that was a lark and no mistake—’er whingeing away about servants and such like. I didn’t ‘ear no kind words about you and your poor ma, though. Mean old cat.’ She had grinned. ‘Can’t get another companion for love nor money, either.’
She had drunk most of the coffee and eaten all the biscuits Emma had and then got up to go. ‘Almost forgot,’ she’d said, suddenly awkward, ‘me and Cook thought your ma might like a few chocs now she’s better. And there’s one of Cook’s steak and kidney pies— just wants a warm-up—do for your dinner.’
‘How lucky I am to have two such good friends,’ Emma had said and meant it.
Going to the hospital on Monday, sitting quietly beside Sir Paul, she noticed him glance down at her lap where the box of chocolates sat.
‘I hope that those are not for your mother?’ ‘Well, yes and no. Cook and Alice—from Mrs Smith-Darcy’s house, you know—gave them to me to give her. I don’t expect that she can have them, but she’ll like to see them and she can give them to her nurses.’
He nodded. ‘I examined your mother yesterday evening. I intend to have her transferred to Moretonhampstead within the next day or so. She will remain there for two weeks at least, three if possible, so that when she returns home she will be quite fit.’
‘That is good news. Thank you for arranging it,’ said Emma gratefully, and wondered how she was going to visit her mother. With a car it would have been easy enough.
She would have to find out how the buses ran—probably along the highway to Exeter and then down the turn-off to Moretonhampstead halfway along it—but the buses might not connect. She had saved as much money as she could and she had her last week’s wages; perhaps she could get the car from Mr Dobbs again and visit her mother once a week; it was thirty miles or so, an hour’s drive…
She explained this to her mother and was relieved to see that the prospect of going to a convalescent home and starting on a normal life once more had put her in such good spirits that she made no demur when Emma suggested that she might come only once a week to see her.
‘It’s only for a few weeks, Emma, and I’m sure I shall have plenty to keep me occupied. I’ve been so well cared for here, and everyone has been so kind. Everything’s all right at home? Queenie is well?’
‘She’s splendid and everything is fine. I’ll bring you some more clothes, shall I?’ She made a list and observed, ‘I’ll bring them tomorrow, for the professor didn’t say when you were going—when there’s a vacancy I expect—he just said a day or two.’
When she got up to go her mother walked part of the way with her, anxious to show how strong she had become. By the lifts they said goodbye, though, ‘I’m a slow walker,’ said Mrs Trent. ‘It won’t do to keep him waiting.’
For once, Emma was glad of Sir Paul’s silence, for she had a lot to think about. They were almost at Buckfastleigh when he told her that her mother would be transferred on the day after tomorrow.
‘So tomorrow will be the last day I go to the hospital?’
‘Yes. Talk to Sister when you see her tomorrow; she will give you all the particulars and the phone number. Your mother will go by ambulance. The matron there is a very kind woman, there are plenty of staff and two resident doctors so your mother will be well cared for.’
‘I’m sure of that. She’s looking foward to going; she feels she’s really getting well.’
‘It has been a worrying time for you.’ his voice was kind ‘—but I think she will make a complete recovery.’
Indoors she put the pie in the oven, fed an impatient Queenie and sat down to add up the money in her purse—enough to rent a car from Mr Dobbs on the following weekend and not much over. She ate her supper, packed a case with the clothes her mother would need and went to put the dustbin out before she went to bed.
The local paper had been pushed through the letterbox. She took it back to the kitchen and turned to the page where the few advertisements were and there, staring her in the face, was a chance of a job. It stated:
Wanted urgently—a sensible woman to help immediately for two or three weeks while present staff are ill. Someone able to cope with a small baby as well as normal household chores and able to cook.
Emma, reading it, thought that the woman wouldn’t only have to be sensible, she would need to be a bundle of energy as well, but it was only for two or three weeks and it might be exactly what she was looking for. The phone number was a local one too.
Emma went to bed convinced that miracles did happen and slept soundly.
In the morning she waited with impatience until half-past eight before going round to use Mr Dobbs’s phone. The voice which answered her was a woman’s, shrill and agitated.
‘Thank heaven—I’m at my wits’ end and there’s no one here. The baby’s been crying all night…’
‘If you would give me your address. I live in Buckfastleigh.’
‘So do I. Picket House—go past the otter sanctuary and it’s at the end of the road down a turning on the left. You’ve got a car?’
‘No, a bike. I’ll come straight away, shall I?’
She listened to a jumble of incoherent thanks and, after phoning the surgery to cancel her lift with Sir Paul, hurried back to the house. Queenie, having breakfasted, was preparing to take a nap. Emma left food for her, got into her coat, tied a scarf over her head and fetched her bike. At least it wasn’t raining as she pedalled briskly from one end of the little town to the other.
Picket House was a rambling old place, beautifully maintained, lying back from the lane, surrounded by a large garden. Emma skidded to the front door and halted, and before she had got off her bike it was opened.
‘Come in, come in, do.’ The girl wasn’t much older than Emma but there the resemblance ended, for she was extremely pretty, with fair, curly hair, big blue eyes and a dainty little nose. She pulled Emma inside and then burst into tears. ‘I’ve had a dreadful night, you have no idea. Cook’s ill with flu and so is Elsie, and the nurse who’s supposed to come sent a message to say that her mother’s ill.’
‘There’s no one who could come—your mother or a sister?’
‘They’re in Scotland.’ She dismissed them with a wave of the hand. ‘And Mike, my husband, he’s in America and won’t be back for weeks.’ She wiped her eyes and smiled a little. ‘You will come and help me?’
‘Yes—yes, of course. You’ll want references…?’
‘Yes, yes—but later will do for that. I want a bath and I’ve not had breakfast. To tell the truth, I’m not much of a cook.’
‘The baby?’ asked Emma, taking off her coat and scarf and hanging them on the elaborate hat-stand in the hall. ‘A boy or a girl?’
‘Oh, a boy.’
‘Has he had a feed?’
‘I gave him one during the night but I’m not sure if I mixed it properly; he was sick afterwards.’
‘You
