she reached the flat at Oxford, she was her usual calm cheerful self. After all, she had the job, she had somewhere to live and in two years’ time Dick would be back in England and they could set up house together and if, as he was bound to do, Dick married, she would learn typing and shorthand and become some powerful executive’s right hand secretary. It would be nice to marry, of course, but she didn’t dwell on that; she was after all turned twenty-six and no beauty.
Dick was home, deep in his books, which he had spread out all over the table. Jemima took off her jacket, piled them tidily and laid the table for their supper. She had been busy about this for a minute or two before he looked up to ask: ‘Well, did you get the job?’
‘Yes, and I think I’ll quite enjoy it too. I have to live out, but I’ve found a very nice bedsitter close by—it’s just behind Harrod’s—her name is Lady Manderly.’
‘That’s splendid—is she paying you enough?’
‘Quite enough, love. I shall manage splendidly. I’m to start on Monday, which is just right, isn’t it? I’ll be able to see you off on Sunday morning.’ She smiled a little ruefully as she spoke; Dick had already turned back to his book, obviously relieved that her future had been settled so easily.
Perhaps it was a good thing that he was going to America on his own, she reflected, watching the plane getting smaller and smaller as it left Heathrow. He had always been looked after—not spoilt, she told herself, he was too nice for that, but since an early age he had buried his head in books; food and clothes, even people, had meant very little to him. She hoped that they would be kind to him in Boston, he was a nice boy and everyone liked him. She was going to miss him.
She spent the rest of the day cleaning the flat, handing over the keys and packing the rest of her things and in the evening she called a taxi and had herself driven to catch the train to her new home.
Mrs Adams answered the door, took one of her cases from her and ushered her upstairs. The flat smelled of Sunday dinner, but her room was spotlessly clean and the bed looked inviting. Left to herself Jemima lighted the gas fire, made tea on the gas ring and started to unpack. She quite enjoyed arranging her possessions round the room, and the bed looked even better with her eiderdown on it and the reading lamp on the small table beside it. She had almost finished when Shirley knocked and came in. ‘Got all you want?’ she asked kindly. ‘Mum says breakfast at eight o’clock—we open the shop at half past. The water’s hot if you want a bath.’
She sat down on the bed and smoothed the eiderdown with a careful hand. ‘Silk, ain’t it? I bet you ’as a posh ’ome.’
Jemima closed the wardrobe door. ‘Well, I suppose it was, but home’s what you make it, isn’t it? I’ve been in some very grand houses and they’re just like museums, not home at all—now this is cosy…’
Shirley stared at her. ‘Cor—you mean it too, don’t you? Well, I never! Mind you, I’d hate to live anywhere else but London—deadly dull it must be.’ She got up. ‘You can call me Shirl,’ she invited.
‘Thank you, Shirl—call me Jemima if you like.’
‘Sounds a funny name to me, but if it’s all you’ve got I’ll ’ave to, won’t I? So long.’
Jemima slept soundly. She was a sensible girl; Dick was safely embarked on a career, she had a job and a roof over her head and she didn’t owe anyone any money, so there was no reason why she should stay awake.
She was up and ready for breakfast in good time, very neat in the navy blue suit she had worn to the interview. It was by no means new, but her shoes were good and her blouse, a white silk one she had had for years, dateless. Looking at her reflection in the mirror behind the wardrobe door, she hoped that her appearance was right for the job and was encouraged to think so by Mrs Adams, who put a plate of bacon and egg in front of her remarking: ‘There’s nothing like navy blue to make a girl look ladylike.’ She poured strong tea and handed it to Jemima. ‘Nervous?’
Jemima thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I think I am, a little. I’ve never had a job before.’
‘You’ll do,’ observed Shirley through a mouthful of toast and marmalade. ‘Just remember not to let ’er sit on you—you stand up for yourself, see?’ She pushed her chair back. ‘Well, I’ll go and get started, I suppose. You coming down later, Mum?’
Mrs Adams nodded. ‘Yes, and just you see that that Ned does the till proper.’ And as her daughter clattered down the stairs. ‘’E’s the assistant part-time, but ’e’s not much use.’
It was barely five minutes’ walk to Lady Manderly’s house. Jemima went back to her room, made the bed neatly, tidied it, picked up her bag and gloves and wished Mrs Adams goodbye. And in the shop Shirley sorting magazines with lightning efficiency, cried: ‘Good luck, girl!’ and waved airily from behind the counter. Jemima, outside on the pavement, found herself reluctant to cross the road; the little shop already seemed a safe shelter. She would be coming back that evening, she reminded herself, and nipped on to the opposite pavement, heading for Lady Manderly’s house.
The door was opened by the same stout man and after wishing him a good morning, Jemima said: ‘Will you tell me your name? I wasn’t told the other day when I was here, but if we are going to see each other every day it would be nicer.’ She smiled at him and he smiled back at her in a rather surprised way. ‘Belling, miss. And I’m sure I hope you’ll be happy here.’
‘Why, thank you, Belling, I hope so too. What do I do next?’
‘I’ll show you the cloak room, miss, where you can put your things and then ascertain if Lady Manderly is ready for you.’
He started off across the hall and then paused as someone came running down the staircase. Jemima paused too, having no choice as a man came round the curve of the staircase. She recognised him at once—who could forget that pepper-and-salt hair and the size of him? He stopped as he reached them, nodded at Belling and stared hard at her. ‘So you landed the job,’ he observed. ‘Well, I hope you’ll be a better companion than you were a typist.’ He smiled mockingly, but his eyes were as cold as the first time they had met.
Belling had gone to open the street door and he went through it without saying anything more. A very unpleasant man, but there was no harm in finding out who he was.
As Belling rejoined her she asked diffidently: ‘That gentleman—we met the other day at his office…’ She allowed her voice to sound questioning and the butler answered readily enough.
‘That is Professor Cator, miss—Professor Alexander Cator, Lady Manderly’s nephew and a very famous man in his field of learning.’
‘Oh, what sort of learning?’
‘Endocrinology, miss. He’s considered to be a very clever gentleman.’
And a nasty bad-tempered one too, thought Jemima as she was ushered into the small room she had waited in on her first visit. It was a good ten minutes before Belling came back and asked her to follow him.
Jemima got up with alacrity. It was, after all, an important moment in her life; she was about to start her first job.
CHAPTER TWO
BELLING LED THE WAY upstairs and on to the landing, but this time he ignored the drawing-room door and knocked on a smaller door opposite, opened it and stood aside for Jemima to go past him. Compared to the drawing-room, the apartment she entered was small; it was also austerely furnished with a fine knee-hole writing desk, an upright chair behind it, a couple of small tables and an upholstered armchair drawn up to the small fire burning in the polished steel grate.
Lady Manderly was in the chair, wearing a dress exactly the same as the grey one, but this time it was blue and the jet and gold necklace had been replaced by a turquoise choker. There was a pile of letters on the small table by her chair and she was tapping impatiently with a beringed hand upon the newspaper on her lap.
Jemima wished her good morning