by Betty Neels
‘I’ll fetch it this afternoon. How does the gas ring work? Fifty pence pieces?’
‘Yus and don’t expect me to ‘ave change, ducks. Yer’ll find it quiet ‘ere. There’s six rooms all let.’
Walking back, Cordelia tried to cheer herself up; she had a roof over her head for a week, the prospect of a chance of a job, surely within a day or two, and roughly twenty-five pounds in her pocket. It would be cheaper, she decided, determinedly cheerful, to walk up to Oxford Street and have coffee and a roll each day and something like beans on toast in the evening; she would get tea and sugar and milk and a mug so that she could have tea in the mornings, and a packet of biscuits. She found a café as she turned into Oxford Street and had a cup of coffee telling herself that she wasn’t hungry, and then she walked all the way to Brown’s Hotel to fetch her case. The buses were fairly empty but she sat with her overnight bag on her knee and kept a sharp eye on her case in the luggage rack on the platform.
Wyngate Street seemed endless, she thought that she would never get to the third turning on the left. She went up the two flights of stairs, found the key in the lock of her room and went in. Her heart failed her for a moment, then she told herself briskly not to be silly, put the case on the bed, unpacked, opened the window as wide as she could, and went in search of a bathroom. It was on the floor below, with an old fashioned bath on iron feet, a cracked basin and a geyser which needed money before it produced hot water. She went back upstairs, examined the sheets with a critical eye, shook out the small, worn towel and arranged her odds and ends on top of the chest of drawers. That done, she locked the door and went back to Oxford Street and had a cup of tea and a bun and bought a few groceries. By now she was hungry, breakfast seemed a long way off and her insides were rumbling. She went into a fast food café and had another pot of tea and an egg on toast. She felt better after that and walked back to her room, not noticing her dingy surroundings now, deep in plans for the future. Of Charles she refused to think, nor of Vienna or Eileen; to cry over spilt milk wouldn’t be of the least use. She arranged her purchases on the shelves, washed as best she could in the bathroom and went to bed. Tomorrow was another day, she reminded herself, and she was only doing what thousands of other young women were doing, besides, there would be a job for her in the morning.
Only when she went to Mrs Sharp’s in the morning, it was to be told that there was nothing at all. ‘Come back tomorrow morning,’ said Mrs Sharp, ‘you can’t expect to get suited all at once.’
On the third morning, with still no job in sight, Cordelia left the agency and went into Oxford Street; there were agencies there too and she had seen a notice in a rather sleazy café offering work as a kitchen help. It would tide her over until something better turned up. It was mortifying to be turned down; the café owner looked her up and down, said forthrightly that she really wouldn’t do, too classy by half. He gave her a contemptuous look and told her to try the Ritz. The agencies were a dead loss too; office workers, high powered typists and telephonists, explained the haughty young woman behind the desk, and the second one wanted a fee of ten pounds before they would even look in their books.
Cordelia had a reckless coffee and bun and went to the British Museum where she sat for an hour, staring at exhibits from the Iron Age. The quiet vastness of the place soothed her, she walked through the streets until she could have her modest early supper and then went back to her room. Her morale needed a boost, she decided, and she braved the use of the aged geyser and had a tepid bath, the air was a bit gassy and there was a lot of steam, which considering that the water was barely warm, seemed strange, but she felt better after it, and got into bed, with an evening paper someone had left in the café. There were columns of jobs being advertised, but not one of them would do for someone of her limited talents. She turned out the light presently and lay in the pale summer dark and thought of Charles. A waste of time, she told herself angrily, he’ll have forgotten me already.
He had done nothing of the kind; she had filled his mind and his heart from the moment he had watched her follow his sister through the gate at the airport. The memory of her slim straight back disappearing into the crowds of passengers was etched on his mind so sharply that he knew that he would never forget it. He had driven back to the hospital, where he had spent the rest of the day in theatre and doing ward rounds, to return to the apartment at the end of it to snap at Thompson and refuse Mrs Thompson’s excellent dinner.
