A Girl to Love

“The children adore you, and you’ve discovered what fun they are and love them, too. I think that’s the most important thing you ever told me, Mr. Trentham,” Sadie said.

“I’m truly sorry about your wife. You’ve been lonely for years, haven’t you? I know you’ve had your work and you’re famous and I expect you have a lot of money, but none of these things are all that important, are they?” She stopped frowning.

“I know how I sound, but I don’t mean to. I think you must marry again.” It cost a lot to say that cheerfully. “The children were talking about the lady you took them to have tea with. They seemed to think you might…”

His laugh was genuinely amused. “Oh, my dear little Sadie, you mustn’t believe all you hear. Pamela is the last woman on earth I would marry. No, I have plans of my own.”

Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of Betty Neels in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

A Girl to Love

Betty Neels

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

THE COTTAGE STOOD sideways on to the lane, its wicket gate opening on to a narrow brick path between flower beds, the path ending at an old-fashioned door with a round brass knob and a great knocker. Its thatched roof above cob walls was much patched, although picturesque, and doubtless in the summer it presented a charming picture, but just now, on a dripping November afternoon, it looked forlorn, as forlorn as the girl opening the gate.

She was wrapped in a rather elderly raincoat with a scarf wound round her neck and a woolly cap pulled well down on to a pale face, quite unremarkable save for a pair of fine dark eyes, and despite the bulky coat, she was too thin. She closed the gate carefully, hurried up the path and let herself into the cottage, casting off her outdoor things in the hall and going straight into the sitting room.

It was a pleasant enough room with some nice pieces furnishing it and a scattering of shabby armchairs. The girl switched on the light, scooped up the sleek cat sitting in one of the chairs and with him on her lap, sat down. The room was untidy and across the hall the dining room table was still littered with cups and saucers and plates and the remains of cake and sandwiches consumed by friends who had attended the funeral and returned for tea afterwards. But that would have to wait. The girl had too much on her mind to bother about washing up for the moment; she’d had a shock and she needed to go over every word Mr Banks the solicitor had said to her before she could face up to it.

The funeral had been well attended. Granny had no family except herself left, but many friends, and they had all come; it had been a busy day, and it was only when the last of them had gone and only Mr Banks was left that she had felt a pang of loneliness. At his suggestion that they should sit and have a talk for a while she had felt better and she had sat down opposite him, not surprised when he had said kindly: ‘Sadie, there is the will…’

She had nodded, not over interested; she had lived with her grandmother since she was a very small girl and although there had never been much money she knew that the cottage would be hers. Her grandmother’s pension died with her, but there was always a living to be earned. She had wanted to get a job after she had left school, but her grandmother wouldn’t hear of it, so although at twenty-three she was a skilled housewife, a splendid cook and a clever needlewoman, she wasn’t trained for anything else, and she had never thought about it much, especially during the last two years when Granny had been so crippled with arthritis that she had been forced to give up active life and depend entirely on Sadie.

Mr Banks unfolded the will and cleared his throat. Mrs Gillard had left all that she possessed to her granddaughter. But there was more to it than that; he folded the will up tidily and blew his nose, reluctant to speak. When he did, Sadie didn’t believe him at first. The cottage was mortgaged up to the hilt—Granny had been living on the money for some years, for her pension hadn’t gone up as wages had, and what had been a respectable income thirty years ago had dwindled to a mockery of itself… ‘So I am very afraid,’ said Mr Banks apologetically, ‘that there is no money at all, Sadie, and the cottage will have to be sold in order to pay off the mortgage.’

She had looked at him in vague disbelief and he hastened to add: ‘Your grandmother had a few pounds in some shares. I’ll see that they are sold later, in the meantime I’ll advance you their value.’

She had thanked him politely. ‘I don’t think I could bear to leave here,’ she had told him, and then at his pitying look: ‘But of course I must, mustn’t I? I’ll get some sort of job.’

