Mrs. Tim Gets a Job Page 2

  I open it and am immediately plunged in gloom. The letter is from my landlord and announces that owing to a change of plan he is obliged to ask us to vacate Winfield by the end of March.

  “It’s the thirteenth,” says Annie. “I felt in my bones there’d be something bad happen today. I was almost afraid to open Bill’s letter—but this is it.”

  “This is it,” I echo in despair.

  “What about the Colonel’s uncle?” suggests Annie. “The one who lives at Cobstead. It wouldn’t be bad at Cobstead now the war’s over and no bombing. Or perhaps Mrs. Loudon would have us at Avielochan for the summer.”

  These are possibilities of course, but I hate the thought of dumping myself upon relations or friends for indefinite periods. It seems odd that half an hour ago I was quite happy and settled, and now I am a homeless wanderer upon the face of the earth.

  “We’ve been here so long,” says Annie thoughtfully. “I’d begun to think Winfield belonged to us . . . I’d got used to it, if you know what I mean.”

  I know what she means only too well.

  Annie sighs and takes up her duster. “Don’t you worry,” she says comfortingly. “Something’ll turn up—it always does. I remember what a fix I was in when Mother died—and then I got your letter saying come on Friday.”

  “That wasn’t yesterday,” I tell her, trying to smile.

  It is some time before I recover sufficiently to open my other letter. The writing is large and determined but exceedingly difficult to read and the signature beats me entirely until a sudden brilliant inspiration suggests it may be Erica Clutterbuck, all run together into one word. Having decided that it can’t be anything else I turn back to the first page and set to work, and after some struggles I discover that Miss Clutterbuck is exceedingly glad to hear from Grace that I am coming to help her with her hotel. She is willing to engage me immediately—the sooner the better—and she will take the children in the holidays and “give them the run of their teeth.” She mentions the salary she is prepared to offer, and hopes it will be acceptable, but, as this part of the letter is quite illegible, I cannot tell whether it is acceptable or not. Grace has told her I have no experience, but Miss Clutterbuck does not mind as long as I have my head screwed on the right way. Miss Clutterbuck has had to sack her former assistant because she was a fool—no head at all and apt to take the huff when her shortcomings were mentioned. Miss Clutterbuck would like me to run the bar—no, it can’t be that—run the car, which has seen its best days but is still useful for shopping. The linen will be in my charge. Grace has told her I am patient and tactful, so (as she herself is neither the one nor the other) she thinks I am the right person to look after the social side.

  Am so impressed with the coincidence of the two letters that I despatch a wire saying yes, and have no sooner done so than I am filled with apprehension and dismay.

  THURSDAY, 14 FEBRUARY

  Spend a sleepless night worrying about my future plans. How could I have been so mad as to accept Miss Clutterbuck’s offer? What am I to do with Annie? Where is Betty to go for the remainder of the term? At six o’clock I decide I cannot lie in bed a moment longer, so I rise and dress and go down to the dining room and start a letter cancelling the whole thing.

  Dear Miss Clutterbuck,

  On second thoughts I feel I am not at all the sort of person you require to help you . . .

  No, that sounds humble. There is no need to be humble about it.

  Dear Miss Clutterbuck,

  You will have received a telegram from me, accepting the post of receptionist in your hotel but on second thoughts I have come to the conclusion . . .

  No, that won’t do either—much too clumsy.

  Dear Miss Clutterbuck,

  Since wiring to you I have changed my mind . . .

  No, I don’t like that either. Of course I have changed my mind but why proclaim myself a weathercock to Miss Clutterbuck?

  Dear Miss Clutterbuck,

  It was most kind of you to offer . . .

  No, it wasn’t the least kind of her. She is obviously desperate for an assistant and would take anyone short of a murderess. I seize another sheet of notepaper and begin again.

  Dear Miss Clutterbuck . . .

