The Penningtons (6 page)

She shrugged. ‘She heard about Miss Dutton going.’

‘Oh yes? And what else?’

‘The usual. You know what she’s like.’

Tom rolled his eyes. ‘Meddling in what doesn’t concern her!’

‘She thinks we should tell Daisy. She’s her grandma. She’s allowed to have an opinion, Tom.’

He leaned forward. ‘Her opinion’s fine but she should keep it to herself. And not come round with her jars of lemon curd, telling us what we should and shouldn’t do! We’ll tell Daisy when the time’s right and not just to please your ma! You can tell her that from me.’

‘She means well, Tom.’

‘I expect Satan
means
well!’ He sat back with a sigh. ‘Anybody’d think it was the end of the world. Hundreds of kiddies are adopted and none the worse for that. In most cases a sight better off! At least they’re wanted by their new parents.’

‘I know but still . . .’

‘No “buts”, Martha. Daisy’s ours, all legal and correct. Happy as a sandboy. She’ll be told soon enough – it’s not long now – and not a moment sooner. So tell your mother to stay out of it – or I’ll tell her! And she won’t like that much, I can promise you!’

Martha pushed back her chair and began to collect the plates, knives and forks. She knew Tom was right. She would have to have a word with her mother and warn her that Tom’s patience was running out.

He said, ‘What’s for pudding?’

‘Bramble and apple. Me and ma went out and picked the last of the blackberries.’

She had made his favourite dessert and smiled as the irritation left her husband’s face. It didn’t take much to make him happy.

Two days later, on the Thursday, Miss Dutton reappeared and entertained Daisy for nearly twenty minutes with her account of her mother’s progress – or rather, the lack of it.

‘The food in that hospital!’ she told her. ‘Ma says she wouldn’t give it to a starving dog and that’s the truth! Boiled potatoes day after day, dried up minced beef, horrible steamed fish full of bones, mutton stew full of grease and gristle . . . She couldn’t eat it and was wasting away. I reckon I got her out of there just in time.’

‘Dear oh dear.’ Daisy took another biscuit. ‘Poor soul!’

‘And the doctor was Scottish with that funny accent they have up there and speaking so fast she couldn’t understand him . . . and now she’s home and confined to bed so I had to buy a bed pan but Mrs Bligh’s commode will come in handy later on.’

‘You look very tired.’

‘Tired isn’t the half of it, Daisy.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m worn to a shadow but she’s my mother and at least I know she’s being looked after properly with proper food. I made some rosehip syrup yesterday and now she can have a spoonful twice a day. That’s full of goodness, Daisy. You should know how to make it . . . and calves’ foot jelly. A Mrs Bertram brought some round for her.’

‘Mrs Bertram?’

‘One of the many do-gooders, Daisy. Only the rich have time to make calves’ foot jelly. It takes four hours, so they say. I can’t abide the stuff myself but Ma’s not fussy. If it’s full of goodness she’ll swallow it down, bless her.’

She stopped for breath and another mouthful of tea and Daisy stepped in quickly.

‘Monty’s doing fine and tomorrow there’s another housekeeper coming and Hettie is coming to interview her and . . .’

‘Does he ask after me? I expect he misses me, poor old boy. At his age he doesn’t ask for much. I’ll pop up and see him before I go.’

‘He’s not in bed. He’s sitting in the summer house, reading the paper.’

Miss Dutton’s jaw dropped. ‘
In the summer house?
Lord sakes! What’s he doing there? How on earth did he . . . In the summer house? He’ll most likely be getting a chill in his kidneys! Are you trying to finish him off?’ She eased herself from the chair. ‘I’ll go out to him at once.’

‘He’s quite happy, Miss Dutton, and he’s warmly wrapped up. You’ll see.’

Miss Dutton paused at the back door. ‘What on earth made you drag him downstairs, Daisy? I can’t believe you would be so heartless!’

‘He was bored. He thought he was an invalid but he isn’t.’

The ex-housekeeper stared at Daisy accusingly. ‘And you thought you knew better than I did! What do the family think about this nonsense?’

‘Mrs Pennington didn’t say anything when she came to talk about interviewing Miss Locke.’

Momentarily distracted, Miss Dutton asked, ‘And what, pray, do we know about this Miss Locke?’

‘Not a great deal but they have talked on the telephone for a second time. She’s a catholic. Roman.’ Daisy shrugged. ‘Mrs Pennington said she doesn’t really approve of papists, whatever they are . . . and she wants quite a lot of time off. Monty doesn’t like the sound of her. He says she sounds like his grandmother who he hated when he was a boy.’

