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Meg hadn’t felt so happy for months; the dreaded London flat could be abrogated at least for a month or two, she could stay in her home, doing exactly what she had been doing for some years, and Betsy would have time to get used to changes. Her vague idea had become reality.
‘I wouldn’t mind at all, Mrs Culver. I’d like it very much and I know Betsy would too, and if you want someone for the rough work, Mrs Griffiths, the postman’s wife, has been coming here for years.’
They beamed at each other, and Mrs Culver asked, ‘The garden? Is there a man…?’
‘Well, no, I’ve been doing the gardening, though you could do with someone for the hedges and the digging—I’ve had to leave a good bit.’
‘Well, you find someone, my dear; I’m sure I can safely leave it to you—and more help in the house if you need it. I suppose it will take the solicitors weeks to get things settled— I’ve been mystified as to why. But in the meantime, will you go on as you have been doing? I’ll write to you as soon as things are settled, and we must have a talk before I move in.’ She looked round the pleasant room. ‘Would you consider selling the furniture? There must be treasured pieces you would want to keep so that you can furnish your flat eventually, but the rest?’
‘I’ll have to ask my sisters,’ said Meg. ‘They did suggest that I had some of it and my younger sister might want some things—she hopes to buy a flat near the hospital and live out.’
‘And you have another sister?’
‘Yes, older than me—she’s married and doesn’t want anything here.’
Mrs Culver got up to go. ‘Well, we can settle that when you have seen them, can’t we? You’re sure that you are happy about our little arrangement?’
Meg smiled widely. ‘Oh, yes—very happy. I—I really am not too keen on living in London.’ They walked unhurriedly to the door, pleased with each other’s company. ‘Would you like a word with Betsy?’
‘A very good idea. Shall we go to the kitchen, if she’s there?’
Betsy’s elderly face crumpled into dozens of wrinkles at the news; she looked as though she might cry, but she chuckled instead. ‘There, Miss Meg—yer never know, do yer? What’s round the corner, I mean. I’m sure I’ll bide ‘ere and ‘appy ter do so just as long as I’m needed.’
‘I’m so glad,’ said Mrs Culver, and shook Betsy’s hand. ‘I look forward to living here in this nice old house.’
Meg saw her out to the car and gave the solid-looking man who opened the car door a guilty look. He understood at once. ‘Your cook kindly gave me a coffee, miss,’ he told her. ‘Thank you.’
‘Oh, good—I’m sorry I forgot—as long as Betsy saw to your comfort.’
She put her head through the still-open door. ‘I’m glad it’s you,’ she told Mrs Culver, who was being cosily tucked in with rugs by the chauffeur. ‘Mother and Father would have liked to have met you.’
‘Why, thank you, my dear—what a nice thing to say. You shall hear from me very shortly. Goodbye.’
Over their midday snack Meg and Betsy talked over the morning. They found it difficult to believe that it had all happened. ‘It’s like a fairy tale,’ said Meg. ‘I can’t believe it…I know it’s not going to last, but it does give us another month or so. We’ll be here when the daffodils are out.’ She cut a wedge of cheese. ‘You’re to have your wages, Betsy, and so am I—nice to be paid for something I’ve been doing for nothing for years!’
She fell silent, her busy mind exploring the chances of getting a job as housekeeper when she finally left—if Mrs Culver would give her a reference she might be lucky—then there would be no need to live in London. Presently she said, ‘I must let Cora and Doreen know,’ and went to the telephone in what had been her father’s study.
Of course they were both delighted.
‘Now we can get the boys’ names down for school,’ said Cora.
‘I’ll make a firm offer for that flat,’ Doreen decided and added as an afterthought, ‘once it’s all dealt with, Meg, I’ll look out for something for you—you’d better take a course in shorthand and typing.’
It seemed hardly the time to tell them that Mrs Culver had plans of her own; Meg put down the receiver without having said a word about herself and Betsy, but then, neither of them had asked.
There was purpose in the days now: the house to clean and polish, cupboards to turn out, the silver to polish, wrap up and stow away, curtains to be cleaned… Mrs Griffiths, when approached, was glad enough to continue coming three times a week, and what was more, she had an out-of-work nephew who would be glad to see to the garden.
There were letters too, learned ones from the solicitor, triumphant ones from the estate agents and a steady flow of instructions from Cora and Doreen. What was more important was that there was a letter from Mrs Culver, stating that she would be glad to employ both Meg and Betsy, and setting out their wages in black and white. She had urged the solicitors to make haste, she had written, and hoped to move in in about three weeks’ time.
‘A nice letter,’ said Meg, putting it back neatly into its envelope. ‘I wonder where I’ve heard the name Culver before?’