  At this moment Annie comes in to lay the breakfast. She, also, has lain awake all night but her night thoughts have been more fruitful than mine and she is full of plans.

  “It’s wonderful how things work out,” says Annie cheerfully. “I thought at first it was all too difficult, but—”

  “It is too difficult, Annie.”

  “Nothing’s too difficult if you give your mind to it. Besides it looks to me as if it was Meant . . . you getting those two letters on the same day and Betty leaving Miss Clarke’s. I was thinking we could find a school for Betty near the hotel so we could see her weekends or whatever’s allowed.”

  “We could see her!” I exclaim.

  “Of course I’m coming too,” explains Annie, in a matter-of-fact tone. “You couldn’t get on without me, and I daresay that Miss Chatterback will find a job for me, so you won’t have to pay my wages. The Colonel said—”

  “Annie! I’m just writing to say I can’t come—”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought,” says Annie, with a glance at the wastepaper basket. “But it seems a pity. It does, really. There isn’t much for you to do in Donford—to take your mind off—and there’ll be less when Betty goes away—and where will we stay when we’re turned out of Winfield? It does look as if it was Meant.”

  I remain dumb.

  “Lots of ladies do things like that nowadays,” continues Annie persuasively. “Nobody thinks the worse of them for it—”

  “It isn’t that, at all,” I assure her hastily. “I don’t mind a bit what I do.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not capable of tackling the job, and—”

  Annie smiles. “Oh,” says Annie. “You’re quite capable when you set your mind to it. Look at the way you ran the Welfare! And I’ll be there to see you don’t get put upon,” adds Annie firmly.

  Spend the day swithering between hopeful confidence and blank despair. After tea Grace arrives in a contrite mood and says she is very sorry she was such a beast about the Erica Clutterbuck affair. She has been thinking it over seriously and talking to Mamie Carter and of course the job is quite unsuitable. I couldn’t do it.

  This annoys me—quite unreasonably, of course—and I reply that I think I could do it without much difficulty.

  Grace says no. She and Mamie discussed it thoroughly and both of them are of the opinion that I couldn’t do it. I’m not the right type. The sort of person Erica needs is a person with plenty of drive, a person full of initiative and resource—

  Break into Grace’s description of the ideal hotel assistant to point out that I have succeeded in running my household through six years of total war.

  Grace says she knows, but this is different. She and Mamie have decided, definitely, that I mustn’t go to Erica. Fortunately, says Grace, fortunately when she was looking at the Times this morning she happened to notice an advertisement for a dentist’s receptionist. That would be the ideal job for me.

  Reply that it is sweet of her to bother but I have decided to take the Clutterbuck job and have sent a wire to that effect.

  Grace is horrified. She says I must be mad; I have no experience of running a hotel and have no idea what I am letting myself in for.

  Reply that Miss Clutterbuck knows I haven’t had any experience.

  Grace says it would be too arduous. I should be worked to death . . . a dentist’s receptionist would be far easier and I could live in London, think of that! She knows exactly what a dentist’s receptionist has to do because her dentist has one—a delightful girl, of very good family, but unfortunately with a pronounced squint. All you do is to make appointments for people and hold the bowl for them to spit into after an extraction.

  Say feebly, I would rather not
.

  “But, Hester,” says Grace impatiently. “It wouldn’t be every day—and as a matter of fact you would probably have far worse things to do if you went to Tocher House.”

  “Nothing could be worse,” I murmur.

  “You don’t know Erica,” retorts Grace. “Erica has a farouche manner—positively terrifying.”

  This certainly ought to put me off, for I dread people with terrifying manners, but for some unknown reason it has the reverse effect. I am now confirmed and strengthened in my intention to proceed to Tocher with all speed. I point out to Grace that on Monday she was insistent that I should take this post.

  Grace does not blink an eyelid. “Yes,” she agrees. “Yes I know, but I’ve thought it over carefully. I’ve thought over all you said on Monday and I realize you were right. I mean I see your point, Hester.”

