The house had an imposing look and a solid-looking wooden door. The windows could have done with a good wash as they were dusty and had cobwebs hanging from the frames. However, the bell was loud and clear and was answered almost at once by a youngish looking man, wearing a faded green jumper over a brown checked shirt and thick brown corduroy trousers.
Edna was surprised. She had expected him to be elderly.
He ushered her into a room whose windows overlooked the untidy garden. Edna was dismayed to see the room was every bit as neglected as the garden. There were papers everywhere; on tables, chairs, even on the lovely old grand piano which stood in front of the grimy window.
One desk was reasonably clear and held an ancient looking Imperial typewriter that amused Edna when she saw it. It looked identical to the typewriters she had used in school.
The man shook her hand. ‘I’m John Knox. No relation to the guy in Edinburgh.’ He smiled, ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
Edna said no, not just now but maybe later. She had brought her sandwiches with her for dinner time, but as she had no idea how long Mr Knox would want her to stay, she decided to play it by ear. This agency work was all new to her and she realised it wouldn’t be like a nine to five job.
‘I’m Edna MGill, from McQueen’s Agency.’
‘Just call me John,’ said the man. ‘Can I call you Edna?’
Edna said that would be fine.
He picked up some papers and put them down again. ‘I’m in such a muddle. I’m writing a text book on engineering and need help with it. If you could take down notes and then type them out that would be a great help.’
Edna smiled. She thought he looked less in a muddle and more in an earthquake or volcanic eruption. She half expected the bundles of papers to topple from their perches. She sat down at the typewriter, pleasantly surprised to see it had been fitted with a new ribbon. She had visualised it all dried up and in shreds.
They soon settled into to a routine where he would dictate and she copied it in her shorthand pad. It was all double Dutch to her with all the technical terms but she was being paid to help, not understand the book.
At twelve o’clock, John said, ‘I normally have something to eat at this time. Will you join me?’
They moved through to a large and airy kitchen, which was spotless, in sharp contrast to the other room.
John must have noticed her expression because he said, ‘I know I’ve let the house go a bit, but I like to keep the kitchen and bathroom clean.’
Confused, Edna dug in her bag and produced her sandwiches while he made a pot of tea.
Now it was his turn to be surprised. ‘Oh, I’ve made some soup, would you like some?’
Edna, who was starving, said she would love some. They sat at the big wooden table and gazed at the back garden that was even more overgrown than the front.
He noticed her gaze. ‘I’m afraid the house and garden have gone a bit to seed. My wife always kept both in tiptop condition. She died a year ago. She kept the house and garden beautiful and also did my typing for me. I miss her very much.’
Edna, who was in the process of biting into a cheese sandwich, put the bread down. She didn’t know what to say.
The afternoon flew by and at five o’clock John said, ‘I think we’ll call it a day. Can you come at the same time tomorrow? I think it might take two or three weeks to get the book finished, if that’s all right with the agency?’
Edna assured him that this was fine, pleased that this job would last as long as two weeks. Hopefully by then the agency would have a lot of work on its books.
Molly was putting the final touches to the rota. Jean would be in the office during the day and Mary had said she would take over at four thirty every evening and all day Saturday. The way was now clear to start at Lamont Antiques on the Monday morning.
On Saturday, Molly watched as Mary coped with the telephone and was pleased to see the girl was proficient. Mary was a quiet, serious girl and Molly was glad she had hired her.
She hadn’t recognised her when she appeared at the door. Instead of the young girl who had been interviewed a week ago, Mary had lost her schoolgirl look. She was dressed in a plain white blouse and black skirt with black court shoes and silk stockings.
The two plaits were gone and she now had a short curly style. She saw Molly’s glance. ‘Mum gave me a home perm last week’
‘It suits you Mary. It makes you look a bit older.’
Mary was pleased. If there is one thing a fifteen-year-old girl wants then that is to look older and more grown up.
