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then got her supper; there was no point in planning her future until she knew what was to happen.
She knew that two days later when Charlie came whistling up the path to hand her a letter from Mr Banks. Mr Oliver Trentham wished to buy the cottage immediately. He waived a surveyor’s report, raised no objection to the price and would take possession in the shortest possible time. Mr Banks added the information that after the mortgage had been paid and various fees, there would be just over three hundred pounds for her.
Sadie read it through twice and put it back in its envelope. So that was that, she wasn’t sure how soon the shortest possible time would be, but she had better start packing up her own things. Mr Banks hadn’t mentioned the furniture, which was annoying; she would have to write and find out and in the meantime go down to the village and see if Mrs Samways, who did bed and breakfast in the summer for those rare tourists who found their way to Chelcombe, would let her have a room until she had found herself a job. Tomorrow she would take the local bus into Bridport and see about a job.
She wrote her letter, posted it, answered Mrs Beamish’s questions discreetly, and went along to see Mrs Samways. Yes, of course she could have a room and welcome, and Tom too, as long as she would be gone by Christmas. ‘I’ve my brother Jim and his family coming over for two weeks,’ she explained in her soft Dorset voice, ‘and dear knows where I’m going to put ’em all.’
‘Oh, I’ll be gone by then,’ Sadie assured her. ‘Perhaps I won’t want a room at all; I’m going to Bridport tomorrow morning to see about a job. There’s bound to be something.’
There wasn’t. True, there were two housekeeper’s jobs going, in large country houses, and not too far away, but they stipulated women over fifty and the agency lady, looking at Sadie’s small thin person, and her gentle mouth, added her forceful opinion that she simply wouldn’t do.
There was a job for a lady gardener too, but there again, observed the lady with scorn, she was hardly suited, and she tut-tutted when Sadie confessed that she couldn’t type or do shorthand, and hadn’t got a Cordon Bleu certificate. ‘What can you do?’ she asked impatiently.
‘Housework, and ironing and mending and just ordinary cooking—all the things a housewife does, I suppose. And I like children.’
‘Well, there’s nothing, dear. Come back next week and try again.’ She added as Sadie stood up: ‘You can always sign on, you know.’
Sadie thanked her. She would have to be desperate to do that. Granny had belonged to a generation that hadn’t signed on, and she had drummed it into Sadie from an early age that it was something one didn’t do unless one was on one’s beam ends, and she wasn’t that, not yet. She went back home and after her tea, composed an advertisement to put into the weekly local paper.
As it happened there was no need to send it. The next morning Charlie came plodding through the never-ending rain with another letter from Mr Banks. Sadie sat him down at the kitchen table and gave him a cup of tea while the letter burned a hole in her pocket.
‘Bad luck about you having to leave,’ observed Charlie. ‘We’m all that put out. Pity it do be the wrong time of year for work, like.’
Sadie poured herself another cup and sat down opposite him. ‘I hate to go, Charlie, I’m just hoping I’ll find something to do not too far away.’
‘Happen it’s good news in your letter?’
‘Well, no, Charlie, I don’t think so. The cottage is sold—he’d have known that, of course—I expect it’s something to do with that.’
He got up and opened the door on to the wind and the rain. ‘Well, I’ll be off. Be seeing you.’
She closed the door once he’d reached the gate and got on his bike to go back to the village, then she whipped the letter out and tore it open. It was brief and businesslike, but then Mr Banks was always that. The new owner of the cottage had enquired as to the possibility of finding a housekeeper for the cottage and he, Mr Banks, had lost no time in putting her name forward. She would live in and receive a salary to be agreed upon at a later date. He strongly advised her to accept the post, and would she let him know as soon as possible if she wished to take the job?
Sadie read the letter through several times, picked up the placid Tom and danced round the kitchen until she was out of breath. ‘We’re saved!’ she told him. ‘We’re going to stay here, Tom…’ She paused so suddenly that Tom let out a protesting mew. ‘But only if we can both stay—I must be certain of that.’ She put him down again, bundled into her mac and wellies and hurried down to the village.
Mrs Beamish wished her a good morning and in the same breath: ‘Charlie popped his head in,’ she observed, ‘said you’d a letter from London again.’ She eyed Sadie’s face with interested curiosity. ‘Good news, is it, love?’
It was nice to have someone to tell. Sadie poured the whole lot out and to the accompaniment of, ‘He be a good man, surely,’ and ‘Well I never did, Miss Sadie, love,’ she asked if she might use the telephone. The village had a phone box, erected by some unimaginative person a good half a mile from the village itself and for that reason seldom used.
Mrs Beamish not only lent the phone, she stayed close by so that she didn’t miss a word of what was said, nodding her head at Sadie’s ‘Yes, Mr Banks, no, Mr Banks,’ and then, ‘but Bob the thatcher won’t work in this weather: he’ll have to wait until the spring.’ She looked anxiously at Mrs Beamish, who nodded her head vigorously. ‘No, it doesn’t leak,’ said Sadie, ‘it looks as though it might, but I promise you it doesn’t. And what about the furniture?’
She stood listening so intently that Mrs Beamish got a little impatient and coughed, then looked put out when Sadie said finally, ‘All right, Mr Banks, and thank you very much.’
There were two more customers in the shop now, both listening hard. ‘What about the furniture, Sadie?’ one of them asked.
‘Well, he wants it, most of it, that is, but he’s bringing rugs and things like that—they’re to be delivered some time during next week. Mr Banks says I’ll have to be at home to put things straight and get in groceries and so on.’
‘So he’ll be here well before Christmas?’ asked Mrs Beamish, her eyes sliding over her shelves of tins and packets. He might be a good customer.
‘Yes, I expect so, but I don’t know if he’ll be here for Christmas. I suppose it’s according to whether he has to work.’
‘Well, love, we’re that pleased—it’ll bring a bit of life to the village, having a real writer here. I suppose he’ll have a car, but where is he going to put it?’
‘There’s room for a garage if he opens the hedge a bit further up the lane, and he can park on that bit of rough grass just opposite the gate,’ said Sadie.
Everyone nodded and Mrs Beamish said: ‘You just go into the sitting room, love, while I serve Mrs Cowley and Mrs Hedger, then we’ll have a nice cup of tea together—we could make out a list of groceries you might want at the same time.’
And for the next few days Sadie had no time to brood. She missed Granny more than she could say, but life had to go on and as far as she could see it was going to go on very much as before. She had run the cottage and looked after her grandmother for two or three years: instead of an old lady there would be a middle-aged man. She had a vivid picture of him in her head—rather like Mr Banks only much more smartly dressed because presumably playwrights moved in the best circles. He wouldn’t want to know about the running of the cottage, only expect his meals on time and well cooked, his shirts expertly ironed, the house cleaned and the bath water hot. Well, she could do all that, and she would be doing it in her own home too.
She took the bus to Bridport and bought herself two severe nylon overalls and a pair of serviceable felt slippers so that she wouldn’t disturb him round the house and experimented with her hair—something severe, she decided, so that she would look mature and sensible, but her fine mouse coloured hair refused