LITMIR.BIZ

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of the room and banged the door after him only to open it again. ‘And kindly remember that this house and its contents are now mine.’

      She sat quietly until she heard the bang of the front door—banging doors was Walter’s way of expressing his annoyance. She got to her feet then, picked up the money and put it in her handbag and went along to the kitchen to make herself some lunch. She was alone in the house; there had been a cook and a housemaid when her stepfather had been alive but Walter had dismissed them with a month’s wages the moment the funeral was over. Unnecessary mouths to feed, he had told Barbara; he wouldn’t need to pay Deborah anything if she stayed at the house until he had sold it. She had nowhere to go, no family living near by, and her only friends were elderly ones of her mother. She had lost touch with them anyway, for his father had discouraged any social life which she might have had; her place, he had told her frequently, was at home, looking after him. It was, Walter had observed in a satisfied voice, a most satisfactory arrangement.

      Deborah ate her lunch, got her outdoor things and left the house, walking briskly in the chill March wind. The bus stop was some minutes away, for her stepfather’s house was in one of the secluded roads in Hampstead, but she enjoyed the short walk, her head full of plans. She was free; never mind what Walter had said, she would find a job as quickly as possible and leave the house. She could leave the keys with the house agent …

      In Oxford Street, off the bus, she bought an evening paper and scanned its columns for agents’ addresses. There was any number. She chose the nearest, stated her wish to work as a mother’s help, paid her fee, and made her way to the second address she had marked on the newspaper. She visited four agencies and the fees made a considerable hole in Walter’s money. Set a sprat to catch a mackerel, Deborah told herself, getting on the bus again to go back to Hampstead and the large unfriendly house she had called home for some years.

      She had tea and supper together for it was already early evening, sitting in the kitchen, pencil and paper on the table beside her, doing optimistic sums. She had given her telephone number to the agencies; they would ring if there was anything suitable. In the meanwhile she would pack her clothes and—since it hadn’t entered her head to do otherwise—clean and dust and Hoover the gloomy rooms until she was able to leave. She locked up presently and went upstairs to her room and got ready for bed. She didn’t like being alone in the house but, since she had no choice, she tried to ignore the small noises and creaks which somehow only sounded at night. Tonight, however, she was too excited at the thought of her future to worry about that.

      She didn’t expect to hear anything the next day but by the end of the fourth day she was getting worried. A man from the house agent had been, inspected the house and told her that he would be in touch with her stepbrother, and it seemed to her highly likely that Walter would pay a visit in the very near future. She phoned the agencies the next morning and the first three had nothing for her but the fourth was more hopeful; if she would go along to the office perhaps she would like to consider a post which might suit her.

      Deborah lost no time. The rush-hour was over, the bus made good time, and she found herself in Oxford Street, five minutes’ walk from the side-street and the agency.

      She was at its door when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

      ‘Debby—it is Debby? My dear, such a long time since I saw you last—your stepfather died recently, did he not? Two weeks ago, wasn’t it? Are you living with your stepbrother?’

      The speaker was elderly, well dressed and still pretty and her smile was warm.

      ‘Mrs Dexter, how lovely to see you—it’s years …’

      ‘So it is,’ said her companion and reflected that Deborah’s looks hadn’t improved with the passing of time and surely she had been wearing that jacket and skirt when they had met last. ‘You must have lunch with me and tell me your news, but first I must go and see that tiresome woman in the agency. You remember old Mrs Vernon? A friend of your dear mother’s and of your grandmother’s too. She had a stroke some months ago and now she is living with her niece who simply can’t cope with her and has begged me to find someone to live in and look after her—a light post, she tells me, with a little housework and ironing and so forth. There’s help in the house anyway but Clara—the niece, you know—tells me that she herself isn’t too strong.’

      Mrs Dexter drew breath and Deborah said quickly, ‘Mrs Dexter, I need a job badly, as soon as possible—would I do?’

      ‘You? My dear—but surely … did your stepfather not leave you provided for?’ And when Deborah shook her head, ‘And your stepbrother—I’ve forgotten his name—there must be plenty of money?’

      ‘I believe there is, but Walter is settling things. He’s selling the house—I’m staying there until it’s sold and then I am to find work. Only I thought I wouldn’t wait for that so I’ve got my name down at several agencies for mother’s help or something similar. I’m used to running a house and looking after invalids.’

      She spoke without bitterness and Mrs Dexter patted her arm. ‘You have had more than your fair share of that, my dear. I believe that you would do very well for Mrs Vernon, especially as she has known you and your mother. We will go and see the woman inside and settle things.’

      They mounted the stairs together and at the top Mrs Dexter said, ‘I forgot to tell you, they live in the depths of the country—the Cotswolds, would you mind?’

      ‘Mind? I shall love it, and Walter won’t know where I am …’

      Mrs Dexter paused on the landing. ‘You had a stepsister too—a very pretty girl.’

      ‘Barbara, yes, she has a boutique somewhere near Harrods.’

      ‘She wouldn’t like you to live with her?’ ventured Mrs Dexter.

      ‘She doesn’t like me either,’ said Deborah in a voice quite empty of self-pity.

      Mrs Dexter said no more but swept into the agency office, dealt briskly with the stony-eyed woman behind the desk and swept out again, Deborah in tow. ‘That’s settled,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘I shall drive you down myself the day after tomorrow. Clara will be both relieved and delighted. Did I mention your salary? No?’ She thought for a moment and mentioned a sum which Deborah, quite without money of her own for a long time, found unbelievably generous. They had coffee together in a chic little café and parted company the best of friends, Mrs Dexter to go into Liberty’s and Deborah to scour BHS for the replenishment of her meagre wardrobe. Something suitable for the companion of a bedridden old lady and some decent undies—a dressing-gown too in case she had to get up in the night and sensible shoes, for presumably if her new job was in the country she would walk in her free time. Pleased with her purchases, she took herself back to Hampstead, and over her tea counted her remaining money. There wasn’t a great deal left, but she wouldn’t need any for the first week or so. Walter would be furious when he discovered that she had used his money in such a fashion but, after all, he had given it to her … She went to bed happy for the first time in years.

      She spent the next day finishing her packing and making sure that the house was as clean and tidy as she could make it. She had thought a lot about writing a note to Walter and finally composed a stiff little letter telling him that she had found work for herself, left the keys with the house agent and turned off the water. He would be annoyed, of course, but it was unlikely that he would bother to look for her. She left the note on the hall table and went to bed for the last time in the house in the plainly furnished room her stepfather had considered good enough for her. Before she went to sleep she wondered what her room would be like in Mrs Vernon’s house. Speculating happily about her future, she went to sleep.

      She was to be fetched in the morning and Mrs Dexter’s chauffeur-driven car drew up before the door shortly after nine o’clock. Sitting in the back with her mother’s friend, Deborah was invited to ask any questions she wished.

      ‘Mrs Vernon—is she Mrs Vernon’s aunt?’

      ‘No, no—Robert Vernon is her nephew. He and Clara have three children: two boys and a girl—let me see,

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