In the early afternoon, Molly said. ‘I have to go out for a wee while Mary but I’ll be back before we lock up. Do you think you can manage?
Mary gave her a quick look. ‘Oh yes. I’ll be fine.’ She was full of confidence and of course she could manage.
Molly hurried down the Wellgate, which was thronged with pedestrians. The Murraygate was just as busy and she had to dodge past loads of children who were making their way into Woolworths to spend their pocket money. Sweets were now off the ration and no doubt most of the money would be spent on them.
After the long years of rationing, things were now appearing in the shop windows as the ration books were slowly being abolished.
Molly was heading to the Nethergate, making her way past the Overgate where the shops were busy with customers. She had to make sure she didn’t bump into the women with their wicker shopping baskets which had colourful plastic covers over the top in order to keep the goods dry. This seemed to be the latest shopping fashion.
Some of the older women still had their sturdy message bags but the young and trendy housewives wanted something with a bit of colour. It was after all going to be a brave new world, this Elizabethan Age. And with Everest being conquered on Coronation morning by Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tensing, Britain was leading the world in this new golden era.
The Nethergate was a bit quieter and she made her way slowly along the street, looking for Lamont Antiques. She had no idea why she was curious but she had been intrigued by Lena Lamont and wanted to see for herself what kind of business it was.
The shop, when she saw it, was something else. It wasn’t a large shop but it was painted in a deep glossy green with black lettering. The window was small and simply furnished with a large vase of flowers and small desk in red and black lacquer. A swathe of expensive looking material blocked out the interior.
Molly had been hoping to view the business through the window but this was no run of the mill antique shop with all its stock on show. If she wanted to see inside then she had no option but to go in.
‘I’ll just say I’m browsing,’ she said silently.
The glass door, which also had Lamont Antiques in black lettering, had the biggest brass doorknob she had ever seen. Everything looked as if there was no expense spared.
She pushed open the door and stood hesitantly on the threshold. The interior was as grand as the exterior. A faint but pleasant perfume was evident; a mixture of flowers and beeswax polish. The highly polished pieces of furniture looked expensive and grand but Molly’s attention went straight to the collection of beautiful old rugs which hung from a rack at the back of the shop. They lay side by side with exquisite tapestries and embroidered panels.
Molly decided this shop was far too grand for her, but as she turned to leave, a man’s voice called out, ‘Can I help you?’
He was one of the most distinguished men Molly had ever seen. Tall and slim with grey hair and blue eyes, he looked every inch the successful businessman in his dark grey suit that she knew instinctively had not been bought at Burtons, Claude Alexander or the Fifty-Shilling Tailors.
Business must be good, she thought, if the salesman looked as posh as this. The quietness of the shop and the lack of other customers made her feel uncomfortable.
‘Can I help you?’ the man asked again. His voice sounded cultured and was certainly not a Scottish accent.
Molly tried not to lo
ok flustered. ‘I’m just looking, if that’s alright.’
He waved an elegant hand, which swept over the objets d’art and the wonderful rugs and tapestries, then returned to the papers on his desk.
‘Is there anything in particular you’re interested in?’
Oh my God, thought Molly, what do I say? Her mouth was dry but she returned the man’s gaze with a smile. ‘Not really. I’m looking for something to do with ships.’
The man gave her a sharp gaze. ‘I’m afraid we’ve nothing like that at the moment, but do come in again. I get new stock in every month.’
A thought crossed her mind. Who had the money to buy these expensive things? After all, the shop was hardly a hive of activity. And as for her paying another visit, that was debatable.
She made her escape and walked quickly back to the Wellgate. She was shaking and couldn’t understand why. It was four o’clock. She decided to spend the rest of the day at the agency and then lock up.
Mary was excited when Molly returned. Her face flushed with pleasure. ‘There’s been a booking Miss McQueen. The owner of a small potato firm needs a typist for next week as his regular office girl is off ill.’