And the faithful Thompson, bearing away the uneaten food to the kitchen gave it as his opinion that the doctor was in love. ‘Head over heels, if you ask me, Mabel, with that nice Miss Gibson.’
‘And high time too,’ endorsed his wife, ‘and who could wish for a better wife for him.’ She handed the coffee tray to her husband. ‘Leaving next week, aren’t we? Whose to say it won’t be tomorrow or the next day?’
Thompson found the doctor in his study, sitting at his desk. Forewarned by his wife, he wasn’t surprised when he was told that they would be leaving within forty-eight hours. ‘Can we manage to leave early in the morning of the day after tomorrow? There are commitments at the hospital which I must undertake tomorrow, can I leave you and Mrs Thompson to see to everything? I’ll take the car, so there will be no trouble with tickets and so forth. It’s just under nine hundred miles to Boulogne—we’ll spend the night on the way and leave at six o’clock in the morning. That should get us to London sometime during the evening of the following day…’
Thompson received the news with calm. ‘We’ll be going to the flat, Sir?’
‘Yes, I can’t make any plans for the moment, but we’ll go down to Wiltshire as soon as I’ve found Miss Gibson.’
‘Quite so! Sir.’ Thompson couldn’t quite hide the satisfaction in his voice. The doctor looked at him and smiled a little. ‘I’ve several loose ends to tie up at the hospital, I’d like breakfast at seven o’clock if Mrs Thompson could see to that.’
Thompson was at the door when the doctor asked: ‘How long have you and Mrs Thompson been with me, Thompson?’
‘A matter of fifteen years or so, Sir.’
‘Wish me luck, Thompson. I hope that you and Mrs Thompson will want to stay with us after we are married.’
‘There’s nothing we’d like better, Sir. Such a nice young lady…’ He beamed his pleasure. ‘I’m sure we wish you both the very best.’
It was a fine morning when they set off, the luggage in the boot, the Thompsons impressively calm and utterly exhausted in the back. Somehow they had done everything; dealt with tradesmen, the flat’s owner, the various bills, the packing; they sank back in comfort, knowing that the doctor intended to drive steadily, possibly for hours on end and that they could doze at will.
He drove fast, going by way of Munich, Stuttgart and Strasburg, where they spent the night. It had been a gruelling trip although they had stopped for coffee and lunch, and mindful of Mrs Thompson’s English tastes, tea, but the doctor didn’t seem unduly tired, indeed, Thompson was of the opinion that if he had been on his own he would have driven on without stopping. As it was they were on their way again very early the next morning, much refreshed after an excellent dinner and a good night’s rest in one of the city’s best hotels. Thompson, sitting beside the doctor now, remarked that it would be nice to be home again. ‘You’ll be taking a bit of a holiday, no doubt Sir?’ he enquired.
‘Yes—I don’t take up my appointment at the Royal County for another month and I’ve this extra week—I should have left Vienna a week today but luckily I had finished my lectures and the last few days would have been nothing but a round of farewell parties.’
He didn’t speak again for a long time, concentrating on getting the best out of the powerful car. Thompson, seeing his stern profile, suggested that there was no need for them to stop for coffee, instead it might be more convenient to have an early lunch, something to which he agreed with as little delay as possible before driving on towards the coast.
The evening was well advanced when the
doctor drew up in the quiet street of Regency houses a few minutes walk from Wigmore Street. Thompson, that most efficient of men, had telephoned from Vienna before they had left that city; the resident porter was expecting them, their luggage was taken from the car and when the doctor unlocked his front door on the first floor it was to find the lights on, the table in his dining room laid, and the daily woman who came to help Mrs Thompson waiting.
The beds were made up, a meal ready and the doctor’s post arranged neatly in his study. He went there at once with: ‘I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes, Thompson—don’t stand on ceremony, you and Mrs Thompson must be tired.’ He paused and went along to the kitchen and thanked Mrs Bassett for having everything ready, poured himself a whisky and went back again and shut the door behind him and lifted the telephone receiver.
The receptionist at Brown’s Hotel was polite but quite certain that Mr and Mrs Kinneard and their daughter had left the hotel on the evening following their arrival. ‘And the young lady—Miss Gibson—with them?’