She discovered the very next day. It was a lovely day, clear and frosty and with a brief sunshine which held no warmth but gave the illusion of spring. She was perched on a window-seat in the drawing-room, carefully mending one of the old, but still beautiful, brocade curtains, when a car drew up and a man got out. She remembered him at once—who could forget him, being the size and height he was anyway? She watched him walk unhurriedly to the door and pull the old-fashioned bell, and then listened to Betsy’s feet trotting across the hall to open the door.
If he had had second thoughts, decided Meg with satisfaction, he was going to be disappointed. She remembered the look he had given the bathroom pipes and the Victorian fireplace; he would make an offer, perhaps, far below the one asked, and she would find great satisfaction in refusing it.
It wasn’t like that at all. Betsy ushered him in. ‘Mr Culver to see you, Miss Meg.’ She winked as she went out.
Meg got up and said uncertainly, ‘Have you come about the house? It’s sold—’ and at the same instant said, ‘Culver—you aren’t by any chance related to Mrs Culver?’
‘Her son. I suggested that she should come and see the place; I knew she’d like it.’ He raised dark eyebrows. ‘You’re disconcerted, Miss Collins?’
Meg eyed him cautiously, for he sounded cross. ‘Not that,’ she explained politely, ‘just surprised. I’d forgotten your name, you see.’
‘You’re to remain here as my mother’s housekeeper? Oh, don’t look alarmed—I have no intention of interfering with her plans. It seems a most suitable arrangement. But you do understand that when Kate, her own housekeeper, returns, you and your servant will have to go.’
‘Betsy isn’t a servant,’ said Meg clearly, ‘she’s been with my family for a very long time. She’s our friend and helper.’
The eyebrows rose once more. ‘I stand corrected! May I sit down?’
She flushed. ‘I’m sorry, please do. Why have you come, Mr Culver? And you had no need to remind me that we’re only here temporarily.’
‘I came to tell you that within the week there will be some furniture delivered, and to ask you to remove whatever you wish to keep for yourself. Presumably there are attics?’
‘Three large ones, and yes, I’ll do that.’
‘A cheque for the furniture, which will be valued, will be paid to your solicitor in due course. Tell me, Miss Collins, don’t your sisters want to discuss this with you?’
‘No—my elder sister is married and my younger sister is too busy—she’s a staff nurse in London…’
‘And you?’ For once his voice was friendly, and she responded to it without thinking.
‘Me? I can’t do anything except look after a house and cook; that’s why I’m so happy to stay on here for a little while.’
She studied his bland face for a while. ‘You don’t mind?’ she asked.
‘Why should I mind?’ He got to his feet. ‘I won’t keep you any longer. Let your solicitor know if there’s anything which worries you.’
Meg went with him to the door, and because he looked somehow put out about something, she said gently, ‘I’m sorry you don’t like me staying here, Mr Culver, but it won’t be for long.’
He took her hand in his. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of, Miss Collins,’ he told her gravely. ‘Goodbye.’
CHAPTER TWO
MEG SHUT THE DOOR firmly behind Mr Culver and then stood looking at the painted panelling in the hall. She wondered what he had meant; it was a strange remark to make, and it made no sense. She dismissed it from her mind and wandered off to the kitchen to tell Betsy about the furniture. ‘So we’d better go round the house and pick out what we want,’ she ended. ‘I’ll try and get Doreen to come down and sort out what she wants.’
Doreen came two days later, full of plans for herself and for Meg. ‘You’ll have to go into a bedsitter or digs for a while,’ she told her. ‘I’ll ask around…’
‘There’s no need; I’m staying on here as housekeeper, and Betsy’s staying too,’ she said, and before an astonished Doreen could utter a word, added, ‘I’ll explain.’
When she had finished, Doreen said, ‘Well, I don’t know—housekeeper in your own home—it’s a bit demeaning, and such hard work!’
‘But I’ve been housekeeping for years,’ Meg pointed out, ‘and besides, I’m going to be paid for it now.’
Doreen was a bit huffy; she had been telling Meg what to do and how to do it since they were children, and until now Meg had meekly followed her lead. ‘Oh, well,’ she said grudgingly, ‘I suppose you know your own mind best, though I think it’s a mistake. Cora won’t like it…’
‘Why not?’ asked Meg placidly. ‘I should have thought you’d have both been pleased that I’m settled for a month or two.’ She added cunningly, ‘You’ll be able to concentrate on your new flat.’
A remark which caused her sister to subside, still grumbling but resigned. Moreover, she declared that she would be down the following weekend to choose furniture. ‘I don’t want much,’ she said. ‘I’m going to buy very simple modern stuff.’ She added, ‘Cora doesn’t want anything, only those paintings of the ancestors in the hall and the silver tea and coffee sets.’
