An Unsuitable Job for a Woman Read Free Page B

imagination she had enjoyed a lifetime of love in one hour with no disappointments and no regrets. Her father had never talked about her mother’s death and Cordelia had avoided questioning him, fearful of learning that her mother had never held her in her arms, never regained consciousness, never perhaps even known that she had a daughter. This belief in her mother’s love was the one fantasy which she could still not entirely risk losing although its indulgence had become less necessary and less real with each passing year. Now, in imagination, she consulted her mother. It was just as she expected: her mother thought it an entirely suitable job for a woman.
    The little group at the bar had turned back to their drinks. Between their shoulders she could see her own reflection in the mirror above the bar. Today’s face looked no different fromyesterday’s face: thick, light brown hair framing features which looked as if a giant had placed a hand on her head and the other under her chin and gently squeezed the face together; large eyes, browny-green under a deep fringe of hair; wide cheekbones; a gentle, childish mouth. A cat’s face, she thought, but calmly decorative among the reflection of coloured bottles and all the bright glitter of Mavis’s bar. Despite its look of deceptive youth it could be a secret, uncommunicative face. Cordelia had early learnt stoicism. All her foster parents, kindly and well-meaning in their different ways, had demanded one thing of her—that she should be happy. She had quickly learned that to show unhappiness was to risk the loss of love. Compared with this early discipline of concealment, all subsequent deceits had been easy.
    The Snout was edging his way towards her. He settled himself down on the bench, his thick rump in its appalling tweed pressed close to hers. She disliked the Snout although he had been Bernie’s only friend. Bernie had explained that the Snout was a police informer and did rather well. And there were other sources of income. Sometimes his friends stole famous pictures or valuable jewellery. Then the Snout, suitably instructed, would hint to the police where the loot could be found. There was a reward for the Snout to be subsequently shared, of course, among the thieves, and a pay-off, too, for the detective, who after all had done most of the work. As Bernie had pointed out, the insurance company got off lightly, the owners got their property back intact, the thieves were in no danger from the police, and the Snout and the detective got their pay-off. It was the system. Cordelia, shocked, had not liked to protest too much. She suspected that Bernie too had done some snouting in his time, although never with such expertise or with such lucrative results.
    The Snout’s eyes were rheumy; his hand around the glass of whisky was shaking.
    “Poor old Bernie, I could see he had it coming to him. He’d been losing weight for the last year and he had that grey look to him, the cancer complexion, my dad used to call it.”
    At least the Snout had noticed; she hadn’t. Bernie had always seemed to her grey and sick-looking. A thick, hot thigh edged closer.
    “Never had any luck, poor sod. They chucked him out of the CID. Did he tell you? That was Superintendent Dalgliesh, Inspector at the time. Christ, he could be a proper bastard; no second chance from him, I can tell you.”
    “Yes, Bernie told me,” Cordelia lied. She added: “He didn’t seem particularly bitter about it.”
    “No use, is there, in being bitter? Take what comes, that’s my motto. I suppose you’ll be looking for another job?”
    He said it wistfully as if her defection would leave the Agency open for his exploitation.
    “Not just yet,” said Cordelia. “I shan’t look for a new job just yet.”
    She had made two resolutions: she would keep on Bernie’s business until there was nothing left with which to pay the rent, and she would never come into the Golden Pheasant again as long as she