In her room at Whitegates, a few yards along the corridor from Mrs Parkes, Gina Thorson lay on her bed with her hands linked behind her head. Mr Mallinson was going to be all right, Dr Burnett had said so. She frowned into the darkness. It was very awkward, the old man’s illness coming just at this moment. She had planned to ask him for a rise in salary in the morning, she had worked it all out in her mind, intending to ask him as soon as she’d finished the daily letters. He was always in a good mood at that time of day, feeling alert, in control of the many facets of his life.
But it was out of the question now to ask for a rise. She would probably be allowed to see him only about the most urgent letters concerning the firm – and she might be told to refer those to David Mallinson, not to bother the old man for the present. She could scarcely go barging into the sickroom to demand more money for her services, skilled as they were.
And I need the money, she thought, I need quite a lot of money right away. Richard Knight had asked her to go down to Hampshire to meet his parents. Well-to-do people, Richard’s parents, she must make a good impression on them. When she left their house at the end of her visit there was a very good chance that she would be wearing Richard’s engagement ring.
Gina sat up in bed and switched on the bedside lamp. I simply must have some new clothes, she thought, swinging her feet over the edge of the bed. Expensive, well-cut country clothes.
She crossed over to the wardrobe and flung open the door, reviewing the contents for the umpteenth time, shaking her head at them in rejection. Pretty enough clothes, smart enough, but cheap, all she’d been able to afford so far, a girl on her own, without parents, without a family, without background. They’d passed muster up till now. With a slim young figure like Gina’s you could get away with cheaply fashionable clothes for a time, but they wouldn’t deceive the practised, assessing eyes of Richard’s parents.
She closed the wardrobe door and climbed back into bed, sitting upright with her knees hunched under the blankets. A suède coat, three-quarter length, a skirt in fine tweed, a cashmere sweater – she knew exactly what she would buy if she had the money, she’d searched the windows of the more exclusive stores in Hallborough until she’d found what she wanted.
Mr Mallinson will be all right, Dr Burnett had said. But how soon would he be well again? A week? Two weeks? What was the earliest possible moment at which she could reasonably broach the subject of a rise?
She drew a long breath and flung herself back on the pillows. Was there any other way she could get hold of the money? Borrow it perhaps? From whom? Mrs Parkes? Even as she formed the notion she shook her head, dismissing it. Mrs Parkes would have nothing to lend and if she had there was her own family to play fairy godmother to. She was hardly likely to part with her hard-earned savings to help her employer’s secretary to lash out on expensive new clothes. And it wasn’t even as if Mrs Parkes liked her very much … her manner was always polite, but nothing more.…
A hundred and seventy-five pounds, Mrs Parkes calculated yet again, drifting drowsily towards sleep. That’s all I’ve got to show for the best part of a lifetime of hard work, one hundred and seventy-five pounds, not counting the change in my bag. That wouldn’t go very far in setting her son up in a little farm of his own. She smiled grimly behind her closed lids; her thoughts began to swirl and dissolve, her muscles began to slacken. I must be up early in the morning, she told herself, I must see to the old man … something nice to eat … something easy to digest … he won’t be awake for breakfast … but he might take a little lunch … I’ll go down to the gardener’s cottage and see if there are any tender young vegetables … any tempting fruit … Mrs Parkes slipped into a dream where she was walking up the path to the gardener’s cottage, raising her hand, lifting the brass knocker …
AT SIX-THIRTY the alarm clock pealed its shrill summons in the front bedroom of the gardener’s cottage. Ada Foster came awake with a start, blinking at the new day without much expectation that it would differ very greatly from all the days that had preceded it. She sat up and rubbed her eyes.
‘Half-six, George! Time to get up!’ She gave a ritual thrust at her husband’s shoulder.
‘What’s that? Time to get up?’ George Foster rose protesting from the trough of sleep, ‘Make us a cup of tea, there’s a good lass.’ His fingers reached out, scrabbling for the packet of cigarettes on the little table.
Ada was already thrusting her feet into ancient felt slippers.
‘All right then. But don’t go dropping off again. I’ll put the sausages on.’ She jerked an old fawn dressing-gown from behind the door and went along the passage, calling, ‘Norman! Half-past six! Do you hear me, Norman? Time to get up!’
There was a muffled groan from the second bedroom.
‘O.K., Mum, I’m awake.’
‘Mind you stay awake, then. Don’t want to be late for work.’ Ada went slop-footed down to the kitchen and filled the kettle at the sink.
Norman Foster sat up in bed without any very marked enthusiasm. His first thought, as always these days, was for his pride and treasure, the darling of his heart, his motorbike, standing slim and powerful, silent and waiting, in the shed outside the back door. The thought brought with it a wash of anxiety that clouded his face now whenever the vision of his darling rose before his eyes – how long before she was snatched away from him for ever by the implacable forces of hire-purchase regulations?
‘Three days late with your instalment,’ the boss had said to him only yesterday. ‘You’ve only had the bike four months and already you’re falling behind. Won’t do, Norman, my lad. Either pay up or hand the bike back.’
‘I’ll have the money by the end of the week, honest I will.’ It was Norman’s birthday in three days’ time and on the evening of his birthday his godfather, old Mr Mallinson up at the big house, unfailingly summoned Norman to receive his present. Between the ages of five and twelve the present had been a pound note, from his thirteenth birthday it had been two pound notes. In three days Norman would be eighteen. Surely, he thought with fierce expectation, surely this time he’ll make it three – or even – exhilarating notion! five! At the idea Norman closed his eyes for a second in ecstasy. Five whole pound notes, crisp and new! Or one single imposing fiver perhaps, virgin from the bank!
He opened his eyes and sprang out of bed with renewed hope. Even with three pounds he could pay the instalment, with five he could put some aside for next month’s inexorable deadline.
Melancholy clutched at him again. Even five pounds wouldn’t last very long. There would be the month after next, the month after that, the whole inescapable procession stretching out for another year and a half, till the day when he could burnish his darling with polish and chrome cleaner in the blissful knowledge that she was his for ever.
He fumbled about on the floor, looking for his shoes and socks. Eighteen months! How on earth was he going to manage the instalments all that time? On an apprentice’s wages in a Hallborough garage he couldn’t put much by.
‘A motorbike?’ his father had said, frowning. ‘You’ll never be able to pay for it!’
‘I will, Dad! Honest, I will!’ he’d cried. ‘I’ll save every penny. And if I don’t have a bike, how am I going to get to work? They’re stopping the seven o’clock bus.’
‘You could ride a push-bike,’ his father had said. ‘Like I did at your age.’
But Norman had produced a scrap of paper covered with figures. ‘Look, Dad, this is what I earn and this is what I have to pay out. Go on, read it, you’ll see I’ve worked it all out. I can manage the instalments, it’s all down there.’
‘Go on, George,’ his mother had said, seeing the look of pleading in the eyes of her only child. ‘Let him have the bike. It’ll be handy for