‘Oh, she stayed until the next morning to send on some of the luggage.’
‘She didn’t go with them?’
‘No, sir. I heard Mrs Kinneard saying something about how pleased she would be to go to her home instead of going with them to Scotland.’
The doctor thanked her calmly, sat for a moment in thought and then rang his mother. Bates answered the ‘phone, expressed pleasure at hearing his voice and went to fetch her.
‘Charles—where are you, dear? Home? How delightful. Are you coming to see me?’
‘Not at once, my dear. Mother, why has Cordelia left? I understood that she was going with Sal to Scotland…’
‘Yes, dear, but Sal said something about Cordelia being needed at home—she was a bit vague, I did wonder at the time if she had decided that she didn’t need her and had made some kind of excuse. You see, I had the impression that Cordelia wasn’t very happy at home…’
‘Have you the address?’
If Lady Trescombe felt astonishment at the urgency in her usually cool son’s voice, she didn’t allow him to hear it. She produced the address and only then did she say, ‘Bring her to see me when you find her, dear.’
‘Of course,’ she thought he might be smiling now. ‘She’s going to be your daughter-in-law.’
There was nothing more to do until the morning, he ate what was put before him and went to bed. Not that he slept; how could he with Cordelia’s image imprinted on his eyelids?
He was driving through St Albans by half-past nine and by ten o’clock he had stopped before Mrs Gibson’s door. In answer to his ring it was opened by an elderly woman in a white apron, looking harassed.
‘Good morning,’ he smiled from his tired handsome face and Cordelia’s old friend the cook beamed suddenly. ‘I’ve come to see Miss Cordelia Gibson.’
She cast a look over her shoulder and said almost in a whisper, ‘She’s not been here, sir…’ And then as a door opened behind her, ‘Come in, sir and I’ll fetch Mrs Gibson.’
The doctor eyeing the woman coming towards him across the hall, disliked her at once. His mother had been right, Cordelia could never be happy with this hard faced creature, smiling too much at him.
He said with cold civility. ‘Good morning, Mrs Gibson. I must apologise for calling so early. I had hoped to find Cordelia here.’
The smile became a sneer. ‘I haven’t the least idea where she is—she left home, the ungrateful girl, weeks ago. If she were to return I wouldn’t let her into the house. She was always difficult you know, bossing her small step sisters and brothers. Gave herself airs, too.’ She added without thinking, ‘The governess I’ve got instead of her is much more satisfactory.’ She saw the doctor’s hard eyes and went on hastily, ‘Not that she was their governess—just gave me a helping hand you know.’ She switched on the smile again. ‘You’ll have coffee Mr…?’
He didn’t say his name. ‘I’m afraid I can’t stay, I’m sorry to have troubled you.’ His goodbye was courteous.
He had turned the car into the road from the drive when the woman who had opened the door stepped away from the side of the road. He stopped at once and opened the door. ‘You have something to tell me?’ he asked his voice warm and friendly and she didn’t hesitate.
‘Miss Cordelia wrote once’ he was told, ‘just to say that she had a job and was happy and I wasn’t to worry about her. She said that as soon as she had saved some money I was to go to her. Worked for her Pa and Ma I did, held her when she was a little girl and fell over and needed a bit of comfort. She ain’t had none of that since her poor Pa married again—and since he died she ‘ad to work like a slave and look after the children—and a nastier bunch I’ve yet to find.’ She paused for breath.
He said gently: ‘I’ll find her my dear, I’m going to marry her, and you shall come and live with us. I’ve a housekeeper who will certainly need help.’
She shook his hand. ‘God bless you, sir, I’m that happy. I’d better go.’
He opened the door for her and watched her trot back up the drive and then he drove back to London. He hadn’t learnt anything of Cordelia’s whereabouts but he intended to before the day was out.
The porter at Brown’s Hotel remembered him from previous visits with his mother. He fetched the receptionist who had spoken to him on the previous evening and went back to stand by the door. It was on his way out again that the doctor paused by him. ‘I’m trying to find Miss Gibson, who was here a couple of nights ago. You don’t happen to know where she went?’
