An Old Fashioned Girl. Betty Neels

heads sadly; the dear child tended to be a little too forthright in her talk sometimes, and gentlemen liked to be right about everything even if they weren’t, a supposition to which Patience had never subscribed. Her future was a constant worry to them. It was a constant worry to Patience too, although she never said so.

      Patience, ready to leave the house for her interview with Miss Murch, stood before the pier-glass in Aunt Bessy’s bedroom and studied her reflection. She looked suitable, she considered, in a pleated tweed skirt, white blouse and her short woollen jacket, all garments she had worn for longer than she cared to remember although of excellent quality, well brushed and pressed. She never wore much make-up; her skin was creamy and as smooth as a child’s but she added discreet lipstick and smoothed her hair into even greater neatness. She had left the aunts dozing by the fire, both still a little unsettled at the idea of a Martin going to work in a menial capacity in her own home; it had taken her the intervening days to coax them into fully accepting the idea. She peeped into the sitting-room now, made sure that the fireguard was in place and that they were soundly asleep, and let herself out of the house.

      It was ten minutes’ walk to her old home, standing as it did half a mile along a narrow lane leading from the village. It should suit the new tenant, she reflected as she stepped out briskly and turned in through the gateposts and up the curved drive. It gave her a pang to see the house again; she had lived there for eleven years, ever since her parents had died in a car accident, and she loved the rather shabby place, timber-framed, its plaster walls pargeted. Its beginnings were some time during the late sixteenth century and it had been added to and altered until it presented a somewhat higgledy-piggledy appearance. The aunts had been born there, for it had been in the Martin family for the last hundred and fifty years; Patience wondered if they would ever live in it again. It seemed unlikely; Mr Bennett had warned them that, if a buyer should take a fancy to it, it would be wise to sell it. It was only after the ladylike battle they had fought with him that he had agreed to try and let it. Patience sighed and went round the side of the house to the tradesmen’s entrance. There were lights already in some of the windows and a Bentley before the front door, and when she rang the bell it was opened by Mrs Croft from the village, who welcomed her warmly. ‘Me and Mrs Perch ‘as been ‘ere all day, Miss Patience, putting things to rights, as you might say. You’re expected. I’m to take you straight away to Miss Murch.’ She added in a warning whisper, ‘Proper ol’ tartar, she is, too.’

      Patience followed her along the flagged passage leading to the kitchen, passing the boot-room, the pantry, the stillroom and a vast broom-cupboard on the way. The kitchen was large, rather dark and old-fashioned. There was a vast porcelain sink, a dresser taking up most of one wall and any number of cupboards. The scrubbed table in the centre of the room was capable of seating a dozen persons and there were Windsor chairs on either side of the Aga—one of the first models, Aunt Bessy had proudly declared, and still in fine working order.

      The housekeeper’s room led off the kitchen and Mrs Croft pushed open the half-open door. ‘Here’s Miss Martin to see you, Miss Murch.’ She stood back to allow Patience to go past her, winked and nodded and trotted off. She and indeed most of the village had been warned not to mention the fact that Patience had lived in the house where she was to be employed, something they readily agreed to—after all, the Martins owned the house, didn’t they? And the new tenant was a foreigner, wasn’t he? And that Miss Murch, from what they could see of her as the car swept through the village, looked an old cross-patch.

      Certainly the frowning face turned to her as she went into the room did nothing to raise Patience’s hopes. Miss Murch was tall and angular, dressed severely in black, her pepper and salt hair plaited and secured on the top of her head by pins. She had a thin sharp nose, dark eyes and a thin mouth. Patience thought, Oh, dear, and she said, ‘Good afternoon, Miss Murch.’

      ‘You are the young woman recommended by the solicitors?’ She glanced at the letters on the desk before her; Mr Bennett and the Reverend Mr Cuthbertson had no doubt written suitably. ‘Your references are good—I see that you have the same name as the owners of the house.’ She paused and looked at Patience.

      ‘It is a common name in these parts, Miss Murch.’

      ‘I believe that Mr van der Beek’s secretary has already outlined your duties. It must be understood that you will come to me for instructions; I have kept house for Mr van der Beek for some years and I know exactly how he wishes his home to be run. Any deviation from that will not be tolerated. You will work from ten o’clock until four o’clock with the exception of Sunday, you will have three-quarters of an hour for your midday meal, you may have a cup of coffee during the morning and a cup of tea during the afternoon, and I expect you to work hard. You are already aware of what your wages will be and they will be paid weekly.’ She paused but Patience prudently held her tongue and Miss Murch continued, ‘You are to answer the telephone, prevent disturbances of any kind at the door and deal with the local tradespeople. It may be necessary from time to time for you to undertake some household tasks. Even in the short time in which we have been here I have become aware that there are very few modern appliances in the house; the bathrooms are old-fashioned and the kitchen quarters are ill equipped.’

      Patience bit back rude words. ‘I believe the Aga is old, but—but I’m told that it is quite satisfactory.’

      Miss Murch gave a ladylike snort. ‘I hope that you may be right. Well, that is settled—I shall expect you on Monday morning. Use the side-door; Mr van der Beek is not to be disturbed. Good day to you, Miss Martin.’

      I shall hate it, thought Patience, going back to the little terraced house, but it was only for six months, she reflected, and her wages were generous. She would be able to save enough to keep them going while Mr Tomkins looked for a buyer or tenant. She gave the aunts a version of her interview which she knew would satisfy them and went to the kitchen to get the tea.

      The aunts went to church in the morning, but Patience for once excused herself. There was a pile of ironing to be done as well as Sunday lunch to cook; she would be busy enough in the morning leaving everything ready for the aunts’ lunch and tidying the house.

      It was a wild, blustery day. She saw the old ladies safely to the end of the street and into the churchyard and nipped smartly back to get on with the chores uninterrupted. By the time her aunts were back from church she had done everything she needed to do, lunch was ready and the afternoon was hers to do as she wished.

      It was barely two o’clock by the time she had washed up the dishes, set the tea ready and made sure that her aunts were settled comfortably. It was raining now and the wind was as strong as ever. A walk, she decided, a good long walk away from the village, along the bridle paths, seldom used these days. She got into her Burberry, a relic of better days and still waterproof, tied a scarf over her head, found a pair of woolly gloves and let herself out of the house. There was no one about but then there wouldn’t be—the village would be sitting before the television sets or snoring comfortably before the fire.

      She walked briskly, blown along by the wind, past her old home until, half a mile or so along the path, she turned down a bridle path which would lead eventually to the neighbouring village some miles away. She didn’t intend to go as far as that, though; there was a short cut after a mile or so which would bring her out on to another path leading back to the village, enabling her to get home before it was dark and her aunts wanted their tea. She squelched along in her wellies, happily engrossed in mental arithmetic which for once was satisfactory, and, that dealt with, she fell to wondering about her job. At least the house would be properly taken care of; Miss Murch didn’t look as though she would tolerate slovenly housework and she supposed that since Mr van der Beek was so engrossed in his work it was a good thing he had such an eagle-eyed housekeeper. She amused herself deciding what he would look like. Stout, probably bald, wearing glasses, middle-aged and speaking with a thick accent. A pity she wasn’t likely to see him; Miss Murch had seemed determined about that …

      She turned off the bridle path, climbed a gate and, keeping to the hedge because of the winter wheat showing green, began to walk its length. The open country stretched all around her, desolate under a leaden sky with only farm buildings in the distance to break the emtpy vastness. Not that Patience thought of