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she made light of it, it was difficult to do much with it in plaster.
When Mrs Crosby expressed impatience about it, Kate sensibly pointed out that they couldn’t make plans for a bit—not until she had saved some money. If she could get a hundred pounds she could borrow the rest. It was a paltry sum, but would be an argument in her favour when she tackled their bank manager. It would be a risk but, as she reminded herself constantly, she was twenty-seven and if she didn’t take that risk soon it would be too late. Being a housekeeper was all very well but it was a temporary necessity.
When her father had died suddenly and unexpectedly their world had fallen apart. He had given up his work in a solicitor’s office to write a book, the outline of which had already been approved by a well-known publisher. He had given himself six months in which to write it—but within three months, with the research barely completed, he had fallen ill with emphysema and died within six weeks, leaving his wife and daughter with the remnants of the capital that they had been living on.
It had been a risk, a calculated risk which he had been sure was worthwhile, and it was no one’s fault. Kate had set about getting their affairs in order and looked around for a job. A sensible girl, she had looked for work which she could do and do well—and when she’d seen Lady Cowder’s advertisement for a housekeeper in the local paper she had presented herself to that lady and got the job.
She had no intention of being a housekeeper for a day longer than was necessary; she intended to start a cooked-meals service from her home just as soon as she could save enough money to get it started. But she and her mother had to live—her mother’s small pension paid the rent and the running costs of the little house, but they had to eat and keep warm and have clothes. Even with the frugal way in which they lived it would take a couple of years. There were better paid jobs, but they weren’t near her home. At least she could go home for her weekly half-day off, and on her day off on Sunday.
It was Sunday the next day—a warm June day with hardly a cloud in the sky, and Kate got onto her bike and pedalled briskly down to the village, thankful to be free for one day. She sighed with content as she pushed her bike up the little path to the cottage where she and her mother lived. It was the middle one of three at the top end of the village main street. It was rather shabby, and the mod cons weren’t very ‘mod’, but the rent was low and the neighbours on either side were elderly and quiet. Not quite what they had been used to, reflected Kate, propping the bike against the back fence and going in through the kitchen door, but it was their home…
Her mother came into the kitchen to meet her. Still a good-looking woman, her russet hair was streaked with grey but her eyes were the same sparkling green as her daughter’s.
‘You’ve had a busy morning,’ she said with ready sympathy. ‘No time for breakfast?’
‘I had a cup of tea…’
‘You need more than that, a great girl like you,’ said her mother cheerfully. ‘I’ll make a pile of toast and a pot of tea and we’ll have lunch early. Come and sit down, love. We’ll go into the garden presently.’
Mrs Crosby frowned a little. ‘I’m not sure that this job is good for you. Lady Cowder seems a very demanding woman.’
Kate sat down at the kitchen table and Moggerty, their elderly cat, got onto her lap. The room was small but very neat and tidy and the sun shone warmly through the window over the sink. It seemed so much nicer than Lady Cowder’s gleaming white tiles and stainless steel. She said mildly, ‘It isn’t for ever, Mother. Just as soon as we’ve got a little money saved I’ll give it up. And it isn’t too bad, you know. I get good food, and my room’s quite nice.’
She pulled the breadboard towards her and began to slice bread for the toast. ‘How is your arm? Isn’t it next week that you’re to have another plaster?’
‘Yes, dear. It doesn’t hurt at all, and I only wear a sling when I’m out—then no one bumps into me, you see.’
When Kate started to get up her mother said, ‘No, dear, I’ll make the toast. It’s nice to do something for someone other than me, if you see what I mean.’
Her mother was lonely, Kate realised, although she wouldn’t admit that. Kate was lonely, too—and though they had a strong affection for each other neither of them were ever going to admit to their loneliness. She said cheerfully, ‘We had a visitor yesterday. Lady Cowder’s nephew came to tea.’
Mrs Crosby turned the toast. ‘Young? Old? What does he do for a living?’
‘Youngish—well,’ Kate added vaguely, ‘In his thirties, I suppose. Very pale hair going grey, and one of those faces which doesn’t tell you anything.’
‘Good-looking?’
‘Yes, but a bit austere. One of those noses you can look down. Enormous and tall.’ She began to butter the toast. ‘I’ve no idea what he does. Probably so rich that he does nothing; he was driving a silver-grey Bentley, so he can’t be poor.’
‘One of those young executive types one is always reading about. Make their million before they’re twenty-one, being clever on the stock exchange.’
‘Perhaps, but I don’t think so. He looked too—too reliable.’
Mrs Crosby regretfully dismissed him as a staid married man. A pity—Kate met so few men. She had had plenty of admirers while her father had been alive but once she and her mother had moved from their comfortable home in the Cotswolds they had gradually dwindled away, much to Mrs Crosby’s regret. Kate hadn’t minded in the least—she had felt nothing but a mild liking for any of them. She could have married half a dozen times, but for her it was all or nothing. As she had pointed out to her mother in her sensible way, if any of the men who had professed to love her had really done so they would have made it their business to find out where she and her mother had gone, and followed them. And done something about it.
Kate, who wanted to marry and have children, could see that it wasn’t very likely that she would get her wish. Not in the foreseeable future at any rate. She did her best to ignore her longings and bent all her thoughts on a future which, hopefully, would provide her and her mother with a livelihood.
Presently they went into the tiny garden behind the cottage and sat under the old plum tree in one corner.
‘Once I can start cooking,’ said Kate, ‘this tree will be a godsend. Think of all the plums just waiting to be bottled and turned into jam. Perhaps I could specialise in some kind of plum tart…’
‘Not this year,’ remarked her mother.
‘No, no, of course not. But by the end of next year we might have enough money to persuade the bank manager.’
Moggerty had gone to sleep on Kate’s lap, and presently Kate dozed off too.
She made light of her job, but she was up early and went to bed late and quite often did the work of two. Lady Cowder saw no reason to hire more help in the house—Kate was young and strong, and didn’t complain. Besides, Mrs Pickett came up from the village each morning to help with the housework. That she was elderly, with arthritis in her knees which didn’t allow her to do anything much below waist level, was something which Lady Cowder found unimportant; a hefty young woman like Kate had plenty of energy…
Kate awoke feeling much refreshed, ate a splendid lunch with her mother and later that evening cycled back to Lady Cowder’s house, half a mile or so outside the village. She reminded her mother that in three days’ time, on her half-day off, they would take the bus into Thame and have a look at the shops. They would take sandwiches and eat them on a bench in the pleasant green gardens around the church, and later treat themselves to tea in one of the teashops.
Taking Lady Cowder’s breakfast tray up to her room the next morning, Kate found her sitting up in bed with a pad and pencil. She nodded in reply to Kate’s polite good morning, accepted her tray without thanks and said, with more animation than she usually showed, ‘My god-daughter is coming to stay—she will arrive tomorrow, so get the guest room overlooking