Miss Dutton shook her head disparagingly. ‘She could be trouble,’ she warned.

Daisy took another biscuit. ‘The grandmother sounds horrid. She once stood him in the corner for a whole afternoon for poking his tongue out at her horrid little dog, and she used to suck cachous all the time – the grandmother, I mean, not the dog and now he can’t abide the smell.’

‘Cachous?’

‘Little sweets that taste like violets and make your breath smell nice.’

Miss Dutton shook her head in despair at this folly then set off for the summer house, her back stiff with disapproval. Daisy took her time over the last three biscuits and put the empty tin away and by then Miss Dutton was back.

‘Well, he
seems
all right,’ she admitted reluctantly, ‘but I hope you know what you’re doing, Daisy. You might be storing up trouble for later though I hope not, for his sake. Now I must collect the rest of my things or I’ll miss the bus home.’

Daisy waved her off ten minutes later, with mixed feelings. She herself believed that her employer’s life was a lot richer since Miss Dutton had left him in her care. However, having someone to talk to reminded her how lonely it was being the only member of staff and she crossed her fingers that they would soon find someone who Monty liked and of whom the rest of the family could approve.

After Miss Dutton had gone, Monty folded his newspaper and set it aside. He was confused by his brief reunion with the housekeeper and it worried him. How could he have allowed himself to be kept in bed as a very bored invalid for all those years? At the time it had felt perfectly natural and sensible to have Miss Dutton fussing over him like a mother hen but now it seemed almost ridiculous. He could walk, albeit slowly, and it was much more interesting to come downstairs and have the occasional word with young Daisy as she flitted to and fro, brush and dustpan in hand.

He smiled suddenly. Sometimes she put a cloth and a tin of polish into his hands and said, ‘You do such a good job with the table, sir. I’ll let you do it today. As a special treat!’ And then she’d wink at him as though they shared a private joke. And he
did
make a good job of it even if he was a bit wobbly on the old pins and his arms and shoulders ached when he’d finished.

Sometimes he found himself in the summer house exchanging views with the gardener, or in the kitchen, chatting briefly to the butcher’s boy when he delivered the sausages or whatever it was Daisy had ordered. His smile became a grin as he thought of sausages and mash with a spoonful of mustard. A really good tasty meal, that was – his favourite, in fact – even if the mashed potatoes were a bit lumpy and the gravy like brown glue! It was better than steamed fish day after day.

He eyed next door’s tabby cat as it padded cautiously into the summer house, its paws crunching lightly over the fallen leaves that had blown in. Cats were not that bad, actually, he reflected, although Cressida had disliked them because their fur brought her out in a rash. Or so she’d said. They had never owned a cat so it was never proved.

‘Damn!’ he muttered. He had reminded himself of Cressida. A beautiful, sometimes secretive woman. A good wife but rather distant at times. He sighed. No, that wasn’t quite fair. Not distant. Cressida was by nature almost reclusive and not relaxed in company. She hated parties and celebrations. Especially christenings, but weddings and funerals were also a strain for her. She ‘kept herself to herself’, as the saying goes.

‘But good-hearted,’ he said aloud. The cat seemed to take these words as an invitation and sprang on to his lap. Monty held his breath as the cat settled down and began to purr.

‘Yes, Cressida was good-hearted,’ he went on aloud. ‘It couldn’t have been easy in Switzerland, coping with that almost senile aunt.’ Or was it melancholia? He couldn’t remember. ‘Anyway, it was a big responsibility for her but she didn’t once complain.’ He looked at the cat. Was it listening? ‘Months and months she was over there and came home as thin as a rake, looking drawn and wretched.’

He sighed. Poor Cressida. She had been denied the child she wanted but that was nobody’s fault. One of those things, the doctor had said to comfort her. Dear Cressida. They had been so much in love . . . and poor Albert had been so envious. Monty grinned at the memory. His brother’s first marriage had produced that awful boy, Stanley . . . and when his wife died he rather rushed into marriage with Hettie. Poor Albert. He was needy. Couldn’t bear to live alone. Still, Hettie looked after him well but she couldn’t compare with Cressida and Albert was jealous. The thought pleased him.

‘Why is there always so much rivalry between brothers?’ he mused then shrugged.

Cressida was long since gone. Gone but not forgotten, he told himself. Cressida was at peace now and he must soldier on alone.

Friday at quarter to eleven Hettie arrived at Park View and immediately began giving Daisy instructions. ‘We’ll start in the sitting room and will want a tray of tea and a plate of biscuits. You do have biscuits, I hope.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Don’t put too many on the plate. She may not be suitable and we don’t want to waste money on her.’

