Marrying Mary Page 7

  ‘Why not? Are you in love with Mary?’

  He answered coolly, ‘Not in the least, Polly. But I have seen her twice with those children, and it was obvious on both occasions that they were making her life a misery.’

  Polly nodded. ‘She won’t talk about it; you see, we haven’t any money unless she has a job, and Mrs Bennett is starting to make her work longer hours.’ She added, ‘It’s a pity you’re not in love with her because then you could have married her and she wouldn’t have had to work again:

  He gave her a smiling, sidelong glance. ‘Two people have to love each other if they wish to marry—at least, that is the ideal theory. I admire your sister for the way she is tackling your troubles but there is no love lost between us, Polly.’

  ‘Oh, well... that’s a pity. You’d have done very nicely; it’s not easy for her to find someone that’s taller than she is. She’s on the big side...’

  ‘Indeed,’ he agreed, ‘she is!’

  They had reached Mill Hill, and he drove on for a short distance until they reached a roadside café where he stopped. ‘An ice, perhaps, before we go back?’

  Polly polished off the ice, and since he had thoughtfully ordered a plate of cream cakes with the tea-tray she ate most of those as well.

  Back in the car, she said, ‘I like your car, and thank you for taking me for a drive and for that lovely tea. Mary makes fairy cakes at the weekend, but they’re not the same, are they?’

  ‘They sound delightful. Tell me about your school, Polly. What do you want to do when you are grown up?’

  ‘I’d like to be a vet, but I don’t suppose there will be enough money for me to train; I mean, even if I got trained for free there’s still clothes and things... I could be a veterinary nurse, though; that’s the next best thing.’

  They discussed the future at some length until they were back at her home again, and Polly was delighted when Professor van Rakesma got out of the car and held the gate open for her.

  ‘It was lovely,’ she told him and leaned up. ‘Bend down so I can kiss you.’ She patted her pocket, where the advertisement lay hidden. ‘I’ll do just as you say and I won’t breathe a word. Shall I let you know if she gets the job?’

  ‘I know the gentleman who owns the bookshop; I expect he will tell me, but you can let me know if you wish. Send a letter to the hospital—St Justin’s.’

  He waited until she had gone indoors and then drove away.

  Ten minutes later Mary got home. She had stayed for two hours over her usual time because Mrs Bennett had wanted to visit friends for lunch and spend the afternoon with them. She had come back late, without apologising, paid Mary her sixty pounds and had asked her if she would come an hour earlier on Monday morning.

  ‘I must get my hair done, and that means going into town and you know what the traffic’s like at that hour of the morning, so be here punctually, will you?’

  ‘It is difficult for me to come any earlier than ten o’clock,’ Mary had said.

  ‘Good gracious, girl, surely you can oblige me this once? This is an easy job and I pay you well. I’ll expect you:

  Mrs Bennett had gone to her room. Mary had fetched the overworked Maggie to sit with the children and had taken herself off home, her temper in shreds.

  Which, of course, was ideal from Polly’s point of view, although she said nothing about the job at the bookseller’s until they had had supper and the pair of them were washing up in the kitchen.

  ‘Was Mrs Bennett beastly?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, rather. And I have to go in earlier on Monday because she’s having her hair done. I think she must have guessed that I need the money and don’t dare leave...’

  Polly flung down her towel. ‘That reminds me, Mary, I was looking at the magazines and journals in the library when I went to change my books and I saw this in one of them. No one was looking so I cut it out...’

  ‘Where did you get the scissors?’

  ‘I had my sewing-bag with me—you know I do sewing on Saturday mornings.’ She fished in her pocket. ‘Here, read that.’

  Mary dried her hands and, leaning against the sink, studied the short advertisement. ‘It sounds nice-Thursday, Friday and Saturday—I wonder how much I’d earn. It’s all day away...’

  ‘Well, you’re almost all day away now, aren’t you? And you’d have four days at home. Oh, Mary, do write—at least find out about it.’ She added, ‘You like books too...’

