could make him laugh; on the other hand, he might tick me off for being rude. He smiled and the lines either side of his mouth vanished. He said:
‘In this particular area every one seems to be snooty - shops, office receptionists.....But, are you always this direct, Miss Hunt?’
‘I don’t like being patronised, especially by silly airheads.’ I got to my feet. He said:
‘I’ve known Max for twenty-five years - I can see he hasn’t lost his touch. Goodbye, Miss Hunt. And thank you again.’
