noiselessness born of years of taking night calls. He stood in the dimly-lit hall for a moment, listening. No sound from any of the rooms. Richard Knight had gone back to bed again then, was in all probability by now sound asleep. And it took a lot to wake the housekeeper.
Upstairs in his bedroom Dr Burnett sat wearily down on a chair and bent to unlace his shoes. Then he took from his pocket the sheet of paper on which Gina Thorson had written the address. He yawned widely. As soon as he woke in the morning he must ring Kenneth Mallinson and explain matters. He propped the paper against the alarm clock to remind him.
He stood up and removed his jacket. The other son, David – and David’s wife, Carole – I suppose Mrs Parkes will get on to them in the morning, he thought. David Mallinson lived on the outskirts of Rockley village in a fine old Georgian house. He had run the family business – under the close supervision of his father – ever since his elder brother had walked out. Not a man to quarrel with his father, David Mallinson, not a man in the least likely ever to quarrel with his bread and butter. Dr Burnett hung his neatly-folded clothes over the back of a chair. David and Carole would be up at Whitegates as soon as they heard the news, bearing bunches of flowers, wearing suitably agitated faces. ‘Such a pleasant, uncomplicated, refreshing girl,’ old Mallinson had said a year ago when David had brought home the girl he wanted to marry.
Dr Burnett gave a little worldly-wise smile. Carole Mallinson had proved herself a most attentive daughter-in-law to the old man. Simple and refreshing she might appear to the casual eye, Dr Burnett thought, winding his watch, but she had her head screwed on the right way. Just the wife for David Mallinson, two of a kind.
He went over to the mantelpiece and stood looking at the framed photograph, the young woman smiling out from the circle of the young man’s arm. He stooped and touched the glass with a finger, then he crossed over to the bed, took a pair of pyjamas from behind a pillow, yawning again. With any luck he’d be sound asleep inside ten minutes, like young Knight a couple of doors away. But unlike young Knight, he wouldn’t be dreaming about Gina Thorson.
In her room at Whitegates, a few yards along the corridor from Mrs Parkes, Gina Thorson lay on her bed with her hands linked behind her head. Mr Mallinson was going to be all right, Dr Burnett had said so. She frowned into the darkness. It was very awkward, the old man’s illness coming just at this moment. She had planned to ask him for a rise in salary in the morning, she had worked it all out in her mind, intending to ask him as soon as she’d finished the daily letters. He was always in a good mood at that time of day, feeling alert, in control of the many facets of his life.
But it was out of the question now to ask for a rise. She would probably be allowed to see him only about the most urgent letters concerning the firm – and she might be told to refer those to David Mallinson, not to bother the old man for the present. She could scarcely go barging into the sickroom to demand more money for her services, skilled as they were.
And I need the money, she thought, I need quite a lot of money right away. Richard Knight had asked her to go down to Hampshire to meet his parents. Well-to-do people, Richard’s parents, she must make a good impression on them. When she left their house at the end of her visit there was a very good chance that she would be wearing Richard’s engagement ring.
Gina sat up in bed and switched on the bedside lamp. I simply must have some new clothes, she thought, swinging her feet over the edge of the bed. Expensive, well-cut country clothes.
She crossed over to the wardrobe and flung open the door, reviewing the contents for the umpteenth time, shaking her head at them in rejection. Pretty enough clothes, smart enough, but cheap, all she’d been able to afford so far, a girl on her own, without parents, without a family, without background. They’d passed muster up till now. With a slim young figure like Gina’s you could get away with cheaply fashionable clothes for a time, but they wouldn’t deceive the practised, assessing eyes of Richard’s parents.
She closed the wardrobe door and climbed back into bed, sitting upright with her knees hunched under the blankets. A suède coat, three-quarter length, a skirt in fine tweed, a cashmere sweater – she knew exactly what she would buy if she had the money, she’d searched the windows of the more exclusive stores in Hallborough until she’d found what she wanted.
Mr Mallinson will be all right, Dr Burnett had said. But how soon would he be well again? A week? Two weeks? What was the earliest possible moment at which she could reasonably broach the subject of a rise?
She drew a long breath and flung herself back on the pillows. Was there any other way she could get hold of the money? Borrow it perhaps? From whom? Mrs Parkes? Even as she formed the notion she shook her head, dismissing it. Mrs Parkes would have nothing to lend and if she had there was her own family to play fairy godmother to. She was hardly likely to part with her hard-earned savings to help her employer’s secretary to lash out on expensive new clothes. And it wasn’t even as if Mrs Parkes liked her very much … her manner was always polite, but nothing more.…
A hundred and seventy-five pounds, Mrs Parkes calculated yet again, drifting drowsily towards sleep. That’s all I’ve got to show for the best part of a lifetime of hard work, one hundred and seventy-five pounds, not counting the change in my bag. That wouldn’t go very far in setting her son up in a little farm of his own. She smiled grimly behind her closed lids; her thoughts began to swirl and dissolve, her muscles began to slacken. I must be up early in the morning, she told herself, I must see to the old man … something nice to eat … something easy to digest … he won’t be awake for breakfast … but he might take a little lunch … I’ll go down to the gardener’s cottage and see if there are any tender young vegetables … any tempting fruit … Mrs Parkes slipped into a dream where she was walking up the path to the gardener’s cottage, raising her hand, lifting the brass knocker …
AT SIX-THIRTY the alarm clock pealed its shrill summons in the front bedroom of the gardener’s cottage. Ada Foster came awake with a start, blinking at the new day without much expectation that it would differ very greatly from all the days that had preceded it. She sat up and rubbed her eyes.
‘Half-six, George! Time to get up!’ She gave a ritual thrust at her husband’s shoulder.
‘What’s that? Time to get up?’ George Foster rose protesting from the trough of sleep, ‘Make us a cup of tea, there’s a good lass.’ His fingers reached out, scrabbling for the packet of cigarettes on the little table.
Ada was already thrusting her feet into ancient felt slippers.
‘All right then. But don’t go dropping off again. I’ll put the sausages on.’ She jerked an old fawn dressing-gown from behind the door and went along the passage, calling, ‘Norman! Half-past six! Do you hear me, Norman? Time to get up!’
There was a muffled groan from the second bedroom.
‘O.K., Mum, I’m awake.’
‘Mind you stay awake, then. Don’t want to be late for work.’ Ada went slop-footed down to the kitchen and filled the kettle at the sink.
Norman Foster sat up in bed without any very marked enthusiasm. His first thought, as always these days, was for his pride and treasure, the darling of his heart, his motorbike, standing slim and powerful, silent and waiting, in the shed outside the back door. The thought brought with it a wash of anxiety that clouded his face now whenever the vision of his darling rose before his eyes – how long before she was snatched away from him for ever by the implacable forces of hire-purchase regulations?
‘Three
