cheerful curtains. It was a relief to find that Mrs Slade had the same kind, cheerful face as her sister. She read Mrs Branch’s note and bade Loveday go in.
“Appens I’ve got the basement vacant,’ she told Loveday. ‘It’s a bit dark, but it’s clean.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘Not what you’ve been used to, from what I’ve ‘eard. Take it for a week while you find yourself a job. It’ll be rent in advance but I’ll not overcharge you.’
Then she led the way to the back of the house, told Loveday to sit down at the kitchen table and offered tea.
‘That’s a nasty eye you’ve got there—Miss Cattell had one of her tantrums? My sister only stays until Ellie gets married. I don’t ‘old with these idle folk with nothing better to do than get nasty.’
The tea was hot and strong and sweet and Loveday felt better. This was something which had been bound to happen sooner or later; she should count herself lucky that Mrs Branch had been so kind and helpful and that she had two weeks’ wages in her bag.
She went with Mrs Slade to inspect the basement presently. It was a small room below street level, so that the only view was of feet passing the window. But there was a divan bed, a table, two chairs and a shabby armchair by a small electric fire. There was a sink in one corner, and a small door which led to the neglected strip of back garden. ‘Outside lav. Nice and handy for you,’ explained Mrs Slade. “Ere’s a key, and you’d better pop down to the corner and get yourself some food. There is a gas ring by the sink so you can cook if you want to.’
So Loveday went to the small shops at the end of the road and bought eggs, butter, tea and a bottle of milk. She still had the ham sandwiches, which would do very nicely for her supper…
She was a sensible girl, and now that her boats were burnt behind her she was cheerfully optimistic. Loveday ate her sandwiches, drank more tea and contrived to wash at the sink before venturing cautiously into the back garden to find the loo. And then, tired by such an eventful day, she got onto the divan and went to sleep. Her eye was painful but there was no mirror for her to inspect it, only her tiny powder compact which was quite inadequate.
It was raining in the morning and there was the first chill of autumn in the air. Loveday boiled an egg, counted her money and sat down to plan her day. She couldn’t remember her mother and father, who had both died in a rail crash while she was still a toddler, but the stern aunt who had brought her up had instilled in her a number of useful adages. ‘Strike while the iron is hot’ was one of them, and Loveday intended to do just that.
She would visit the nearest job centre, the public library, and make a round of the adverts in the small shop windows. That would be a start. But before she did, she allowed her thoughts to wander a little. Miss Cattell would certainly insist on Dr Gregg visiting her, and if she did that she would be able to complain about Dr Fforde. She hoped she would not; they hadn’t exchanged two words and yet she had the firm feeling that she knew him well.
Her eye was painful and almost closed, and, had she but known it, was the reason why the job centre lady wasn’t very helpful. She had to admit that it looked rather awful when she caught sight of it in a passing shop window. Tomorrow, if it wasn’t better, she would go to the nearest hospital and get something for it. Next she applied for a job as a waitress in a large, noisy café and was told to stop wasting time by the proprietor.
‘Oo’s going to order from a girl with an eye like that? Been in a fight, ’ave yer?’
The next morning she caught a bus to the hospital, a mile away. It was a vast Victorian building, its Casualty already overflowing. Since Loveday’s eye wasn’t an urgent case, she was told to sit on one of the crowded benches and wait.
The benches didn’t seem any less crowded; rather the opposite. At midday she got a cup of coffee and a roll from the canteen and then settled down to wait again. She was still waiting when Fforde, on his way to take a clinic in outpatients, took a short cut there through Casualty. He was late and he hardly noticed the sea of faces looking hopefully at him. He was almost by the end doors when he caught sight of Loveday, or rather he caught sight of the black eye, now a rainbow of colours and swollen shut.
It was the mouse-like girl who had been with that abominable Miss Cattell. Why was she here in the East end of London with an eye like that? He had felt an instant and quite unexpected liking for her when he had seen her, and now he realised that he was glad to have found her again, even if the circumstances were peculiar. He must find out about her… He was through the doors by now and encircled by his clerk, his houseman and Sister, already touchy because he was late.
Of course by the time he had finished his clinic the Casualty benches were almost empty and there was no sign of her. Impelled by some feeling he didn’t examine, he went to Casualty and asked to see the cases for the day. ‘A young lady with a black eye,’ he told the receptionist. ‘Have you her address? She is concerned with one of my patients.’
The receptionist was helpful; she liked him, for he was polite and friendly and good-looking. ‘Miss Loveday West, unemployed, gave an address in Spring Blossom Road. That’s turn left from here and half a mile down the road. Had her eye treated; no need to return.’
He thanked her nicely, then got into his car and drove back to his consulting room. He had two patients to see and he was already late…
There was no reason why he should feel this urge to see her again; he had smiled briefly, they had exchanged goodbyes on the doorstep and that was all. But if the opportunity should occur…
Which it did, and far more rapidly than he anticipated.
Waiting for him when he reached his rooms on the following morning was Miss Priss, his receptionist-secretary. She was a thin lady of middle years, with a wispy voice and a tendency to crack her knuckles when agitated, but nevertheless she was his mainstay and prop. Even in her agitation she remembered to wish him a good morning before explaining that she had had bad news; she needed to go home at once—her mother had been taken ill and there was no one else…
Dr Fforde waited until she had drawn breath. ‘Of course you must go at once. Take a taxi and stay as long as you wish to. Dr Gregg will be back today, and I’m not busy. We shall manage very well. Have you sufficient money? Is there anyone you wish to telephone?’
‘Yes, thank you, and there is nobody to phone.’
‘Then get a taxi and I’ll ask Mrs Betts to bring you a cup of tea.’
Mrs Betts, who kept the various consulting rooms clean, was like a sparrow, small and perky and pleased to take a small part in any dramatic event.
Miss Priss, fortified by what Mrs Betts called her ‘special brew’, was seen on her way, and then Dr Fforde sat down at his desk and phoned the first agency in the phone book. Someone would come, but not until the afternoon. It was fortunate that Mr Jackson, in the rooms above him, was away for the day and his secretary agreed to take Miss Priss’s place for the morning…
The girl from the agency was young, pretty and inefficient. By the end of the next day Dr Fforde, a man with a well-controlled temper, was having difficulty in holding it in check. He let himself into his small mews house, tucked away behind a terrace of grand Georgian mansions, and went from the narrow hall into the kitchen, where his housekeeper, Mrs Duckett, was standing at the table making pastry.
She took a look at his tired face. ‘A nice cuppa is what you’re needing, sir. Just you go along to your study and I’ll bring it in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Have you had a busy day?’
He