The man shook his head. ‘No, sir, but I can tell you this, she asked me the best way to get to Wyngate Street, she wanted an agency there—Mrs Sharp’s. Not much of a neighbourhood as I told her. She came back for her case in the afternoon.’
He was left with a fiver in his hand, wondering why such a meagre piece of information had been worth so much.
Charles knew London well, he took the shortest route to Wyngate Street parked the Jaguar outside Mrs Sharp’s Agency, and took the wooden stairs two at a time, rang the bell and went in to the waiting room, half full of women of various ages. He wished them a civil good morning, and since a young woman had just emerged from the door at the end of the room, went past her and walked in.
Mrs Sharp lifted her head from the book she was writing in and asked coldly: ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ In a voice which implied that she had no intention of being of the least help. Charles looking at her didn’t like what he saw, but he smiled charmingly. ‘A matter of urgency, otherwise I would never have come without an appointment…’
Mrs Sharp’s features melted into a kind of smile. ‘You say it’s urgent, Mr…’
‘Trescombe. And yes, it is urgent. I need the address of Miss Cordelia Gibson—I believe she is registered with you—’ He went on smoothly. ‘I have returned from abroad earlier than planned and have been unable to let her know. We are to be married very shortly and I don’t want her to take another job. She wasn’t expecting me back.’ A singularly truthful man, he was quite enjoying himself. ‘Her last employers referred me to you.’
Mrs Sharp hesitated. ‘Well, it is my very strict rule never to divulge the addresses of the young ladies who come here—this is a very exclusive agency. But since you are to be married…’ She hesitated, ‘You live here?’
‘I’m a doctor living in London,’ he added the names of the hospitals where he held honorary status, ‘if you care to telephone them…’
Mrs Sharp, not easily impressed, was impressed now. ‘That is quite unnecessary,’ she assured him. ‘Miss Gibson will be glad to see you, I’m sure. There has been nothing suitable for her. Governesses aren’t in great demand, although yesterday she asked that I would put her name down for any domestic vacancy.’ She opened a box file on the desk. ‘She has a room at Mrs Dyson’s. Third turning on the left, number six.’ She glanced at the clock, ‘she comes in between eleven and twelve o’clock, I daresay you will catch her before she gets here.’
‘I am indebted to you,’ observed Charles and smiled his charming smile again, and went back through the waiting room and downstairs to the car.
Number six, even though it was slightly better than its neighbours, nevertheless met with Charles’ disapproval. He banged the knocker and when an old woman came to the door enquired if Miss Gibson lived there.
‘Temporary like’ acceded Mrs Dyson, ‘second floor back, I don’t object to gentleman callers but I don’t want no rough house.’
The doctor fixed her with an outraged stare. He said coldly, ‘There will be no rough house, madam, Miss Gibson will be leaving with me very shortly.’
He went past her and started up the stairs. On the second floor landing he paused then knocked on the door at the back of the landing.
Cordelia was standing at the window, leaning out, looking at the view of chimney pots without seeing one of them. She called come in without turning round, the woman across the landing had borrowed some tea from her earlier that morning and had promised faithfully to let her have it back before noon.
The door opened and shut, and since the silence seemed strange, Cordelia turned her head.
Charles was leaning against the door, he was breathing rather hard and she thought, erroneously, that he had run too fast up the stairs. He was also very pale and when she looked harder, desperately tired.
She put a hand on the window sill because her knees felt like jelly. She said breathlessly: ‘How did you know that I was here?’
He didn’t answer her at once but looked round the dreary room, neat and tidy because she was that kind of woman but nevertheless, dreary.
‘Why did you leave Eileen?’ He asked quietly and she answered just as quietly.
‘Your sister didn’t want me anymore—I wasn’t really needed; I mean in Scotland there were cousins for Eileen and when they come back she’ll go to school…’
He said harshly: ‘Is that any reason why you are living in this hovel?’
‘Well no—I had some money saved you know. Only my handbag was slashed and my money taken. I had a little in my overnight bag and I’m—I’m waiting for a job.’