  ‘Perhaps I will,’ said her sister slowly. ‘I wonder whereabouts it is.’

  ‘Write and find out,’ said Polly.

  So Mary wrote her letter and posted it without much hope of getting a reply, which made it all the more exciting when she had one asking her to call for an interview at her convenience. The bookshop was open all day except for Sundays, and the owner was always there.

  ‘It’s miles away, though—in one of those funny little streets behind Oxford Street. I suppose I could get the underground to Oxford Circus.’

  ‘It’s only Tuesday, said Polly, gobbling her breakfast. ‘Go straight there from Mrs Bennett’s; he won’t shut before five o‘clock—you’d have heaps of time.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose I could.’

  ‘Of course you could. I’ll be home before then; I can start the supper if you’re not back. Do go, Mary; it might be the chance of a lifetime.’

  So Mary went, rather tired—after hours with Grace and Ben—but with her nose nicely powdered, her pretty mouth lipsticked, her hair smoothed into its chignon and her shoes well polished with one of Mrs Bennett’s shoe-brushes.

  The shop was where she had thought it would be, hidden away in a narrow street, away from the bustle of the shops in Oxford Street. It was an old house, one of a row of old houses, their small shop windows filled with antiques, old pictures and fine silver. There was a stamp collector’s paradise too, next door to the bookshop. She opened the door and an old-fashioned bell tinkled somewhere at the back.

  There were several people inside and she stood for a moment, wondering which one was the proprietor, until an elderly man touched her arm. ‘You will be Miss Pagett?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I am. You are Mr Bell? You don’t mind me coming like this without phoning first?’

  ‘Not at all. Come this way, young lady.’

  He led her to a tiny cubby-hole at the back of the second room. ‘Sit down, my dear, and tell me why you want to work for me.’ He added, ‘I know of your father—a brilliant man of letters.’

  ‘Yes, he is, isn’t he? He’s almost finished his book:

  ‘Which will bring him fame if not fortune! Now, if you will tell me something of yourself—your education and present employer, if you are employed.’

  He listened without interrupting. When she had finished he observed, ‘I think that you may suit me very well. Shall we agree on a month’s trial? Three full days; that is from nine o’clock in the morning until five o‘clock each evening, and on Saturdays until six o’clock. Half an hour for lunch—I have an arrangement with a nearby café who will send in coffee and sandwiches. You will not pay for these, of course. Mid-morning coffee and mid-afternoon tea when we can fit it in. I will pay you eighty-five pounds a week if you are agreeable to that?’

  Mary did some rapid and not very accurate mental arithmetic. Even with fares she would be better off. ‘Thank you; that suits me very well. I do have to give a week’s notice... If I do that tomorrow morning I should be able to start here on Thursday week. Will that do?’

  ‘Admirably.’

  They parted, well-pleased with each other, and Mary, oblivious to the crowded underground, did hopeful sums in her head. She would have two lots of wages next week, she reflected happily. She smiled at the thought, and the sour-faced woman strap-hanging within inches of her gave her an outraged look. There was no call for smiles going home in a packed underground train after a long day.

  Mr Bell waited until he had shut his shop for the day before telephoning Professor van Rakesma. ‘A very plea
sant young lady,’ he observed in his dry old voice. ‘She will suit me very well; I am most indebted to you for recommending her.’

  ‘I’m glad you are satisfied. I would regard it as a favour if you would not tell her that it was I who recommended her.’ He didn’t enlarge on this, and Mr Bell didn’t ask for an explanation.

  Home again, Mary went straight to the kitchen, where Polly was doing her homework at the table and keeping an eye on the macaroni cheese in the oven. She looked up as Mary went in. ‘Well—have you got the job?’

  ‘Yes, starting next week—on Thursday. Oh, Polly, it’s twenty-five pounds more and a free lunch. I’d better tell Father and Mother, and I’ll have to fix things so that you can all manage the supper if I’m not home...’

  ‘Oh, don’t fuss, Mary; if you leave everything ready I’ll manage. I can cook.’

