Faster! Faster! (23 page)

“I appreciate that very much, Mrs Winsloe, and I can assure you that I fully intend to make up for lost time once I get back,” Mrs Ingatestone said, in tones of entirely false cordiality.

“Till Friday then. Oh, by the way—I suppose you couldn't possibly look in here for half an hour some time this afternoon? I do want to ask you about one or two things—and it would be a great help to Mrs Ladislaw, who's doing what she can with your work.”

“Certainly, Mrs Winsloe, with pleasure. About three o'clock?”

“Excellent, thank you. Goodbye.”

The click of the replaced receiver reached Mrs
Ingatestone's ear before she could utter her own goodbye.

“No time to waste, as usual,” she muttered and smiled rather grimly, and not without a certain admiration.

Claudia and Sal Oliver lunched together that day.

They did this from motives of expediency rather than from any special inclination for one another's society, since it afforded them an opportunity for discussing minor points concerning the office and the staff.

It had been decided by Claudia, with a strange mixture of candour and autocracy, that Frances Ladislaw, so long as she worked in the office, had better not join them.

The restaurant they chose was a very small and modest one. They ate fish-salad and bread-and-butter, and finished with stewed fruit and black coffee. Claudia smoked throughout, nervously and almost incessantly—Sal not at all.

“Ingatestone rang up this morning, didn't she?” Sal enquired.

“I was going to tell you. How did you know, by the way? Edie is supposed to treat all telephone-calls that come to me as confidential.”

“It's all right, she's been perfectly discreet so far as I know. Mrs Ingatestone spoke to Frayle. She asked for me first, but I was out. It was Frayle who came and told me about it.”

“We'd better find a little more work for that girl
to do if she's got time on her hands. Well, Ingatestone admits that the child's more or less well again, but she wants to make some arrangements or other about her—heaven knows what—so I've given her till Friday. She's to come in for half an hour this afternoon to clear up one or two things.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Frances is really doing a lot to help us, but of course she's a complete amateur, and has to be told every single thing. It holds up the work quite a lot.”

“But it couldn't be helped,” Sal pointed out.

Claudia looked at her in surprise.

“Of course it could have been helped. If Ingatestone put her job first instead of her private concerns, she needn't have been away at all, for more than a couple of hours to take the child to the doctor. It isn't as if she was very ill. She's not. It's the same old story. Private lives first, and the job second. Women are all alike.”

“Except you.”

“Very well, except me if you like. I'm not in the least ashamed of saying so. I always have thought that I was the only woman of my acquaintance, almost, to understand the meaning of hard work.”

Sal shrugged her shoulders.

“Wait till Maurice gets acute appendicitis, that's all.”

“But that's not the point, Sal! The Ingatestone child
hadn't
got acute appendicitis, or anything else that meant a real crisis. I could understand if it had been that kind of thing. But this was just feminine fuss, and nerves, and disregard of everything
except her own personal feelings. Why on earth does she want to be away for the next two days, for instance?”

“What did she tell you?”

“Something vague about getting the child to the country. I told her she could stay away till Friday, and I only hope she understood what I thought of her.”

“I've no doubt she did. She's heard your views on the subject of unnecessary absence quite often enough. I imagine that's why she didn't tell you any details. You see, I heard the whole story from Frayle.”

Sal stopped, and Claudia said: “Well, go on. I can see you mean to tell it to me.”

“Yes, I do. If Ingatestone hadn't been terrified out of her senses at the thought of getting the sack, she'd have told you herself. Well, this child's the only thing she's got in the world. The husband was a bad hat, and drank, and he left her without a penny, having previously pawned most of the furniture.”

“I know all that—except about the furniture, which I believe you invented.”

“Very well,” continued Sal imperturbably, “the whole of Mrs Ingatestone's screw goes on this child—naturally. I don't know whether she has any relations to help her or not—anyway, none of them is in a position to take her now, and the doctors have ordered her into the country. The point of all this is that Mrs Ingatestone, between now and Friday, has got to find a suitable place and make all her arrangements. I suppose she
means to take her there—wherever it may be—at the week-end.”

