Stormy Springtime. Бетти Нилс
uncertainty. When Cora had finished explaining where the boys were to go to school, she asked, ‘What about me—and Betsy?’
They turned to look at her, smiling reassuringly. ‘Why, darling, you’ll have your share, enough to buy a little flat somewhere—you could get a job—you’d like that after the quiet life you’ve been leading.’
It would be a waste of breath to ask what job; she wasn’t trained for anything and it was a bit late to start at twenty-three. ‘And Betsy?’
‘Remember there was something in the will about those shares Mother had? They were for Betsy. They’ll top up her state pension nicely.’
‘Where will she live?’
Doreen said lightly, ‘There must be any number of people in the village who’d be glad to let her have a room—she knows everyone for miles around.’
She got up and sat on the edge of Meg’s chair and flung an arm around her shoulders. ‘I’ll get everyone looking for a flat for you, darling. You’ll love London, and you’ll make heaps of friends. You must be lonely here in this big place.’
Meg said in a wooden voice, ‘No. I miss Mother, but it’s still home, and there’s plenty to keep me busy—and the garden even in winter.’
‘We’ll find you a basement flat with a paved area; you can fill it with pot plants.’
Meg let that pass. She said in her matter-of-fact way, ‘I’ll have to train for something,’ and then, ‘I suppose I have to leave here?’ Neither of her sisters heard the wistfulness in her voice.
‘Shorthand and typing,’ said Cora, ‘—jobs going all the time for shorthand typists…’
‘Receptionist?’ suggested Doreen vaguely. She didn’t say what for. ‘Anyway, that’s settled, isn’t it? Let’s get the estate agents on to it, Cora—there’s a flat near the hospital which I rather like. There is no point in waiting, is there?’
‘What about the furniture?’ Meg had a quiet voice, but it brought them up short.
‘Sell it?’ essayed Cora.
‘Put it in store? I could use it—some of it—in my new flat when I get it.’
Meg said slowly, ‘Why not sell it with the house?’ At the back of her mind there was an idea taking slow shape. She wasn’t quite sure of it at the moment, but it would need thinking about later.
Cora looked at her approvingly. ‘That’s not a bad idea. We’ll see what the agents say. I must fly—the boys will be back and Natasha—the au pair—is no good at all. I’ll have to find someone else.’
They kissed Meg goodbye, went out to their cars, and got in and drove away, and Meg went back into the house and sat down in the gathering gloom to think. If it were humanly possible, she didn’t intend to leave her home, and certainly not to leave old Betsy to live out her days in a poky bedsitter. Presently Betsy came in with the teatray and Silky, the rather battered tomcat Meg had found skulking round the back door, had fed and sheltered and, since he had obviously made up his mind to become one of the family, had adopted. He got on to Meg’s lap now, and Betsy put the tray down and said, ‘Well, they’ve gone, then?’ There was a question mark behind the words which couldn’t be ignored.
‘Cora and Doreen want to sell the house,’ said Meg. ‘And everything in it. But don’t worry, Betsy, I’ve an idea…so that we can stay here.’
‘Marry a millionaire, like as not, Miss Meg.’ Betsy’s cockney voice sounded cheerfully derisive. ‘What’s to happen to us, then?’
Meg said hearteningly, ‘It takes weeks—months—to sell a house. I’ll do something about it, I promise you.’
Betsy was only too willingly reassured; she trotted back to the kitchen and Meg sat drinking her tea, thinking about the future. Of course it would be marvellous if a very rich man came along and bought the house and fell in love with her at the same time, but that only happened in books… What was needed was someone elderly who needed a housekeeper or companion and a good plain cook and who didn’t object to an elderly tomcat. Meg, who was a practical girl, thought it unlikely, though there was no harm in hoping.
Her sisters wasted no time. Within a week a pleasant young man from a London estate agent came to inspect the property. He walked round, with Meg beside him explaining about the old-fashioned bathrooms, the central heating, the Aga stove and why the large drawing-room was icy cold.
‘There’s only me,’ she pointed out, ‘there’s no point in having a fire there just for one—my sisters are seldom here. We switch on the central heating twice a week, though, because of the furniture—Hepplewhite, you know.’
He nodded, rather at sea; he knew a lot about houses but not much about furniture. He felt vaguely sorry for the rather mouselike girl who was showing him round with such a self-possessed air. He spared a moment to wonder where she would go when the house was sold, for sold it would be, he could see that. Fine old Georgian houses with a generous spread of garden were much sought after. He accepted the coffee she offered him, agreed with her that people wishing to view the house might do so only with an appointment, and took his leave.
The first couple came within three days. In the morning, because Meg was on the committee which organised the Church Bazaar and that would take the whole afternoon.
Mr and Mrs Thorngood arrived in a splendid Mercedes and Meg, rarely given to criticising anyone, disliked them on sight. She led them round her home, listening with a calm face to their loud-voiced remarks about old-fashioned bathrooms, no fitted cupboards and a kitchen which must have come out of the Ark. They didn’t like the garden, either: no swimming pool, all those trees and outbuildings which were of no use to anyone…
‘We use the end one as a garage,’ Meg pointed out.
‘Well, that wouldn’t do for us—we’ve three cars—we’d need to build a decent garage.’ The man looked at her angrily as though it were her fault, and presently the pair of them drove away.
The next day a middle-aged woman with an overbearing manner came. She was looking for suitable premises for a school, she explained, but it took her only a short time to decide that the house wouldn’t do at all. ‘Most unsuitable,’ she observed to Meg, who was politely standing on the doorstep to see her off. ‘All those plastered ceilings, and none of the bedrooms would take more than five beds.’
Meg liked the next couple. They were young and friendly and admired everything wholeheartedly. It wasn’t until they were drinking coffee with her in the sitting-room that the girl said suddenly, ‘We can’t possibly buy this place; actually we live in a poky little flat in Fulham, but when Mike’s between jobs, we go around inspecting houses—it’s fun, seeing how the other half live. I hope you don’t mind.’ She sighed. ‘It must be nice to be rich and live in a lovely old house like this one.’
‘Well’, began Meg and decided not to go on. ‘I’m glad you like it, anyway. It’s been in the family for a fairly long time.’
There were quite a few viewers during the next week, but none of them came back a second time, although one man made an offer of slightly less than the price the agents had set. Instantly rejected, of course.
Then no one came at all for four days. Meg breathed a sigh of relief; perhaps no one would want to live in her home and she would be able to stay on there. She knew it was silly to think that; she would have to go sooner or later to some tiny basement flat unless she could find something to do locally. That wouldn’t be easy, since she had no skills.
As each day passed she felt more and more lulled into false hopes; she ceased listening for the phone, put in hours of work in the garden and went for long walks. The weather had turned nasty—perhaps that was why no one came, but it made no difference to her. On the afternoon of the fourth day she came home from a muddy wet walk, kicked her sensible boots off at the back door and was met by an agitated Betsy.
‘There’s