LITMIR.BIZ

      The house sold quickly, the best of the furniture was sold, and the delicate china and glass. Most of the table silver was sold too, and the house, emptied of its contents, was bleak and unwelcoming. But there was still a great deal to do; even when Emma had packed the cases of unsaleable objects—the cheap kitchen china, the saucepans, the bed and table linen that they were allowed to keep—there were the visits from her parents’ friends, come to commiserate and eager, in a friendly way, for details. Their sympathy was genuine but their offers of help were vague. Emma and her mother must come and stay as soon as they were settled in; they would drive down to Salcombe and see them. Such a pretty place, and how fortunate that they had such a charming home to go to…

      Emma, ruthlessly weeding out their wardrobes, thought it unlikely that any of their offers would bear fruit.

      Mr Trump had done his best, and every debt had been paid, leaving a few hundred in the bank. Her mother would receive a widow’s pension, but there was nothing else. Thank heaven, reflected Emma, that it was early in April and a job, any kind of job, shouldn’t be too hard to find now that the season would be starting at Salcombe.

      They left on a chilly damp morning—a day winter had forgotten and left behind. Emma locked the front door, put the key through the letterbox and got into the elderly Rover they had been allowed to keep until, once at Salcombe, it was to be handed over to the receivers. Her father’s Bentley had gone, with everything else.

      She didn’t look back, for if she had she might have cried and driving through London’s traffic didn’t allow for tears. Mrs Dawson cried. She cried for most of their long journey, pausing only to accuse Emma of being a hard-hearted girl with no feelings when she suggested that they might stop for coffee.

      They reached Salcombe in the late afternoon and, as it always did, the sight of the beautiful estuary with the wide sweep of the sea beyond lifted Emma’s spirits. They hadn’t been to the cottage for some time but nothing had changed; the little house stood at the end of a row of similar houses, their front gardens opening onto a narrow path along the edge of the water, crowded with small boats and yachts, a few minutes’ walk from the main street of the little town, yet isolated in its own peace and quiet.

      There was nowhere to park the car, of course. Emma stopped in the narrow street close by and they walked along the path, opened the garden gate and unlocked the door. For years there had been a local woman who had kept an eye on the place. Emma had written to her and now, as they went inside, it was to find the place cleaned and dusted and groceries and milk in the small fridge.

      Mrs Dawson paused on the doorstep. ‘It’s so small,’ she said in a hopeless kind of voice, but Emma looked around her with pleasure and relief. Here was home: a small sitting room, with the front door and windows overlooking the garden, a smaller kitchen beyond and then a minute back yard, and, up the narrow staircase, two bedrooms with a bathroom between them. The furniture was simple but comfortable, the curtains a pretty chintz and there was a small open fireplace.

      She put her arm round her mother. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea and then I’ll get the rest of the luggage and see if the pub will let me put the car in their garage until I can hand it over.’

      She was tired when she went to bed that night; she had seen to the luggage and the car, lighted a small log fire and made a light supper before seeing her mother to her bed. It had been a long day, she reflected, curled up in her small bedroom, but they were here at last in the cottage, not owing a farthing to anyone and with a little money in the bank. Mr Trump had been an elderly shoulder to lean on, which was more than she could say for Derek. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ said Emma aloud.

      All the same she had been hurt.

      In the morning she went to the pub and persuaded the landlord to let her leave the car there until she could hand it over, and then went into the main street to do the shopping. Her mother had declared herself exhausted after their long drive on the previous day and Emma had left her listlessly unpacking her clothes. Not a very good start to the day, but it was a fine morning and the little town sparkled in the sunshine.

      Almost all the shops were open, hopeful of early visitors, and she didn’t hurry with her shopping, stopping to look in the elegant windows of the small boutiques, going to the library to enrol for the pair of them, arranging for milk to be delivered, ordering a paper too, and at the same time studying the advertisements in the shop window. There were several likely jobs on offer. She bought chops from the butcher, who remembered her from previous visits, and crossed the road to the greengrocer. He remembered her too, so that she felt quite light-hearted as she made her last purchase in the baker’s.

      The delicious smell of newly baked bread made her nose quiver. And there were rolls and pasties, currant buns and doughnuts. She was hesitating as to which to buy when someone else came into the shop. She turned round to look and encountered a stare from pale blue eyes so intent that she blushed, annoyed with herself for doing that just because this large man was staring. He was good-looking too, in a rugged kind of way, with a high-bridged nose and a thin mouth. He was wearing an elderly jersey and cords and his hair needed a good brush…

      He stopped staring, leaned over her, took two pasties off the counter and waved them at the baker’s wife. And now the thin mouth broke into a smile. ‘Put it on the bill, Mrs Trott,’ he said, and was gone.

      Emma, about to ask who he was, sensed that Mrs Trott wasn’t going to tell her and prudently held her tongue. He must live in the town for he had a bill. He didn’t look like a fisherman or a farm worker and he wouldn’t own a shop, not dressed like that, and besides he didn’t look like any of those. He had been rude, staring like that; she had no wish to meet him again but it would be interesting to know just who he was.

      She went back to the cottage and found a man waiting impatiently to collect the car and, what with one thing and another, she soon forgot the man at the baker’s.

      It was imperative to find work but she wasn’t going to rush into the first job that was vacant. With a little wangling she thought that she could manage two part-time jobs. They would cease at the end of the summer and even one part-time job might be hard to find after that.

      ‘I must just make hay while the sun shines,’ said Emma, and over the next few days scanned the local newspapers. She went from one end of the town to the other, sizing up what was on offer. Waitresses were wanted, an improver was needed at the hairdressers—but what was an improver? Chambermaids at the various hotels, an assistant in an arts and crafts shop, someone to clean holiday cottages between lets, and an educated lady to assist the librarian at the public library on two evenings a week…

      It was providential that while out shopping with her mother they were accosted by an elderly lady who greeted them with obvious pleasure.

      ‘Mrs Dawson—and Emma, isn’t it? Perhaps you don’t remember me. You came to the hotel to play bridge. I live at the hotel now that my husband has died and I’m delighted to see a face I know…’

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