Before Molly could answer, Mary continued. ‘Jean came in and she said she would contact one of your friends to do it. Is that alright?’
Molly was pleased at Mary’s initiative and said so. The girl blushed scarlet at this compliment.
‘I’ve also typed out the address and Jean said she would come in later and pick it up.’
Jean did come in just before closing time. ‘I’ve got Betty to do that job and she’ll put her hours in at the end of the week.’ She looked at her friend. ‘Are you alright, Molly?’
‘I’m fine, Jean. Just a bit tired.’
Later, as she walked through the streets towards Craig Pier, she still felt flustered by her encounter at Lamont Antiques.
The ‘Fifie’ was berthed as she made her way down the sloping pier. The evening had turned out warm and sunny and she settled down on one of the wooden benches. A breeze from the river swept over her and she was grateful for it’s cooling effect.
She was halfway across the river when she realised she hadn’t had one thought of Tom all day.
Marigold was waiting for her in the house. She had put out fresh food and water for Sabby.
‘Shall I put on the kettle for a cup of tea, Molly? You look worn out.’
‘Thanks Marigold,’ said Molly as she sank gratefully down on the kitchen chair. The sun was still a blaze of light on the river. Sabby made for the cushion on the windowsill and pointedly turned her back to Molly, making it plain she wasn’t the mistress of the house.
Marigold laughed when she saw this. ‘She’s a right snobby aristocrat. Pay no attention to her.’
‘Mum told me you’ve lived here all your life, Marigold, is that right?’
Marigold, who was pouring the water into the teapot, nodded. ‘That’s right. Ever since I was a young child.’
As she carried the cups over to the table she gave Molly a sharp look. ‘Is there something wrong?’
Molly shook her head. ‘No. It’s just that I have a client on Monday who lives near here. I just wondered if you knew where the house was. It’s called Cliff Top House and it’s on the road to St Andrews.’
‘Cliff Top House?’ said Marigold, looking puzzled. ‘I can’t think where that could be as I’ve never heard of a house called that. It’s near here, you say?’
‘Yes and I have to be there on Monday morning.’
‘What’s the name of your client?’
‘A Mr and Mrs Lamont. Her name is Lena.’
Molly looked in her bag for the slip of paper that Lena had given her with the directions.
She handed it over to Marigold.
Marigold looked at it.
‘Lamont,’ said Marigold. ‘There used to be a farmer here many years ago called Jock Abbott, but his house wasn’t called Cliff Top House. It was called Tayport Farm and he died a few years before the start of the war. There was a daughter who used to come down now and again, but I think she may have died so I’ve no idea who owns the farm now. Yes that’s the farm right enough. The people must have bought it from the old man’s estate but as far as I know it’s been lying empty for all this time. Maybe they’ve just moved in.’
Molly sipped her tea and scrutinised the small scrap of paper. ‘It should be easy to find. It looks like I’ve to take a turning off the main road.’
‘Actually’, said Marigold, ‘It’s right off the beaten track. The road down to the farm is a very narrow one and isn’t even marked on some maps. It’s a dead end and the farm lies at the end of it.’
Molly walked over to the window and watched as the sun dipped behind the buildings of Dundee.
Although she hadn’t seen this house before she arrived back from Australia, she was entranced by the ever changing views of the river.
Marigold said goodnight. ‘Good luck in your new venture,’ she said as she went out.
Molly was amused by her neighbour’s concern. However, as she got ready for bed, she was grateful to have such a caring person near at hand.
6
Monday morning dawned cold and grey with a thick mist that blanked out all traces of scenery. Molly carried her cup of tea through to the living room but she could hardly see the middle of the garden, let alone the river.
She had spent ages on her appearance as she wanted to portray herself as a true professional. She thought her hair looked a bit curly so she tied it back with a clasp.
She drove slowly, frightened of missing the road end and also because trying to see the edges of the road was difficult.