Claudia made a sound expressive of concern.

“Yes, I see. Why on earth didn't the idiot tell me? Of course I should have understood.”

“How was she to guess that? She's heard you say—the whole office has heard you say—that you've no patience with slackers, and people who are always putting their own concerns before their work. Naturally she thought you meant it, and that you'd probably sack her if she asked for more than two days.”

Claudia uttered an ejaculation, more expressive of impatience than of contrition.

“The woman must be a perfect fool. What a mercy she's coming this afternoon. Of course I'll tell her she can have a week or ten days—what-ever's absolutely necessary—on full pay, while she gets the child settled.”

“I knew you'd say that.”

“It's the obvious thing to say.”

Sal called for her bill.

“Could we possibly offer her anything to help at all, with the expense? After all, she's been with us from the beginning.”

“I should think we might,” Claudia said. “Anyway, I'll try this afternoon. Poor wretch! It's bad luck. I hope there's nothing really wrong with the little girl.”

“I don't think it's terribly serious, from what Frayle said. Ingatestone will probably tell you about it this afternoon.”

“Apparently that's exactly what she won't do.
Fool! I do think people might realize,” said Claudia, half laughing, “that one's bark may be worse than one's bite.”

“It'd be a lot easier,” Sal returned, “if you didn't say things that you don't really mean, just to live up to your own idea of yourself as an employer.”

“Never again,” remarked Mrs Ingatestone emotionally, “never again shall it be said in my presence that Mrs Winsloe is hard. She is
not
hard. No one could have been kinder, or more generous, or more of an
absolute
lady than she's shown herself to me.”

“That's good,” said Miss Frayle cheerfully. “I thought Saucy Sal's example would tell in time. To say nothing of Collier's and mine.”

“I'm afraid I'm going to desert you all for a week, but the very first minute I can, I shall be back again. How is this Mrs Ladislaw managing?”

“Oh, she's O.K.,” Miss Collier conceded. “I say, does Diana like chocs? I've got some here for her, just to pass the time away.”

“That's very kind of you—really it is. I do think you girls have been sweet———”

Miss Collier and Miss Frayle looked embarrassed, and the former said quickly:

“Actually, I shouldn't offer my worst enemy chocs. There's nothing like them for putting on weight. But if you're a kid, it doesn't matter. Aren't they lucky!”

“They aren't the only ones,” said Mrs Ingatestone. “My word, no.”

In a very few days Frances Ladislaw had begun to feel as if she had been at work in the office of London Universal Services for quite a long while.

She became attached to her—or Mrs Ingatestone's—card-index, and enjoyed entering up particulars on the cards, and signalizing a completed transaction by the affixing of a red paper disc.

She liked Miss Frayle, Miss Collier, and young Edie—whose surname she never learnt. Quite soon Frayle and Collier forgot that Mrs Ladislaw was a friend of their employer's, and behaved in her presence very much as they would have behaved without her, except that they referred to Mrs Winsloe only as
Her
or
She
. Miss Oliver they simply called, behind her back, Our Sal, or Sally in our Alley. The violent language used by the slim, baby-faced Doris Frayle ceased to surprise Frances. From time to time she took part, quite earnestly, in passionate discussions about Miss Collier's weight.

As the weather turned colder, she fell more and more into the tea-drinking habit.

Much of her work, however, lay outside the office. She packed, washed underclothes, and mended, for agitated and often unreasonable women, she took small children to walk in Kensington Gardens or visit the Zoo—Frances liked
the children and hated the Zoo—and she continually visited a small Servants' Registry Office run in close connection with Claudia's organization.

One day, to her surprise, Copper Winsloe walked into the office just as she was preparing to go out to lunch.

“Hallo, Frances! Good morning.”