  ‘Yes, love, I know, but you have your homework. I’ll prepare things and put them in the freezer. After all, I’ve four days at home to do it.’ She hugged Polly. ‘Oh, love, it’s such a relief.’

  ‘You’ll have to give notice.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. I must write a letter and give it to Mrs Bennett.’

  ‘She’ll be mad...’

  ‘I think so too, but she’ll have a week to find someone else, and anyway she could look after Ben and Grace herself.’

  She went to look at the macaroni cheese. ‘Supper’s almost ready. Shall I keep it warm while you finish your homework?’

  ‘Let’s have it now; I’ll fetch Mother from the hut if you will tell Father.’

  Over supper Mary told them that she had a better job. ‘Someone who knows of you, Father. A Mr Bell; he has an antiquarian bookshop behind Oxford Street.’

  ‘Old Bell! Well, I never did! He has some splendid books; you’ll enjoy working there, my dear.’

  ‘A nice quiet job for you, darling,’ said her mother. ‘And how convenient that will be; you can take the cards up to my agent. Think of the time I shall save, and I hate the journey up to Bloomsbury.’

  Mary agreed cheerfully, and wondered when she would find the time to go there—something she could worry about later, she decided. And presently she sat down to compose a letter of resignation.

  Mrs Bennett read it the next morning, a look of unbelieving rage on her face. ‘Why, you ungrateful girl. After all I’ve done for you, leaving at a moment’s notice—where am I to get another girl in a week, I’d like to know?’

  ‘An agency?’ suggested Mary helpfully. ‘There must be any number of girls wanting a job.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mary. Anyone from an agency would want more money...’ She shot Mary a quick glance. ‘That is, I doubt if there’s anyone around here, and they would want money for fares. Anyway, I consider it very’ deceitful of you:

  ‘Deceitful? I’ve given you a week’s notice, Mrs Bennett, as soon as I was offered this other job.’

  Mrs Bennett sneered. ‘A likely tale. Well, work your week out, and don’t come here wanting your job back when you don’t find this new one to your liking.’ She stared at Mary, her good looks marred by ill temper. ‘That’s the worst of you half-educated girls—can’t settle down in a decent job when you’ve got it. No wonder you haven’t got a husband,’ she added spitefully.

  Mary, with a great effort, held her tongue.

  Leaving the house for the last time a week later, Mary heaved a great sigh of relief. Mrs Bennett had made life as unpleasant as possible—going out of the house the moment Mary got there each morning and on her return finding fault with anything and everything. The children were dirty, she said, and too noisy; they hadn’t had their proper meals, they had been made to walk too far... Her complaints had been endless. Mary, with a tremendous effort, had still held her tongue.

  She had no time to get nervous about her new job since it was to start the next morning. She did some important shopping on the way home and, while the supper cooked, prepared meals for the following day and then went in search of her mother.

  She found that lady with her paints. ‘There you are, dear—I don’t seem to see much of you these days. Do you suppose cherubs and Christmas roses would go nicely together? Red, white and green, I thought—pink cherubs, of course...’

  Mary peered over her shoulder. ‘They are sweet, Mother; they’ll be a huge success. Look, dear, I shall be away all day tomorrow, Friday and Saturday. The new job, you know. I’ll put all the food in the freezer and you’ll find everything for lunch in the fridge. Polly will be home around five o’clock, and I should be back by six o‘clock.’

  ‘Your father says Mr Bell is a scholar of the first order; you’ll enjoy yourself, Mary, I’m sure. We’ll manage, your father and I.’ She smiled up at her daughter. ‘We are so used to having you to see to everything—we’ve been selfish, I think. When I’ve finished this batch of cards I’ll look around for a husband for you—invite some young people to the house. We might even have a party...!’

  Mary gave her a hug. ‘Sounds fun, but there’s time enough to get me married. I’m sure when your agent sees these he’ll come up with another order.’

  The shop door had a ‘Closed’ sign on it when she got there the next morning but as she tried the door it opened and she went in. Mr Bell’s reedy old voice, bidding her good morning, came from the back of the second room, and she walked through to find him in his little office, unpacking a box of books.

