The Penningtons (3 page)

‘Daisy. Daisy Letts.’

‘Well, Daisy, when you have telephoned my sister, please bring up my hot water and a clean towel so that I can wash while you remake my bed. We seem to have wasted a lot of time already with Miss Dutton’s disappearance and you may need to telephone the butcher with the new order . . . and has the newspaper come yet?’

‘I don’t think so but I’ve been too busy to notice.’

‘Miss Dutton always brings it up about this time.’

Startled she said, ‘Lordy sir! I’ll need another pair of hands at this rate!’

He looked startled by her tone. ‘Miss Dutton always managed without any fuss.’

‘Of course she did, sir!’ Daisy rolled her eyes. ‘She had me to run about for her. I’m me and I’ve got nobody else.’

To show her disapproval she withdrew smartly closing the door behind her. ‘What does he take me for?’ she muttered indignantly. Downstairs she went straight to the telephone, found the number and rang the operator who then connected her to the Maynard’s number. A maid answered and explained that her mistress was busy with the chiropodist. ‘She suffers with her feet something terrible,’ she confided in a half whisper. ‘I reckon it comes from those fancy shoes they like to wear.’ In a louder voice she asked, ‘Will you ring back or shall I ask her to ring you?’

Daisy hesitated. ‘Ask her to ring me, please, and say it’s about her brother Montague Pennington.’

When she hung up the telephone she smiled, a cautious look of triumph. It wasn’t so difficult – the telephone. A lot of fuss about nothing, she told herself. She had rather enjoyed speaking to the operator who had been very polite if a little abrupt. Perhaps they had been told not to chat to people.

Almost half an hour later the telephone rang and it was Dilys Maynard.

‘I want to speak to my brother,’ she said crisply. ‘I have very little time and . . .’

‘I’m afraid he’s bedridden. I thought you knew.’ Daisy stared at the receiver in surprise. Surely his family understood that their brother was no longer able to get around. ‘This telephone is downstairs in the hall.’

‘Bedridden? No. We thought him largely confined to bed from choice. A bit of a recluse, perhaps. He has no disability that I am aware of – unless something has been hidden from us. Is that the case?’

‘I wouldn’t know that, Mrs Maynard. I’ve never looked after him. That was Miss Dutton. She spent a lot of time with him. He’s going to need a new housekeeper and . . .’

‘A new housekeeper? What’s wrong with Miss Dutton?’

‘She’s left. Given in her notice all of a sudden and rushed off to her mother who’s in hospital. That’s why I’m talking to you. Your sister-in-law thought you . . .’

‘Ha!’ There was a lot of expression in that short word. ‘Now I understand. You’ve been talking to Hettie – to Mrs Pennington! Montague’s housekeeper leaves him stranded and Hettie thinks she’s going to burden me with the problem! That is so like her.’ The silence lengthened. ‘So Miss Dutton has left him after all these years. So much for devotion. I am surprised.’ After a silence she asked, ‘So what exactly am I supposed to be doing about it?’

‘I think she was hoping you could find us a new housekeeper.’

‘Find a new housekeeper? Just like that! That really is typical of my sister-in-law!’

Daisy stuck her tongue out at the absent Dilys and waited.

Mrs Maynard said, ‘I wonder where Miss Dutton came from. Possibly an agency. You could look through the telephone book and see if there is anywhere in there that sounds like an employment agency. If there is ask them if they sent Miss Dutton and if they say “yes” ask them to send two or three names for us to consider.’ She paused and Daisy heard her muttering to herself. ‘In the meantime I may be able to come over and discuss the matter with your employer. Montague will know what wages he paid and the hours and so on . . . Yes, that will suffice for the moment.’

The line went dead.

TWO

F
or Daisy, time passed in a blur of unremitting activity. Monty (as she continued to think of him) was a demanding invalid and she began to realize why Miss Dutton had always appeared harassed and had considered herself unappreciated. The bedside bell summoned Daisy upstairs too many times and at last she ignored it.

‘I’ll come up when I’m good and ready,’ she muttered.

Ten minutes later when that time came she went up to him and announced that she was going home to tell her parents what had happened and to collect some nightclothes.

‘Mind you,’ she warned, ‘I don’t know what my pa will have to say, me staying overnight with just the two of us. If he says “no” then that’s an end to it and you’ll have to be on your lonesome until first thing tomorrow.’