As she got into her car she asked carelessly, ‘What’s this son like?’
Meg paused to think. ‘Well, he’s very tall—about six feet four inches—and broad. He’s dark and his eyes look black, though I don’t suppose they are…he’s—he’s arrogant and—off-hand.’
Doreen gave her a kindly, pitying look. ‘Out of your depth, were you?’ she asked. ‘He sounds quite a dish.’ She started the engine. ‘What does he do?’
Meg stared at her. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. We only talked about the house and the furniture.’
Doreen grinned. ‘I can well believe that! When I’ve settled you in that semi-basement, Meg, I’m going to find you an unambitious curate.’
She shot away, and instead of going indoors Meg wandered along the path which circumvented the house. She had no wish to marry a curate, she was certain on that point, nor did she want to marry a man like her brother-in-law—something in the city and rising fast, and already pompous. She would like to marry, of course, but although she had a very clear idea of the home she would like and the children in it, not to mention dogs and cats and a donkey and perhaps a pony, the man who would provide her with all this was a vague nonentity. But she wanted to be loved and cherished, she was sure of that.
She went back into the house and sat at the kitchen table eating the little cakes Betsy had made for tea and which Doreen hadn’t eaten because of her figure. ‘Do you suppose I could have the furniture in my room, Betsy?’ she asked at length. ‘I could put a few chairs and tables in there before Mrs Culver comes, then it would be easy when we move out. I won’t need much in a small flat…’
Betsy was beating eggs. ‘Likely not,’ she agreed. ‘Poky places they are, them semi-basements—lived in one myself ‘fore I came to yer ma. Can’t see why yer ‘ave ter live in one, meself.’
Meg ate another cake. ‘No—well, I’ve been thinking. If I can get Mrs Culver to give us good references we might try for jobs in some large country house, the pair of us. I was looking through the advertisements in The Lady, Betsy, and there are dozens of jobs.’
‘Yer ma and pa would turn in their graves if yer was ter to do that, Miss Meg—housework indeed—and you a lady born and bred. I never ‘eard such nonsense!’
Meg got up and flung an arm round her old friend’s shoulders. ‘I think I’d rather do anything than live in a basement flat in London,’ she declared. ‘Let’s go round the house and choose what I’ll take with me.’
Small pieces for the most part: her mother’s papier mâché work table, encrusted with mother-of-pearl and inlaid with metal foil, a serpentine table in mahogany with a pierced gallery, and a Martha Washington chair reputed to be Chippendale and lastly a little rosewood desk where her mother had been in the habit of writing her letters. She added two standard chairs with sabre legs, very early nineteenth century, and a sofa table on capstan base with splayed feet which went very well with the chairs and wouldn’t take up too much room.
They went back to the kitchen and Meg made a neat list. ‘And now you, Betsy; of course you’ll have the furniture which is already in your room, but you’ll need some bits and pieces.’
So they went round again, adding a rather shabby armchair Betsy had always liked, and the small, stoutly built wooden table in the scullery with its two equally stout chairs. Meg added a bookcase standing neglected in one of the many small rooms at the back of the house, and a standard lamp which had been by the bookcase for as long as she could remember. No one was going to miss it, and it would please Betsy mightily.
She got the butcher’s boy from the village to come up to the house and move the furniture into her and Betsy’s rooms. Doreen would see to her own things once she had chosen them.
This was something which she did at the end of the week, arriving at the house a bare five minutes after Mr Culver’s second totally unexpected visit. Getting no answer from the front doorbell, he had wandered round the house and found Meg in an old sweater and slacks covered by a sacking apron, intent on arranging seed potatoes on the shelves of the potting shed. She turned to see who it was as he trod towards her, and said, rather crossly, ‘Oh, it’s you—you didn’t say you were coming!’
He ignored that. ‘It’s careless of you to leave your front door open when you’re not in the house, Miss Collins. You should be more careful.’
She gave him a long, considered look. He doubtless meant to be helpful, but it seemed that each time they met he said something to annoy her.
‘This isn’t London,’ she said with some asperity, and then added in a kindly tone, ‘though I dare say you mean well.’
He stood looking down his handsome nose at her. ‘Naturally I have an interest in this house…’
‘Premature,’ Meg observed matter-of-factly. ‘I haven’t—that is, we haven’t sold it to your mother yet.’
She wished the words unsaid at once: supposing that he took umbrage and advised his mother to withdraw from the sale? What would her sisters say? And she would have to start all over again, and next time she might not be as lucky as regards her future. She met his eyes and saw that he was smiling nastily.