  “I’ve thought it over carefully and I see yours.”

  “It would be far too strenuous for you.”

  “But Grace, you said I should be much happier if I had lots to do.”

  “You said you had no experience of running a hotel—and you have none,” Grace reminds me.

  “And then you said Miss Clutterbuck would manage everything.”

  “I know,” says Grace impatiently. “But then you said why did she need an assistant—and of course the answer is to stooge for her.”

  “Then I shall stooge for her, Grace.”

  Grace glares at me so fiercely that I begin to laugh, and the next moment we are both laughing helplessly.

  “Oh well,” says Grace, blowing her nose. “We seem to have convinced each other pretty thoroughly. I still think a dentist’s receptionist would be—”

  “No, Grace.”

  “Oh well, if you’ve made up your mind there’s no more to be said about it,” says Grace. She hesitates and then enquires, “What will you do with Annie?”

  Of course I know quite well what this question implies. Grace would like Annie for the twins, but I also know that this would never work because Grace is not Annie’s sort of person. Annie is one of the family and, as such, she is given and takes liberties which Grace wouldn’t tolerate. She was never a well-trained maid, and never will be, but she is a true friend which is a good deal better in my opinion. In the last few years, when maids were unobtainable, Annie and I have worked together and have got to know one another and to appreciate one another as we never should have done in ordinary circumstances. I look back at the raw, rather self-assertive girl who came to me as housemaid when we were at Biddington and realize how much Annie has changed. She has changed not only in appearance and in speech but in a more fundamental way as well. . . . No, Annie could never go to anyone else as maid or nurse, she would be miserable; but fortunately she will not have to. It is all decided that when Tim is free and we go to Cobstead to settle down there and never move again—Annie and Bollings will be with us and will settle down, too.

  All this passes through my mind in a flash and I explain to Grace that Annie and I are sticking together, and if Miss Clutterbuck wants me she will have to take Annie as well.

  Grace sighs and says she might have known and of course Erica will have Annie like a shot, she’d be a fool not to.

  MONDAY, 18TH FEBRUARY

  Although I have practically decided to send Betty to Dinwell Hall it is unthinkable to do so without seeing the place and interviewing the headmistress, so having made the necessary arrangements I start off from Donford at crack of dawn—this being the only manner in which I can accomplish my mission in one day. The first sight of Dinwell Hall impresses me favourably; it is a large square house situated in a pleasant park and it looks comfortable and peaceful. An elderly female opens the door, and on hearing my name says Miss Humble is expecting me. Conducting me to a room at the back of the house, she pokes up the fire and goes away. The room is full of contradictions—or so it seems to me—some of the furniture is old-fashioned, some of it strictly utilitarian and up-to-date. For a moment or two this puzzles me, and then I remember there are two Miss Humbles—co-partners in the school—and I decide that one of the ladies must be matter-of-fact and the other sentimental. The roll-top desk, the chair made of steel tubes and leather and the oak bookcase (unvarnished and perfectly plain) all belong to the matter-of-fact Miss Humble. The Victorian armchair, the occasional table, and the cabinet full of Dresden china belong to her sister, of course . . . also, of course, the Sheraton console table bearing a large dish of wax fruit, the mere sight of which makes my mouth water. The pictures display the same duality of taste, for it is obvious to the meanest intelligence that a woman who admired the brightly coloured clear-cut cubist painting which hangs over the desk would never have chosen to suspend “The Huguenot Lovers” over the mantelpiece. All this is easy, it would have been child’s play to Sherlock Holmes—even Watson might have guessed it—but which of the ladies chose the text, that large, illuminated text which hangs in the place of honour facing the window and enquires in red and blue and green lettering with gilt edges:

  WHO HATH BELIEVED OUR REPORT?

