Rags To Riches: Her Duty To Please. Michelle Douglas

      Where exactly was she to go? How much would she be paid? What about free time? The language question? The doctor had mentioned none of these. Moreover, he had accepted her decision without surprise and in a casual manner which, when she thought about it, annoyed her. He should be suitably grateful that she had delayed her plans to accommodate his. She had another cup of coffee and a bun and thought about clothes.

      She had a little money of her own. In theory she kept the small salary she had been getting at the convalescent home to spend as she wished, but in practice she used it to bolster up the housekeeping money her father gave her each month.

      Neither he nor her mother were interested in how it was spent. The mundane things of life—gas bills, the plumber, the most economical cuts of meat—meant nothing to them; they lived in their own world of the Celts, who, to them at least, were far more important and interesting.

      Now she must spend some of her savings on clothes. She wouldn’t need much: a jacket, which would stand up to rain, a skirt and one or two woollies, and shoes—the sensible pair she wore to the convalescent home were shabby. No need for a new dress; she wasn’t likely to go anywhere.

      And her parents; someone would have to keep an eye on them if she were to go to Holland in a week’s time and if Aunt Millicent, the elderly cousin, was unable to come earlier than they had arranged. Mrs Snow in the village might oblige for a few days, with basic cooking and cleaning. Really, she thought vexedly, she could make no plans until she heard from Dr van der Breugh.

      Her parents received her news with mild interest. Her mother nodded her head in a knowledgeable way and observed that both she and Araminta’s father knew what was best for her and she was bound to enjoy herself, as well as learn something of a foreign land, even if it was only a very small one like Holland. She added that she was sure that Araminta would arrange everything satisfactorily before she went. ‘You’ll like looking after the dear little boys.’

      Araminta said that, yes, she expected she would. Probably they were as tiresome and grubby as all small boys, but she was fond of children and had no qualms about the job. She would have even less when she knew more about it.

      A state of affairs which was put right the next morning, when she received a letter from Dr van der Breugh. It was a long letter, typed, and couched in businesslike language. She would be called for at her home on the following Sunday at eleven o’clock and would spend a few hours with her charges before travelling to Holland on the night ferry from Harwich. She would be good enough to carry a valid passport and anything she might require overnight. It was hoped that her luggage might be confined to no more than two suitcases.

      She would have a day off each week, and every evening after eight o’clock, and such free time during the day as could be arranged. Her salary would be paid to her weekly in Dutch guldens… She paused here to do some arithmetic—she considered it a princely sum, which certainly sweetened the somewhat arbitrary tone of the letter. Although there was no reason why it should have been couched in friendlier terms; she scarcely knew the doctor and didn’t expect to see much of him while she was in Holland.

      She told her mother that the arrangements for her new job seemed quite satisfactory, persuaded Mrs Snow to undertake the housekeeping until Aunt Millicent could come, and then sifted through her wardrobe. The jersey two-piece and the corn silk blouse, an equally sober skirt and an assortment of tops and a warmer woolly or two, a short wool jacket to go over everything and a perfectly plain dress in a soft blue crêpe; an adequate choice of clothes, she considered, adding a raincoat, plain slippers and undies.

      She had good shoes and a leather handbag; gloves and stockings and a headscarf or two would fill the odd corners in the one case she intended taking. Her overnight bag would take the rest. She liked clothes, but working in the children’s convalescent home had called for sensible skirts and tops in sensible colours, and she had seldom had much of a social life. She was uneasily aware that her clothes were dull, but there was no time to change that, and anyway, she hadn’t much money. Perhaps she would get a new outfit in Holland…

      The week went quickly. She cleaned and polished, washed and ironed, laid in a stock of food and got a room ready for Aunt Millicent. And she went into Henley and bought new shoes, low-heeled brown leather and expensive, and when she saw a pink angora sweater in a shop window she bought that too. She was in two minds about buying a new jacket, but caution took over then. She had already spent more money than she’d intended. Though caution wasn’t quite strong enough to prevent her buying a pretty silk blouse which would render the sober skirt less sober.

      On Sunday morning she was ready and waiting by eleven o’clock—waiting with her parents who, despite their wish to get back to researching the Ancient Celts, had come into the hall to see her off. Cherub was there too, looking morose, and she stooped to give him a final hug; they would miss each other.

      Exactly on the hour a car drew up outside and Briskett got out, wished them all good morning, stowed her case in the boot and held the rear car door open for her.

      ‘Oh, I’d rather sit in front with you,’ said Araminta, and she gave her parents a final kiss before getting into the car, waved them a cheerful goodbye and sat back beside Briskett. It was a comfortable car, a Jaguar, and she could see from the moment Briskett took the wheel that despite his unlikely looks they hid the soul of a born driver.

      There wasn’t much traffic until they reached Henley and here Briskett took the road to Oxford.

      ‘Aren’t I to go to the London address?’ asked Araminta.

      ‘No, miss. The doctor thought it wise if you were to make the acquaintance of the boys at their home. They live with their parents at Oxford. The doctor will come for you and them later today and drive to Harwich for the night ferry.’

      ‘Oh, well, I expect that’s a good idea. Are you coming to Holland too?’

      ‘No, miss. I’ll stay to keep an eye on things here; the boss has adequate help in Holland. He’s for ever to-ing and fro-ing—having two homes, as it were.’

      ‘Then why can’t the two boys stay here in England?’

      ‘He’ll be in Holland for a few weeks, popping over here when he is needed. Much in demand, he is.’

      ‘We won’t be expected to pop over, too? Very unsettling for the little boys…’

      ‘Oh, no, miss. That’s why you’ve been engaged; he can come and go without being hampered, as you might say.’

      The house he stopped before in Oxford was in a terrace of similar comfortably large houses, standing well back from the road. Araminta got out and stood beside Briskett in the massive porch waiting for someone to answer the bell. She was a self-contained girl, not given to sudden bursts of excitement, but she was feeling nervous now.

      Supposing the boys disliked her on sight? It was possible. Or their parents might not like the look of her. After all, they knew nothing about her, and now that she came to think about it, nor did Dr van der Breugh. But she didn’t allow these uncertain feelings to show; the door was opened by a girl in a pinafore, looking harassed, and she and Briskett went into the hall.

      ‘Miss Pomfrey,’ said Briskett. ‘She’s expected.’

      The girl nodded and led them across the hall and into a large room overlooking a garden at the back of the house. It was comfortably furnished, extremely untidy, and there were four people in it. The man and woman sitting in easy chairs with the Sunday papers strewn around them got up.

      The woman was young and pretty, tall and slim, and well dressed in casual clothes. She came to meet Araminta as she hesitated by the door.

      ‘Miss Pomfrey, how nice of you to come all this way. We’re so grateful. I’m Lucy Ingram, Marcus’s sister—but of course you know that—and this is my husband, Jack.’

      Araminta shook hands with her and then with Mr Ingram, a rather short stout man with a pleasant rugged face, while his wife spoke to Briskett, who left the room with a cheerful, ‘So long, miss, I’ll see you later.’

      ‘Such