young, growing
girl.’
Pamela couldn’t stop her hands from trembling
slightly from hunger. There were so many sandwiches that she could
eat a fair number without looking like a complete pig, weren’t
there?
‘My dear, we shall have to do something about
your clothing. Have you anything more . . . formal?’ At the look on
Pamela’s face, she shook her head and said, ‘Of course you don’t.
Not to worry, though. We’ll get you fixed up when we arrive at your
new home.’
‘What’s it like?’ Pamela asked her suddenly.
‘I mean, the place you live? I mean, well, what’s the house like?
And the area?’
‘The house ,’ Mrs. Dewhurst said with an
irony that was lost on Pamela, her smile returning. ‘Well, it’s a
fairly big house,
as houses go, and there are lots of people living in it, and there
are lots of domestic workers . . . servants is too archaic a word. Real servants, back in the
bad old days, used to work long hours for their room and board
only. A modern domestic is paid a wage, and is often supplied with
room and board as well, as in our case, when the location of the .
. . house . . . is
fairly remote.
‘There is a small town about six miles away,
where we buy anything we need, and where we all go to church on
Sunday. By the way, church is a household event, which we all
attend. Do you attend church?’
Pamela’s eyes fell. ‘Sort of. There’s a
Catholic Mission I work at on the weekends. We have a service,
which Father Mugford gives-’
‘You’re Catholic?’
Pamela swallowed, feeling at
once false and shabby once more. ‘No,’ she muttered in a small
voice, ‘I’m not anything . I work there mostly because . . . well . . . it’s a few
dollars... and a meal-’ She couldn’t speak any more. To her own
surprise and utter humiliation, she found she was
crying.
Mrs. Dewhurst didn’t seem
the least bit embarrassed or put out, however. She left her chair
and sat beside the girl. ‘That’s all right. A few tears are good
for the soul.’ She sighed, and to Pamela’s surprise, put her arm
around the girl, let her cry her heart out on the woman’s shoulder.
‘Cry all you like, dear. It strikes me that, so far, you don’t have
much to thank the good Lord for . But maybe we can change that.
Hm?’
After she had regained her composure, wiping
her eyes, Pamela ventured a question.
‘How come you’re being so nice to me? How
could you possibly want someone like me to . . . to work for you?
To live at your house?’
Mrs. Dewhurst gave her a
humorously evasive look as she resumed her seat. ‘Ah, that would be telling. You
know, I don’t believe I’m going to tell you. I’ll leave you to
figure that one out for yourself. My reasons for not telling you, and the
reasons I want you ,
and you specifically, will become clear to you in time. If I were
to make my thoughts plain to you . . . well! That would rather
spoil things. And, yes, you heard me correctly. There’s no need to
look so shocked! The job is yours if you want it. Now come, you’ve
hardly made a dent in those wonderful sandwiches I made, and
there’s a plateful of cookies that need to be eaten lest they go to
waste. You stay here and fill yourself up, and I’ll call my son and
tell him we’ll be catching the first plane in the
morning.’
‘Your son?’
Mrs. Dewhurst rolled her
eyes in what may have been mock exasperation. ‘Yes, my son, Theo,
short for “Theodore.” Some of his friends used to call him “Ted.”
He’s partly the reason I came here looking for someone like you.
Only I did one better. Instead of getting someone like you, I got you . Never mind my rather
oblique sense of humour, my dear. Indulge me. Now, Theo is an
active man; too active for my ageing domestic staff, most of whom
have been with us forever, so that the place more resembles a
retirement home full of doddering old fuddy-duddies. But Theo . . .
he manages my estates and my business affairs . . . I’m sure I
don’t know what