feed, if that would do?’
‘I’ll be alone during the night…’
‘If the baby’s had a good feed he should sleep for the night and I’ll leave a feed ready for you to warm up.’
‘Will you cook and tidy up a bit? I’m hopeless at housework.’
It seemed to Emma that now would be the time to learn about it, but she didn’t say so. ‘I don’t know your name,’ she said.
‘Hervey—Doreen Hervey.’
‘Emma Trent. Should we take a look at the baby before I get your breakfast?’
‘Oh, yes, I suppose so. He’s very small, just a month old. You’re not a nurse, are you?’
‘No, but I took a course in baby care and housewifery when I left school.’
They were going upstairs. ‘Would you come for a hundred pounds a week?’
‘Yes.’ It would be two or three weeks and she could save every penny of it.
They had reached the wide landing, and from somewhere along a passage leading to the back of the house there was a small, wailing noise.
The nursery was perfection—pastel walls, a thick carpet underfoot, pretty curtains drawn back from spotless white net, the right furniture and gloriously warm. The cot was a splendid affair and Mrs Hervey went to lean over it. ‘There he is,’ she said unnecessarily.
He was a very small baby, with dark hair, screwed up eyes and a wide open mouth. The wails had turned to screams and he was waving miniature fists in a fury of infant rage.
‘The lamb,’ said Emma. ‘He’s wet; I’ll change him. When did he have his feed? Can you remember the time?’
‘I can’t possibly remember; I was so tired. I suppose it was about two o’clock.’
‘Is his feed in the kitchen?’
‘Yes, on the table. I suppose he’s hungry?’
Emma suppressed a desire to shake Mrs Hervey. ‘Go and have your bath while I change him and feed him. Perhaps you could start breakfast—boil an egg and make toast?’
Mrs Hervey went thankfully away and Emma took the sopping infant from his sopping cot. While she was at it he could be bathed; everything she could possibly need was there…
With the baby tucked under one arm, swathed in his shawl, she went downstairs presently. The tin of babymilk was on the table in the kind of kitchen every woman dreamt of. She boiled a kettle, mixed a feed and sat down to wait while it cooled. The baby glared at her from under his shawl. Since he looked as if he would cry again at any minute she talked gently to him.
She had fed him, winded him and cuddled him close as he dropped off and there was still no sign of his mother, but presently she came, her make-up immaculate, looking quite lovely.
‘Oh, good, he’s gone to sleep. I’m so hungry.’ She smiled widely, looking like an angel. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come, Emma—may I call you Emma?’
‘Please do,’ said Emma. She had her reservations about feeling glad as she bore the baby back to his cot.
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