Mr Banks had looked uneasy. ‘Can you type? Do shorthand? I might know of someone…’

‘I can’t do anything like that. I can cook and sew and do the housework. I’ll find something.’ She had made a great effort and smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Banks, I’ll get a job as a housekeeper or mother’s help, then I’ll have a home and a job.’ And before he could protest: ‘I’ll walk down to the village with you—you left the car at the Bull and Judge, didn’t you?’

So she had seen him safely away and now she was back in the cottage which was no longer her house. She had a little time, Mr Banks had assured her, she would be given a week or two to make her plans and move out before the mortgage was fore-closed; and Mr Banks had pointed out that there was the chance that a buyer might be found for the cottage and the mortgage paid off, leaving her a little money besides.

She sat stroking the cat, searching her mind for a likely buyer, but there was no one in the village who would want it; it was a fair-sized place as cottages went, with good-sized rooms, an old-fashioned but adequate kitchen, four bedrooms and an attic as well as a bathroom, as out of date as the kitchen but still functioning, and besides there were a number of pantries and cupboards and a fair-sized garden. But it needed a new thatch and new paint, and the wall-paper had been on the walls ever since she could remember.

She got up presently and started on the washing up and when that was done, tidied the rooms, raked out the fire and took herself off to bed, with Tom the cat for company. The cottage was dreadfully empty without Granny. She hadn’t got used to that yet, and her grief went deep, for she had loved the old lady dearly, but she had plenty of good sense; life had to go on and she must make the most of it. She closed her eyes on the thought, but not before a few tears had trickled from under their lids.

Nothing seemed so bad in the morning. It was a cold grey day, but once the fire was lighted and she had had her breakfast and fed Tom, she set about cleaning the cottage. She wasn’t sure, but presumably someone would come to look at it. Whoever held the mortgage would want to know its value and they would send someone from a house agents.

There was no telephone in the cottage, so she would have no warning. Charlie Beard the postman came soon after breakfast, propping his bike against the old may tree by the gate and accepting a cup of tea while she looked through the handful of letters he gave her. Her heart sank at the bills—electricity, the last load of coal, the rates… When Charlie had gone she went through all the drawers in the hope of finding some money Granny might have tucked away, and was rewarded by a few pounds in an envelope, and these, added to what she had in her purse, would just about pay for the coal. She wasn’t too worried about food; there were vegetables in the garden, potatoes stored in the shed at the end of the garden; eggs could be exchanged with cabbages any time with Mrs Coffin at the end of the lane…and Mr Banks had said that he would send her the money for the shares. It could be worse, she told herself bracingly. Of course, there were any number of vague thoughts at the back of her head. The furniture—would she have to sell it or would it be taken over with the cottage? And Tom? Tom would have to go with her wherever she went; he was too old to have another owner, although she couldn’t imagine him living in any other house but the cottage.

She finished tidying the house and went into the garden. There were potatoes to bring in and sprouts to pick as well as the apples stored in the outhouse. Because it was drizzling still she put on the old mac which had hung behind the kitchen door for she didn’t know how long, and pulled on her wellies, and while she was out there, since she was wet anyway, she stayed for a while tidying the flower beds in the front garden. There was nothing much in them now, a few chrysanthemums, very bedraggled, and the rose bushes, bare now of all but a handful of soggy leaves. Sadie pottered about until dinner time and after her meal, knowing that it would have to be done sooner or later, started to sort out her grandmother’s clothes and small possessions. It was dark by the time she had finished, packing everything away tidily in an old trunk she had dragged down the narrow little stairs which led to the attic at the top of the house. And after tea, for something to do, she went from room to room to room, inspecting each of the four bedrooms carefully to make sure that they were as attractive as possible, and then downstairs to do the same in the dining room and sitting room, and lastly the kitchen, for surely she would hear something tomorrow, either from Mr Banks or from the house agents.