  Riven from its context and plastered upon the wall of a schoolmistresses’ sanctum, its significance is somewhat startling. One wonders what significance it bears in the minds of the Misses Humble. Are they aware that parents are an incredulous set of people? Have they taken this unusual means of keeping the fact ever before their eyes? I examine my own reaction to reports which I have received from scholastic establishments (reports upon the attainments and behaviour of my offspring) and am bound to admit that I have usually received them with a grain of salt. If the report is favourable one has an uncomfortable feeling that it is insincere, if tepid one springs to the conclusion that one’s child is misunderstood.

  I am indulging in these interesting reflections when I am surprised by the incidence of the Misses Humble. They welcome me with cordial dignity and introduce themselves. The large fat one (in the well-fitting coat and skirt) with close-cropped grey hair and flashing spectacles with tortoiseshell rims is Miss Humble, herself; the small thin one (in a green linen overall) with shaggy brown hair and bright brown eyes is Miss Lena Humble. Miss Humble looks after the scholastic side and cares for the children’s minds; Miss Lena is the domestic one and cares for their bodies. All this and more is explained to me by Miss Humble, clearly and rapidly in a few well-chosen words; it is obvious that every prospective parent is treated to the same little speech of explanation.

  I listen and nod and examine the ladies with interest. Although they are quite unlike one another in build, feature and personality, the fact—most curiously—remains that anyone would know they were sisters. I was right about them, of course. Miss Humble is the owner of the desk, the steel-tube chair, the bookcase and the cubist picture; Miss Lena is the owner of “The Huguenot Lovers,” the occasional table, the china cabinet and the wax fruit. As for the text I am not so sure . . . perhaps Miss Humble chose the text and Miss Lena painted it, or perhaps it was painted by a pupil with an eye for colour and a particularly neat hand.

  We chat in a friendly manner. As is natural, they want to know all about Betty and my only difficulty is not to tell them too much. I endeavour to assume a “sensible” attitude, to convince the Misses Humble that I consider Betty an ordinary child, neither particularly charming nor outstandingly bright, but the Misses Humble are old hands at the game and I feel sure they see through me like a pane of glass. Just another foolish mother, they are saying to themselves as they nod and smile and egg me on to further foolishness, just another fond mama who thinks her duckling a swan.

  “And when would you like her to come—if you decide to let us have her?” enquires Miss Lena Humble with interest.

  I reply by telling them my predicament and explain that I intend to leave Betty at Donford; she can board with Miss Clarke until the end of the term.

  The ladies look at each other. “Yes,” says Miss Lena, nodding.

  “Yes,” says Miss Humble. “We can take Betty at once if that would s
uit you. The fact is we have a vacancy. One of our pupils left unexpectedly because her parents went south and wanted to take her with them. I thought it unwise, but—”

  “It was very unwise,” declares Miss Lena.

  They shake their heads over the unwisdom of parents.

  “We don’t usually take children in the middle of a term,” continues Miss Humble. “But in view of the special circumstances we would be willing to relax our rules.”

  “For Betty,” adds Miss Lena, smiling kindly.

  This would suit me admirably, of course, but I feel unreasonably downcast. I feel as if the trap were closing upon my child; I have almost lost her already. Is it possible that in my heart of hearts I hoped that Dinwell Hall would be unsuitable?

  “The children are very happy here,” declares Miss Lena. “We feed them well—as well as we possibly can. We have a Home Farm, you know, and that helps a lot.”

  “You would like to see the classrooms,” suggests Miss Humble.

  “And the dormitories, of course,” adds Miss Lena.

  We make a tour of the school and no fault can be found with the arrangements. The children, hard at work in sunny classrooms, look cheerful and well fed. In spite of this—or perhaps because of it—my spirits sink lower at every step and when I take leave of the Misses Humble at the front door I am almost speechless with misery.

  “Then we shall expect Betty next week,” says Miss Humble cheerfully. “I feel sure she will go straight into Form Four. Miss Wentworth is most competent.”

  “I shall meet Betty at the station,” says Miss Lena in friendly tones.