‘How many is too many?’

‘Six will be enough.’

‘Mr Pennington is wearing his best trousers and a corduroy jacket and I . . .’

‘There is no need for him to be present, Daisy. I am perfectly capable of deciding whether or not Miss Locke is suitable.’

Daisy looked dubious. ‘But it won’t be any good if Mont— I mean, if Mr Pennington doesn’t like her.’

‘Liking doesn’t come into it, Daisy. If she is competent and we can agree suitable wages . . .’

‘But liking her
does
matter!’ the girl insisted. ‘It matters to Mr Pennington.’

Hettie gave an exaggerated sigh. Really, staff these days! The girl’s too uppity for her own good, she told herself with growing irritation. When the time is right I shall suggest that Montague gets rid of her. Aloud she said, ‘That is no concern of yours. You are simply a housemaid and I’ll thank you to remember that. Now, where is my brother-in-law? I’ll have a word with him and then I’ll just have time for a quick look round to see that the house is in good order. No dust on the mantelpiece – that sort of thing.’ She smiled thinly. ‘I take it Miss Gray turned up yesterday. Dilys promised she would.’

Daisy said, ‘She did – and Mr Pennington is in the kitchen, talking to the gardener.’ She smiled. ‘They like to chat about the government and put the world to rights. They’re probably being rude about Mr Balfour!’

She has a nice smile, Hettie thought grudgingly, and lovely hair. She was suddenly reminded of her own youth when she was pretty with a flawless complexion, all of which had been snatched from her over the years. For a moment or two she was unhappily distracted from the business in hand but quickly returned to the present, pushed past the girl and hurried to the kitchen. Sure enough Montague was cheerfully ensconced on a stool while a middle-aged man leant against the jamb of the back door, a mug of tea in his hand. They both stared at Hettie – like two naughty schoolboys, she thought irritably.

To the gardener she said, ‘You’d better get back to work, Mr . . .?’

‘Everyone calls me Len.’ He straightened up.

She stiffened. ‘That may be but I would consider that a lack of respect if I were in your shoes! I assume you do have a surname.’

Before he could reply Montague said, ‘Hettie! You’re early.’ He held his hands out wide, displaying his chosen outfit. ‘How do I look?’

‘Very nice.’ It was still strange to see him up and about and not in bed and she reminded herself that this was not the frail, dependent man she had hoped for. A power of attorney suddenly seemed a remote possibility and she had the wretched Daisy to thank for that.

Len muttered something, touched his forehead to Hettie, winked at his employer and slid out of the back door.

Hettie gave her brother-in-law a peck on the cheek and said, ‘You’re looking very frail, dear. Does the doctor approve of you being out of bed?’ At the same time she realized that if he were no longer considered an invalid, a prospective housekeeper would be unable to demand extra money for ‘nursing care’.

‘Doctor?’ Montague looked startled. ‘Why bring the doctor into this. I’m not ill. I’m as fit as a fiddle, aren’t I, Daisy?’

She realized by his glance that the housemaid had followed her into the kitchen. Turning, she said, ‘You can get along now. You must have work to do. I can —’ the front doorbell rang – ‘oh dear, I wanted to check out the house but Miss Locke is early. Let her in and show her into the sitting room. Tell her I’ll be five minutes.’ As Daisy hurried to the front door, Hettie said, ‘Perhaps you should take a walk in the garden, Montague, while I conduct the interview. I’ll send for you when—’

‘No, no! I shall join you for the interview.’ He smiled at her and she sensed a firmness in his tone. That meddling Daisy! Dismayed, she bit back an angry retort, warning herself to step carefully. The situation may not be as bad as she had anticipated but she would need to consult with Dilys.

When at last Miss Locke, Montague and Hettie were ensconced in the sitting room with the tea tray on a small table, Hettie gradually felt relief seeping through her. The woman reminded her of a hospital matron – heavily built with a large bust and with a loud voice that, Hettie felt, oozed authority. Her original doubts faded and as the three of them talked, Hettie felt that Miss Locke, despite her religious views, would take control of any given situation and run the household with well regimented precision. Miss Locke would certainly not allow Montague and the gardener to lounge about in her kitchen, discussing the government and maligning the prime minister! The salary had been agreed and also the length of the probationary period, and Hettie was on the point of declaring the interview at an end when she remembered that Dilys wanted to be involved. She had promised to discuss it with her sister-in-law and she would have to comply.