  ‘Sit down, Miss Pagett, and catalogue these as I unpack them. It is too early for customers, and I cannot put them on the shelves until they have been entered.’

  He pushed a massive book towards her. ‘I have started...’

  So she sat down without preamble and did as he bade her, and all the while he talked between reading out the authors and titles. ‘Some first editions,’ he told her happily. ‘Not well-known authors, but I have regular customers who collect early nineteenth-century writers.’

  They worked together for half an hour or more, and when a customer came into the shop he left her to finish entering the last few books. After that he took her round the shelves so that she had some idea of how the books were classified. ‘Don’t worry if you are unable to help a customer; just fetch me, Miss Pagett.’

  She nodded her head. ‘Mr Bell, would you call me Mary? No one ever calls me Miss Pagett—well, the butcher does!’

  ‘I shall be glad to do so, Mary—such a pretty, old-fashioned name. Now, go and make the coffee for us both. There’s a small pantry through the door there.’

  By the end of the day she knew that she was going to like her work. The shop was dusty and rather dark but it had atmosphere, and the people who came to it were unhurried, with time to browse, and would sometimes go away again without buying anything.

  She had taken the money and wrapped books for three customers without mishap, putting the money in a drawer behind the small counter. It would have been the easiest thing in the world, she reflected, to lean over and take the money and run, but she reassured herself with the thought that the customers who came to the shop didn’t look the type to rob the till.

  The next day was going equally well and then, as she minded the shop while Mr Bell had his lunch, Professor van Rakesma walked in.

  She was on her knees, rearranging a shelf of books so near to the ground that no one seemed to have noticed them for a long time, judging by the thick layer of dust on them, but when the doorbell tinkled she looked up.

  The professor stood in the doorway, his vast person blocking what light there was. He stood without moving for a few moments, watching her as she scrambled to her feet. At length, he said, ‘Miss Pagett? Working here?’ His surprise was exactly right—careless, amused, not very interested. ‘You have difficulty in finding a job to suit you, perhaps?’

  Mary stared at him. How was it possible to love a man who was so tiresome? He hadn’t even bothered to wish her good day. She said coldly, ‘Good afternoon, Professor van Rakesma. Yes, I am working here. Do you wish to see Mr Bell, or have you come to bro
wse?’

  ‘Both. I’ll browse until Mr Bell is free. There are some first editions, are there not? Came this week. Any idea what they are?’

  She had taken the trouble to look at them all carefully ; she might not know much about the authors but she had remembered their names and some of the titles. ‘They are early nineteenth-century, from the library of a house in Shropshire.’ She recited some of the authors and he raised his brows.

  ‘You’ve been doing your homework.’

  ‘I work here,’ she told him, still cold. ‘They are over there—the second shelf on the left. Mr Bell won’t be long.’

  He nodded and went to the shelves, and she turned her back. The dusty shelf would have to be finished now that she had started on it. Thank heaven there were no customers to show up her ignorance. She glanced at her watch; Mr Bell would soon be finished, leaving her free to take his place in the office and eat her own lunch, and by the time she had finished Professor van Rakesma would be gone.

  Mr Bell came presently and saw him at once. ‘Ah, one of my most valued customers. Mary, go and have your lunch while I show him my latest find.’ He peered round the shop until he saw her on her knees by the obscure shelf. ‘There you are. Run along now.’

  She felt about twelve years old when he spoke like that. She rose to her not inconsiderable height and went meekly without a word. He was a nice old man, but could he not see that she was a grown woman of Junoesque proportions, unlikely to run along when bidden? She felt a fool, and probably the professor was laughing.

  Her half-hour wasn’t quite up when Mr Bell poked his head round the door. ‘If you could come. I know your half-hour isn’t up, but there are several customers.’

  No professor, however. He had gone just like that, she thought pettishly; he could have called goodbye, or said something kind about her job, or asked after Polly. I shall stop loving him, she reflected, knowing that that wasn’t going to be possible.