There was a letter from Mr Banks in the morning, but beyond the modest sum, the proceeds from the shares, which was enclosed, he had nothing to say—indeed, day followed day and nothing happened. Sadie went down to the village on the third morning to cash the money order and buy groceries and submit to the kindly questions of Mrs Beamish, the post-mistress, and several other ladies in the shop. She didn’t mind the questions, she had known them all her life; they weren’t being curious, only sympathetic and kind, pressing her to go to tea, offering her a lift in the car next time its owner was going to Bridport, asking if she could do with half a dozen eggs. It was nice to know she had so many friends. She went back to the cottage feeling quite cheerful and after her dinner sat down and composed a letter to Mr Banks, asking him if there was any news about the cottage being sold; she was aware that selling a house took time, but almost a week had gone by and surely he would have something to tell her by now. She finished her letter and was addressing the envelope when she heard the creak of the gate and looked out to see Mr Banks coming up the path.

Mr Banks, a rather dour-looking man although kindly, greeted her so cheerfully that she immediately asked: ‘Oh, have you heard something?’ and then seeing that he wasn’t going to answer for the moment, added quickly: ‘Let me have your coat, Mr Banks—how nice to see you, only it’s a wretched day for you to be out. Come and sit by the fire and I’ll make tea.’

‘A most miserable day, Sadie,’ he agreed, ‘and a cup of tea will be most welcome.’

She went into the kitchen and made the tea in a fever of impatience, then made small talk while they drank it, answering his questions politely while she longed for him to get to the point. Yes, Mr Frobisher the vicar had been to see her, and yes, she had answered almost all the letters she had received when her grandmother had died, and yes, she still had some of the money which he had sent her for the shares. ‘But I paid all the bills,’ she pointed out, ‘so at least I don’t owe anything, Mr Banks.’

‘Splendid, splendid. And now I have good news for you. Through a colleague of mine I have been in touch with someone who is looking most anxiously for just such a place as this—a playwright, and I believe something to do with television. He is a widower with two children who have a governess and he lives in Highgate Village, but he is seeking somewhere very quiet where he can work uninterrupted. He will not necessarily live here, but wishes to stay from time to time for considerable periods. He wishes to inspect it tomorrow afternoon, and asks particularly that the place should be empty; that is to say, he will naturally bring the agent with him, but if you could arrange to leave the key…? About two o’clock if that’s convenient. If he likes it he will purchase it at once, which means that the mortgage can be paid off immediately and since the price seems agreeable to him, there should be two or three hundred pounds for you, once everything outstanding is dealt with.’

‘How nice,’ said Sadie, and tried her best to sound delighted. Now that the crunch had come she was appalled at the idea of leaving not only the cottage but the village. She had lived there for twenty of her twenty-three years, and Chelcombe was her home. To earn her living she would have to go to a town, even a city, and she was going to hate it. Besides, there was Tom. She said forlornly: ‘I must start looking for a job.’

Mr Banks eyed her thoughtfully. ‘It might be a good idea if you put up in the village for a little while. You could go to Bridport on the bus—it goes twice a week, doesn’t it? There is bound to be an employment agency there, it would be more satisfactory if you could obtain employment before you leave here.’

‘I’ll do that, Mr Banks. You’ve been awfully kind. I’m very grateful. I suppose—I suppose you don’t know about the furniture?’

‘No, and that at this stage can only be conjecture. If they wish to take over the house as it stands, then of course the buyer will pay for the contents, otherwise you will have to sell it, unless you can find unfurnished rooms. But if you intend going into domestic service then you could be expected to live at your place of work.’ He frowned a little. ‘Are you sure that there’s nothing else that you can do?’

Sadie shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not, but there must be plenty of housekeeping jobs, or mother’s helps or something similar. In the country if I can, and with Tom, of course.’

Mr Banks heaved himself out of his chair. ‘Well, my dear, I’m sure you will find just the work you are looking for. In the meanwhile, don’t worry, things could have been much worse.’

With which doubtful comfort he went away.