A look akin to horror dawned in his eyes. ‘You can’t do that!’ he begged. ‘Please! I’ll pay you more money. I’ll pay you another sixpence a night . . . no, ninepence . . . no, sixpence.’

‘Ninepence,’ she insisted, her eyes narrowing. ‘Ninepence might do the trick. My pa’s very sharp when it comes to money.’

He nodded. ‘And as to it being just the two of us, tell your father, Daisy, that I’m in my seventies and have no interest in young ladies. He’ll understand.’

Daisy nodded then smiled.

‘So when will you be making supper, Daisy? It’s nearly six o’clock already.’

‘I don’t rightly know but I’ll ask my ma what I should cook for you. She’ll know. Leastways she’ll have some idea.’

When she left him she felt a twinge of pity for the old man. He was sitting up in bed and reminded her of a small and rather nervous schoolboy.

Watching the clock, Monty managed to stay in bed for forty-five minutes then, restless and uncertain, he slid carefully from the bed and tottered across to the window which looked across the garden to the lane which led to Arnsby Farm Cottage where Daisy said she lived with her father and mother. He stared from the window, through faded blue eyes blurred with age, hoping for a glimpse of Daisy on her way back, but apart from a shepherd with a small flock of sheep, he saw no one.

Was she going to come back, he wondered, or would her father insist that she continue as a ‘daily’. Should he have offered her more than ninepence per night? Would her father consider the offer derisory? And if he did allow her to return would her mother have told her how to provide a reasonable supper?

Perhaps he should telephone Dilys to tell her he was alone in the house. Perhaps his sister would take pity on him and hurry over to set things right? He tried to remember the last time he had seen her but the memory was vague and somehow disquieting. There had been a disagreement of some kind, he recalled – something to do with money.

With a deep sigh he gave up his vigil and stared round the bedroom. The photograph of his wedding caught his eye and he swallowed hard. Cressida. She had been such a catch. He smiled. Prettier than Hettie – his brother had been so jealous. Even his sister had resented Cressida’s perfect complexion, naturally waved hair and beautiful grey eyes . . .

He sighed again. His wedding day was a distant memory. Suddenly, without warning, he was sixty-eight, a pathetic old man confined to his bed, with no one to care. Even Miss Dutton had deserted him.

Another glance from the window showed no sign of young Daisy returning along the lane and on impulse, he crossed carefully to the door of his room and opened it. A few more slow steps and he reached the landing. Peering over the banisters he saw the stairs stretching endlessly below – or so it seemed. It was so long since he had even
seen
the stairs, let alone made his way down them to the ground floor. Clinging to the banister rail he wondered what he would do if young Daisy failed to return. He would need to go downstairs to find food. He would need to answer the telephone if it rang, and answer the door if anyone arrived to see him. The latter meant he would have to be fully dressed – if he could remember where his clothes were kept.

Confused and afraid, he took several deep breaths to try and steady himself but perched on the landing at the top of the stairs he felt horribly vulnerable. His legs were weak from years of inaction, he clung to the banister for support, and the thought of his bed was increasingly tempting. Perhaps, he thought, he should go back to bed and await developments.

At that moment he had another unsettling thought. If Daisy failed to return – he trembled at the very idea – how would he alert people to the fact that he had been deserted and was alone and helpless?

‘Now then, Montague,’ he told himself sternly. ‘You would do what had to be done. You would find a way.’

He could write a message and wrap it round a brick or something and drop it from the window . . . and the window cleaner would find it – wouldn’t he? The postman might want to deliver a parcel and when nobody answered his knock . . . but when did anyone last send him a parcel?

Slowly, his hands groping along the wall, Montague made his way back to his room and fell on to his bed with a gasp of relief.

‘Safe at last,’ he whispered.

As he slid back beneath the bedclothes he told himself that Daisy would return at any moment.
And she would
stay overnight
. He would not be alone through the dark hours, listening to the odd creaks and groans of the house and wondering if any of them were more than that – the footsteps, perhaps of an intruder.

He was reminded of his first night at boarding school. Even though he was sharing a dormitory with other boys, he was only eight years old and far from home, and in an emergency his parents would not be there to help him.

‘But you’re too old now for monsters and goblins,’ he told himself sternly, with a belated attempt to see the funny side of his situation. When night came there would be no ghosts hovering in the shadows; no malicious trolls hiding under the bed; no demons waiting in the shadows to pounce on him as soon as he set foot outside the safety of the bed. Nevertheless he would take no chances but would remain in bed until Daisy returned – and if she left it too long and found his dead body, she would have only herself to blame.