‘Exactly, Miss Collins, it behoves you to mind your words, does it not?’ He added unwillingly, ‘Your face is like an open book—you must learn to conceal your thoughts before you embark on a career in London!’
He looked over his shoulder as he spoke, in time to see Doreen coming towards them, and Meg, watching him saw that he was impressed. Her sister was looking particularly pretty in a wide tweed coat, draped dramatically over her shoulders, allowing a glimpse of a narrow cashmere dress in a blue to match her eyes. She fetched up beside him, cast him a smiling glance and said, ‘Hello, Meg—darling, must you root around like a farm labourer?’ She peered at the potatoes. ‘Such a dirty job!’
Meg said ‘Hello,’ and waved a grubby hand at Mr Culver. ‘This is Mr Culver, Mrs Culver’s son—my sister, Doreen; she’s come to choose her furniture before the valuers get here.’
Mr Culver, it seemed, could make himself very agreeable if he so wished, and Doreen, of course, had always been considered a charming girl. They fell at once into the kind of light talk which Meg had never learnt to master. She carefully arranged another row of potatoes, listening admiringly to Doreen’s witty chatter, and when there was a pause asked, ‘Why did you come, Mr Culver?’
Not the happiest way of putting it—Doreen’s look told her that—so she added, ‘Is there anything we can do.’
He glanced between the pair of them, and Meg caught the glance. Wondering how on earth we could possibly be sisters, she thought, and suddenly wished that she wasn’t plain and could talk like Doreen.
‘My mother asked me to call in—I’m on my way home and it isn’t out of my way. She wants you to order coal and logs—a ton of each, I would suggest—and also, if you know of a young boy who would do odd jobs, would you hire him?’
‘What to do?’ asked Meg, ever practical. ‘Not full time, I imagine?’
‘I believe she was thinking of someone to carry in coal and so on. Perhaps on his way to school, or in the afternoon…’
‘Well, there’s Willy Wright—he’s fifteen and looking for work. He goes to school still, but I dare say he’d be glad of the money.’
Mr Culver nodded carelessly. ‘I’ll leave it in your capable hands.’
‘Oh, she’s capable all right, our Meg,’ put in Doreen. ‘Always has been. You live near here, Mr Culver?’ She was at her most charming.
He gave the kind of answer Meg would have expected of him. ‘I work in London for most of the time. And you?’
Doreen told him, making the telling amusing and self-effacing at the same time. ‘Come into the house and have a cup of tea—I know Meg is dying for us to go so that she can finish her potatoes.’ She smiled at her sister. ‘Finished in ten minutes or so, Meg? I’ll have the tea made.’
She led the way back to the house, leaving Meg in the potting shed, quite happy to be left on her own once more. Doreen had never made a secret of the fact that she intended to marry and marry well. She thought it very likely that before Mr Culver left Doreen would have found out what he did, whether he was engaged or even married, and where he lived. She chuckled as she started on the last row of potatoes; Mr Culver had met his match.
It was half an hour before she joined them in the sitting-room, wearing a neat shirt blouse and a pleated skirt, her small waist cinched by a wide soft leather belt. Mr Culver was on the point of going, which was what she had been hoping; anyway, she wished him a coolly polite goodbye, leaving Doreen to see him to the door, assuring him that she would do as Mrs Culver asked. The moment they were in the hall, she picked up the tea-tray and whisked herself off to the kitchen to make a fresh pot. Doreen would want another cup before she started on the furniture.
‘What a man!’ observed that young lady as she sank into a chair. ‘Is that fresh tea? I could do with a cup. Believe it or not, Meg, I couldn’t get a thing out of him—he’s a real charmer, no doubt of that, but as close as an oyster. I bet he’s not married.’ She took the cup Meg was offering. ‘I wonder what he does? Perhaps you can find out…?’
‘Why?’ Meg sounded reasonable. ‘He’s nothing to do with us; we’re not likely to see him—he only called with a message.’
Doreen looked thoughtful. ‘Yes, well, we’ll see. That’s a nice car, and unless I’m very mistaken, his shoes are hand-made…’
‘Perhaps he’s got awkward feet,’ suggested Meg, quite seriously.
Doreen looked at her to see if she was joking and saw that she wasn’t, so she didn’t reply. ‘When’s Mrs Culver due to arrive?’ she asked instead. ‘I’d better decide on the things I want and get them away. Have you got yours?’
Meg nodded. ‘Yes, I got Willy to come up and move them. Most of it’s in my room; the rest is in the attic. Betsy’s got some bits and pieces, too—in her room and some in the attic.’
‘Well, I’ll get it over with and have it taken up to town and stored until I want it. Does Mrs Culver want everything else? How much will she pay for it?’
