Mr Shires himself, a plump little man in a shiny black suit, was writing at the desk. He capped his fountain pen and rose to a crouching position, not quite standing. He extended a hand across the desk and said, ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Langstone. Pleased to meet you. Do sit down,’ in a continuous rush of words that suggested he was in a terrible hurry. He sank back in his chair and popped a peppermint from a white paper bag into his mouth. His eyes drifted back to the pile of papers in front of him.
‘I believe Mr Serridge has talked to you about me,’ Lydia said.
‘Yes.’ He sucked the peppermint and the tip of his nose twitched. ‘I understand you’re looking for a position.’ He uncapped the pen, initialled the foot of one page and turned it over. ‘And that you have no experience of office work.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Married or widowed?’
‘Separated,’ Lydia said firmly.
Shires stared at her with weak, watery eyes. ‘Are you living by yourself?’
‘No. I’m staying with my father in his flat.’
‘Of course.’ There was a tinge of amusement in Mr Shires’ voice. ‘In Bleeding Heart Square. Yes, I see. Very convenient.’
Lydia felt her temper slipping away from her. ‘I don’t want to waste your time, Mr Shires …’
‘I don’t want you to waste it either, young lady.’
Lydia gave way to her feelings and glared at him. ‘I’m glad we understand one another. Though I’ve no experience of office work, I’ve run two large houses for several years. I’m a quick learner, I’m methodical, and I’m willing to learn.’
‘Splendid, Mrs Langstone.’ Mr Shires took off his glasses and sat back in his chair. ‘I’m looking for a girl to do some of the donkey work for Mr Smethwick and Miss Tuffley. Mr Smethwick is our junior clerk. Miss Tuffley is our typist. They spend far too much of their valuable time filing or answering the telephone or making cups of tea for our clients. I can make more use of them than that. So if you are willing to do that sort of thing, I can give you a month’s trial on a part-time basis, and we’ll see how we go. Are you interested?’
‘What do you mean by part-time, Mr Shires?’
‘If you come to work for me, Mrs Langstone, you will have to get used to addressing me as sir. Let’s say three days a week. Our hours are eight thirty to five thirty. The precise days and hours may vary from week to week; you would have to fit in with us. Shall we say thirty shillings?’
‘Thirty shillings a day?’
‘No, no.’ Mr Shires belched unhurriedly. ‘Thirty shillings a week.’
‘That’s ten shillings a day.’
‘So it is. Will that suit, eh? Yes or no.’
‘Yes,’ Lydia said.
‘Yes, what?’ Mr Shires said.
Lydia stared at him. ‘Yes, sir.’
Finding a job was proving harder than Rory had anticipated. On Tuesday he had lunch with a friend from university who now worked at an advertising agency in the Strand. When Rory had been in India, the friend had written enthusiastically about the opportunities awaiting him back in London. But now Rory was actually here, those opportunities seemed to have vanished. ‘Everyone’s tightening their belts, old chap,’ the friend said as they drank their coffee after lunch. ‘And people want chaps with the right experience. There’s no getting round it, I’m afraid.’
By the time Rory got back to Bleeding Heart Square, the Crozier had opened for the evening. It was a cold night, and he went into the panelled saloon bar and ordered whisky. The place was crowded with people having a drink on their way home. Lucky people, he thought, people with jobs.
Rory found a seat in an alcove almost entirely filled with a large table, around which sat four law clerks engaged in a slanderous conversation about their employer. He slumped behind his newspaper in a chair at the end of the table and turned to the Situations Vacant. He was aware of the ebb and flow of voices around him. His attention wandered from the newsprint. He tuned in and out of conversations in the alcove and the bar beyond, as though he were twirling the dial on a wireless set.
‘No change then?’ said an educated man’s voice.
‘Found herself a job, I understand. Extraordinary.’
‘Good God. I’d have thought she was unemployable. Where?’
‘Some lawyers at Rosington Place. Perfectly respectable billet, you needn’t worry about that.’
Rory recognized the voice of the second speaker: Captain Ingleby-Lewis, his neighbour on the first floor. He knew he ought to make his presence known or at least stop listening but his curiosity was stronger than his sense of propriety.
‘She’s settled in much better than I thought she would,’ Ingleby-Lewis said. ‘I mean, she’s not enjoying it, slumming it with her old father. But she’s putting a brave face on it. Plucky girl.’
‘It can’t go on.’
‘Of course not. But I can’t just throw her out.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I can’t,’ Ingleby-Lewis said, his voice suddenly sharp. ‘After all she is my daughter. Flesh and blood and all that. She is causing quite a stir in my place.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Serridge — my landlord — he’s taken quite a shine to her. It’s he who found her the job. Even Mrs Renton downstairs, who disapproves of most of the human race — I wouldn’t say she likes Lydia exactly, but she is being quite kind to her. As for that fellow Fimberry, he goes around with his tongue hanging out at the very thought of her.’
‘Who’s this?’ There was no mistaking the anger in the other man’s voice.
‘Fimberry. Nervy chap. He’s got the room on the left of the front door, opposite Mrs Renton’s. He’s meant to be writing a book. He’s always hanging round the chapel in Rosington Place.’
‘He’s dangling after Lydia? Making a nuisance of himself?’
‘Let’s say he’s getting rather fresh. Don’t worry, I’ll give the fellow his marching orders.’
‘I must go. Would you give Lydia this for me?’
‘Of course. You’re sure you haven’t time for another drink?’
The conversation continued but less audibly than before. Other voices drowned it out. When Rory left the Crozier ten minutes later, Ingleby-Lewis was no longer in the bar. He walked across the cobbles of Bleeding Heart Square and let himself into the house. Mrs Renton was standing in the doorway of Fimberry’s room.
‘Good evening,’ he said.
‘Settling in all right?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Could you do me a favour? I promised Mr Fimberry I’d do his curtains. But he hasn’t taken them down. I need a longer pair of arms.’
Rory went into Fimberry’s room. The electric light was burning brightly. It was almost as cold in here as it was outside. The room was sparsely furnished and anonymous. The only touch of individuality was the books that filled almost the entire wall opposite the window from floor to ceiling. They were housed in two bookcases around which had grown a precarious network of shelves consisting of unpainted planks resting on bricks. It looked as if the slightest vibration would bring the entire erection crashing down.
Rory stood on a chair and unhooked the curtains from their rail. Afterwards, while Mrs Renton was folding them, his eyes drifted over the spines of the books. Most of them were historical or topographical; almost all of them were old. They made the room smell like the seediest sort of second-hand bookshop, full of dead and decaying words that no one in his right mind would ever want to read.
He turned away and looked out of the uncurtained window. There was enough light to see a tall man in a dark overcoat standing on the corner by the Crozier. A cigarette glowed briefly as he inhaled. For an instant the skin of his face was as red as the devil’s.
When Lydia let herself into the house, Mr Wentwood was climbing the stairs. He glanced back.
‘Evening, Mrs Langstone. You all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