Almost an hour later Daisy left her home with a basket on her arm containing her best flower-sprigged nightdress (rolled up) and a small cloth and a tin of Euchryl tooth powder. A large slice of meat roll and some cold boiled potatoes were wrapped in a clean cloth and a large Kilner jar contained a rice pudding. There was also a slim bundle of simple recipes copied in her mother’s almost illegible scrawl – sausage and mash, bacon and eggs and fishcakes.

Her mother, Martha, stood at the gate to see her off. ‘And no nonsense from old Monty,’ she reminded her daughter.

‘He’s over seventy, Ma!’

‘And Dais, make sure you lock all the doors last thing . . .’

‘I will, Ma!’ She hurried a little, anxious to be out of her mother’s sight and hearing. The last-minute warnings were starting to unnerve her.

‘. . . and the downstairs windows – and sleep with the keys under your pillow.’

‘I will!’

‘Maybe see you some time tomorrow then. I’ll make it all right with your pa . . . and ask the old man about you-know-what!’

‘I will. Bye!’

‘God bless!’

As Daisy rounded the corner she let out a sigh of relief. ‘You-know-what’ referred to a request for more money for the nights she would ‘stay over’. Part of a housekeeper’s wages, her mother had reminded her. Her pa would never countenance anyone taking advantage of his daughter and Daisy, willing and eager, was already making plans for the extra money she would earn.

At five past six that evening Monty found himself sitting up in bed, eyeing his supper which Daisy had placed before him with a proud flourish. She had warmed up the roll in the oven and fried up the potatoes and was now watching for his reaction.

‘What’s this then?’ he asked tremulously.

Daisy sat down beside him with a similar plate of food on his bedside table. ‘Our supper,’ she told him. ‘Meat roll and potatoes and there’s chutney if you want it.’ To encourage him she reached for a jar of Miss Dutton’s plum chutney and helped herself to a large spoonful.

‘Meat roll?’ He regarded her with dismay. ‘I mustn’t have meat. It’s too difficult to digest. Miss Dutton insisted that . . .’

‘She’s gone, sir, so you’ll have to get used to me until they find someone else. The potatoes are a mite burnt but they’re still edible.’ To demonstrate this, Daisy popped a large forkful into her mouth and chewed with relish.

‘I have to have fish,’ said Monty. ‘Sometimes steamed, sometimes boiled, sometimes . . .’

‘And what else?’

‘Mashed potatoes or boiled potatoes, peas, runner beans . . .’

‘I mean what else besides fish.’

‘Nothing else. I have a delicate stomach.’

‘Who said so?’ She ate some meat roll. ‘This roll’s good. My ma made it. Try some.’

He pushed the plate away. ‘I’ll get indigestion. Or dyspepsia . . . or heartburn. At my age . . .’

‘Stop grumbling, sir. If you’re hungry eat it. If you don’t want it, I’ll have it.’ She gave him a stern look. ‘If you’re ill I’ll send for the doctor. If you’re not ill, you should eat. It’s nourishment. I’m afraid Miss Dutton’s been pampering you, sir. Giving you invalid food when you’re not an invalid.’ She sighed. ‘Just try it, to please me. I’ve done my best at short notice. Tomorrow I’ll send for some fish and make fishcakes. One of my ma’s favourite recipes and I copied it out. Pa’s very keen on . . .’

‘Fishcakes? Are they steamed?’ Tentatively he pulled the plate towards him and sniffed it. He lifted a forkful of meat roll to his mouth and closed his eyes.

‘No, sir. Fish cakes are fried and very tasty. I shall put an egg in and some chopped parsley from the garden and something else – it may have been potato.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘There! You enjoyed that, didn’t you?’

‘It was . . . better than I expected.’

‘Now try the potatoes.’

Ten minutes later Montague had eaten everything on his plate including a small sample of chutney. He had actually enjoyed it in a somewhat fearful way, expecting at any moment to feel the first pangs of whatever disorder it was going to provoke. Nothing had happened, however, and he now felt pleasantly full. When Daisy had taken the plates downstairs, he settled himself comfortably in the bed and closed his eyes. He had survived the first few hours of Miss Dutton’s disappearance and Daisy’s first attempt to provide him with a meal. Cautiously hopeful, he told himself that it would only be a matter of days before Miss Dutton’s replacement arrived.