“Good morning. It's nice to see you—Shall I see if Claudia's ready?”

“She isn't expecting me. I came up by train after she'd left,” said Copper coolly. “Had to see a man.”

“We'll ring through and let her know you're here.”

Ringing through only revealed that both Mrs Winsloe and Miss Oliver had left the office a quarter of an hour ago.

“
What a
pity!” Frances cried. “I wonder if Edie knows where they were going.”

“Never mind. It doesn't matter. They'll be here this afternoon, won't they?”

“Yes. We've got an inter-departmental conference.”

“What?”

“We meet in Claudia's office for a sort of general discussion about the various jobs, and who's doing what. It's supposed to prevent overlapping and to give us all a chance of bringing forward suggestions. I think it's a very good idea. Not that I've attended one yet. They only happen once a month.”

“You were just off to lunch, weren't you? Come and have some with me. We'll go to Simpson's.”

Her impulse was to protest at the extravagance, but she checked it. Copper scarcely ever made any suggestion, if one came to think of it, and when he did so—at any rate at Arling—it was not usually successful.

“Thank you very much,” she said gently. “I'd love to come. What an exciting place!”

“I used to go there sometimes in the old days before the war,” Copper explained.

He took her to Simpson's, expressing disapproval of the way in which London had altered, and they sat down to lunch.

“What cocktail would you like?”

She saw that he wanted her to accept the cocktail and, although with a foreboding that it would make her feel sleepier than ever between the fatal hours of two-forty-five and three-thirty, she chose a dry Martini.

When the drinks came, Copper said rather shyly:

“I want you to drink a toast. To a possible job!”

“Oh, I will!” cried Frances eagerly. “Copper, I'm so glad! Here's the very best of luck.”

She drank excitedly, and choked at the taste, which she hated.

They both laughed.

“Do tell me about it, please.”

“That's what I came up about. It's not exactly settled yet—but with any luck it will be to-night, before I go home.”

“What is it? Does Claudia know yet? Is it a permanent job?”

“Claudia doesn't know. I shall tell her this afternoon. As a matter of fact, it partly depends on her—I say, what are you going to eat?”

They discussed the question. Copper's childlike absorption in the menu, and his anxiety that Frances should have what she liked, rather touched her. At Arling he had been sullen and very often disagreeable, although not to her.

Now, away from Arling and with a new hope in front of him, he had become again the Copper Winsloe that she had known in earlier years.

When the waiter had received his order, Copper leant back and drew a long breath, looking at his companion.

“I'll tell you,” he began. “Sure you're not bored?”

“Oh, Copper! Go
on
!”

The job, it appeared, had to do with a new country club, to be started outside a big midland town by an enterprising speculator and his wealthy wife.

“—the woman, as usual, being the moving spirit and having most of the money,” Copper threw in with a grin.

Copper, whose name had been suggested by an old Ceylon tea-planting friend, had actually received a letter asking him whether he would consider taking up the management of the golf-house and club that were to form an integral part of the scheme.

Frances listened to him with absorption, uttering low ejaculations of excited comprehension from time to time. Copper was not, as a rule, an eloquent speaker, and even to-day he did not achieve more than articulateness.

But his face, and indeed his whole personality, were transformed.

“Decent of old Branscombe to remember me, wasn't it?” he kept on repeating.

“It's splendid,” said Frances. “I suppose they wanted a gentleman?”

“That's the idea, I believe.”

“But, Copper—tell me some more—would it be residential? Is it permanent?”

“It's residential, naturally, to start with. They're only suggesting that I should do it for six months, to get the thing thoroughly started, and after that, I imagine it's up to me. Old Branscombe didn't seem to think there'd be much difficulty about getting in with them permanently, if the thing's a success.”

“Oh, it must be!”

“It's bound to be, isn't it?” he agreed earnestly. “They've got any amount of money, and apparently the house and grounds and everything are all O.K. The list of members is as long as your arm.”