She strained her eyes to see the turning and the signpost but all this peering into the grey mist was giving her a headache. That would be a fine start to her career, she thought, if she fell out of the car with a blinding headache instead of being the cool person she hoped she was.
Suddenly, looming out of the mist, she saw a small white wooden sign and she stopped. It said ‘Cliff Top Farm. 3 miles’. The opening was narrow and looked more like a break in the overgrown bushes, and she was dismayed to see it was more of a farm track than a proper tarred road. The trees lining the edges seemed to hang very low. She heard the faint sounds of scratching as the branches scraped across the top of the car.
‘I’m not looking forward to this journey every day,’ she said out loud.
The track wasn’t straight and there were a few sharp bends which almost gave her heart failure when they appeared out of the misty gloom. Also frightening was the fact she was heading for a farm on a cliff top. What if she missed the building?
‘Oh, stop being silly,’ she said, but the feeling of isolation still lingered.
After what took ages, a building loomed out of the mist and she drove thankfully into a small paved courtyard. It was difficult to see the entire house but it looked squat and low; like a sprawling grey, slumbering animal.
A door was flung open, its warm golden light spilling out onto the yard and Lena appeared.
‘Thank goodness you’ve arrived. I was worried you might miss the sign at the road end,’ she said. She crossed the yard and helped Molly with her typewriter bag. Molly was proud of her portable typewriter. She carried all the necessary items she needed for a job in this professional black bag.
‘Come away in,’ said Lena. ‘I’ve put on a fresh pot of coffee.’
Molly let herself be led towards the door and the delicious smell of coffee wafted out. She was feeling better by the minute.
The kitchen was a huge contrast to the outside appearance. It was large with a low ceiling, covered with wooden beams. A large table with eight chairs sat in the centre of the room and it held a huge vase of roses and a tray with cups on its surface.
‘Sit down, sit down,’ said Lena. ‘Let me take your coat. What a terrible day to have to drive somewhere strange,’ she said, giving Molly a huge wide smile.
She was dres
sed in a black skirt with a deep blue woollen jumper and, like Molly, she had tied her hair back. Her arm in its sling made a sharp contrast to this look of perfection.
As Lena poured out the coffee, she mentioned the work that needed done.
‘I normally work for five hours and I like to finish about three o’clock. Does that suit you, Miss McQueen?’
Molly was slightly surprised by the short afternoon but she nodded. ‘Yes, that’s fine.’
‘We have a well-known antiques business in the town but we also export items to America, Canada and Europe. I do all the office work and the invoicing but I’ve had to stop due to my arm.’
Molly wondered if she was still in pain with her injury.
By now, the coffee cups lay empty and Lena stood up. ‘I’ll show you the office and perhaps you can type up some letters and invoices for me.’
When she reached the door, she stopped. ‘Did I mention I only need you for four days a week? My husband and I normally go on business trips at the weekend and we like to make a start on a Friday.’
This was also news to Molly, but it would allow her to work in the agency and catch up with any backlog.
They walked down a long, narrow corridor, the walls of which were covered with oil paintings. Portraits of people from previous centuries gazed out from elaborate frames. They nearly all had a pained or arrogant expression and Molly felt quite intimidated by this gallery of dead dignitaries and their buxom wives.
Lena laughed. ‘We call this our family album although we aren’t related to anyone here. Thankfully we’ve no skeletons in our cupboards or long dead relatives on our walls.’
She threw open a door at the end of the corridor and ushered Molly into a large room which was obviously the office. One wall was filled with filing cabinets and another wall had a fitted bookcase with books that looked really old.
Molly was taken aback by the size of the room. After the kitchen with its low ceiling and corridor she had been expecting something similar, but this room had high ceilings and a big window with expensive looking curtains hanging in heavy folds from an ornate pelmet, decorated with large tassels.
McQueen's Agency Page 3
