elegant windows of the small boutiques, going to the library to enrol for the pair of them, arranging for milk to be delivered, ordering a paper too, and at the same time studying the advertisements in the shop window. There were several likely jobs on offer. She bought chops from the butcher, who remembered her from previous visits, and crossed the road to the greengrocer. He remembered her too, so that she felt quite light-hearted as she made her last purchase in the baker’s.
The delicious smell of newly baked bread made her nose quiver. And there were rolls and pasties, currant buns and doughnuts. She was hesitating as to which to buy when someone else came into the shop. She turned round to look and encountered a stare from pale blue eyes so intent that she blushed, annoyed with herself for doing that just because this large man was staring. He was good-looking too, in a rugged kind of way, with a high-bridged nose and a thin mouth. He was wearing an elderly jersey and cords and his hair needed a good brush…
He stopped staring, leaned over her, took two pasties off the counter and waved them at the baker’s wife. And now the thin mouth broke into a smile. ‘Put it on the bill, Mrs Trott,’ he said, and was gone.
Emma, about to ask who he was, sensed that Mrs Trott wasn’t going to tell her and prudently held her tongue. He must live in the town for he had a bill. He didn’t look like a fisherman or a farm worker and he wouldn’t own a shop, not dressed like that, and besides he didn’t look like any of those. He had been rude, staring like that; she had no wish to meet him again but it would be interesting to know just who he was.
She went back to the cottage and found a man waiting impatiently to collect the car and, what with one thing and another, she soon forgot the man at the baker’s.
It was imperative to find work but she wasn’t going to rush into the first job that was vacant. With a little wangling she thought that she could manage two part-time jobs. They would cease at the end of the summer and even one part-time job might be hard to find after that.
‘I must just make hay while the sun shines,’ said Emma, and over the next few days scanned the local newspapers. She went from one end of the town to the other, sizing up what was on offer. Waitresses were wanted, an improver was needed at the hairdressers—but what was an improver? Chambermaids at the various hotels, an assistant in an arts and crafts shop, someone to clean holiday cottages between lets, and an educated lady to assist the librarian at the public library on two evenings a week…
It was providential that while out shopping with her mother they were accosted by an elderly lady who greeted them with obvious pleasure.
‘Mrs Dawson—and Emma, isn’t it? Perhaps you don’t remember me. You came to the hotel to play bridge. I live at the hotel now that my husband has died and I’m delighted to see a face I know…’ She added eagerly, ‘Let’s go and have coffee together and a chat. Is your husband with you?’
‘I am also a widow—it’s Mrs Craig, isn’t it? I do remember now; we had some pleasant afternoons at bridge. My husband died very recently, and Emma and I have come to live here.’
‘I’m so very sorry. Of course you would want to get away from Richmond for a time. Perhaps we could meet soon and then arrange a game of bridge later?’
Mrs Dawson brightened. ‘That would be delightful…’
‘Then you must come and have tea with me sometimes at the hotel.’ Mrs Craig added kindly, ‘You need to have a few distractions, you know.’ She smiled at Emma. ‘I’m sure you have several young friends from earlier visits?’
Emma said cheerfully, ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ and added, ‘I’ve one or two calls to make now, while you have coffee. It is so nice to meet you again, Mrs Craig.’ She looked at her mother. ‘I’ll see you at home, Mother.’
She raced away. The rest of the shopping could wait. Here was the opportunity to go to the library…
The library was at the back of the town, and only a handful of people were wandering round the bookshelves. There were two people behind the desk: one a severe-looking lady with a no-nonsense hair style, her companion a girl with a good deal of blonde hair, fashionably tousled, and with too much make-up on her pretty face. She looked up from the pile of books she was arranging and grinned at Emma as she came to a halt and addressed the severe lady.
‘Good morning,’ said Emma. ‘You are advertising for an assistant for two evenings a week. I should like to apply for the job.’
The severe lady eyed her. She said shortly, ‘My name is Miss Johnson. Are you experienced?’
‘No, Miss Johnson, but I like books. I have A levels in English Literature, French, Modern Art and Maths. I am twenty-seven years old and I have lived at home since I left school. I have come here to live with my mother and I need a job.’
‘Two sessions a week, six hours, at just under five pounds an hour.’ Miss Johnson didn’t sound encouraging. ‘Five o’clock until eight on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Occasionally extra hours, if there is sickness or one of us is on holiday.’ She gave what might be called a ladylike sniff. ‘You seem sensible. I don’t want some giddy girl leaving at the end of a week…’
‘I should like to work here if you will have me,’ said Emma. ‘You will want references…?’
‘Of course, and as soon as possible. If they are satisfactory you can come on a week’s trial.’
Emma wrote down Mr Trump’s address and phone number and then Dr Jakes’s who had known her for years. ‘Will you let me know or would you prefer me to call back? We aren’t on the phone yet. It’s being fitted shortly.’
‘You’re in rooms or a flat?’
‘No, we live at Waterside Cottage, the end one along Victoria Quay.’
Miss Johnson looked slightly less severe. ‘You are staying there? Renting the cottage for the summer?’
‘No, it belongs to my mother.’
The job, Emma could see, was hers.
She bade Miss Johnson a polite goodbye and went back into the main street; she turned into a narrow lane running uphill, lined by small pretty cottages. The last cottage at the top of the hill was larger than the rest and she knocked on the door.
The woman who answered the door was still young, slim and tall and dressed a little too fashionably for Salcombe. Her hair was immaculate and so was her make-up.
She looked Emma up and down and said, ‘Yes?’
‘You are advertising for someone to clean holiday cottages…’
‘Come in.’ She led Emma into a well-furnished sitting room.
‘I doubt if you’d do. It’s hard work—Wednesdays and Saturdays, cleaning up the cottages and getting them ready for the next lot. And a fine mess some of them are in, I can tell you. I need someone for those two days. From ten o’clock in the morning and everything ready by four o’clock when the next lot come.’
She waved Emma to a chair. ‘Beds, bathroom, loo, Hoovering. Kitchen spotless—and that means cupboards too. You come here and collect the cleaning stuff and bedlinen and hand in the used stuff before you leave. Six hours’ work a day, five pounds an hour, and tips if anyone leaves them.’
‘For two