The cottage already shone with polish and there wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen. All the same, Sadie went all over it once more, making sure that it looked welcoming and cosy, and in the morning, she picked some of the chrysanthemums and eked them out with a great deal of evergreen from the hedge, and arranged a bowl here and a bowl there. She ate a hasty lunch then, made up the fire, put a guard before it, begged Tom to be a good quiet cat and not stir from his seat in the largest of the armchairs, put on her coat and headscarf, and let herself out into the bleak afternoon. She turned away from the village, for she had no wish to see whoever was coming, and walked briskly up the lane, winding its muddy way up to the crest of the hill. There was a magnificent view from the top in clear weather, but today the sad November afternoon was closing in already; in another hour it would be getting dark and even colder. She hoped that they would be gone by then; she would give them until four o’clock and then go back; if there were no lights on she would know that they had gone.

At the top of the hill she paused for breath, for it was a steep climb and difficult going along the uneven lane, and then went on again, climbing over a stile and crossing a field to a five-barred gate with a cart track beyond it. The track was worse than the lane, but she splashed along in the muddy ruts, hardly noticing, her thoughts busy with her future. Presently she turned down a bridle path and followed it for a mile or more round the hill to come out at the top of the lane once more. By now it was almost dark; she could see the village lights twinkling below her and ten minutes downhill would bring her to the cottage. There was no light showing as she reached it. She went up the garden path quietly and tried the door. It was locked and she stooped to take the key from under the mat, where she had arranged for it to be left, and went inside.

It was warm indoors and she shed her coat and scarf and went into the sitting room to find the fire still burning nicely, and Tom still asleep. She went from room to room and found nothing had been disturbed, indeed she wondered if the man had come after all, and there was no way of finding out until the morning. She made tea and then got her supper; there was no point in planning her future until she knew what was to happen.

She knew that two days later when Charlie came whistling up the path to hand her a letter from Mr Banks. Mr Oliver Trentham wished to buy the cottage immediately. He waived a surveyor’s report, raised no objection to the price and would take possession in the shortest possible time. Mr Banks added the information that after the mortgage had been paid and various fees, there would be just over three hundred pounds for her.

Sadie read it through twice and put it back in its envelope. So that was that, she wasn’t sure how soon the shortest possible time would be, but she had better start packing up her own things. Mr Banks hadn’t mentioned the furniture, which was annoying; she would have to write and find out and in the meantime go down to the village and see if Mrs Samways, who did bed and breakfast in the summer for those rare tourists who found their way to Chelcombe, would let her have a room until she had found herself a job. Tomorrow she would take the local bus into Bridport and see about a job.

She wrote her letter, posted it, answered Mrs Beamish’s questions discreetly, and went along to see Mrs Samways. Yes, of course she could have a room and welcome, and Tom too, as long as she would be gone by Christmas. ‘I’ve my brother Jim and his family coming over for two weeks,’ she explained in her soft Dorset voice, ‘and dear knows where I’m going to put ’em all.’

‘Oh, I’ll be gone by then,’ Sadie assured her. ‘Perhaps I won’t want a room at all; I’m going to Bridport tomorrow morning to see about a job. There’s bound to be something.’

There wasn’t. True, there were two housekeeper’s jobs going, in large country houses, and not too far away, but they stipulated women over fifty and the agency lady, looking at Sadie’s small thin person, and her gentle mouth, added her forceful opinion that she simply wouldn’t do.

There was a job for a lady gardener too, but there again, observed the lady with scorn, she was hardly suited, and she tut-tutted when Sadie confessed that she couldn’t type or do shorthand, and hadn’t got a Cordon Bleu certificate. ‘What can you do?’ she asked impatiently.

‘Housework, and ironing and mending and just ordinary cooking—all the things a housewife does, I suppose. And I like children.’

‘Well, there’s nothing, dear. Come back next week and try again.’ She added as Sadie stood up: ‘You can always sign on, you know.’

Sadie thanked her. She would have to be desperate to do that. Granny had belonged to a generation that hadn’t signed on, and she had drummed it into Sadie from an early age that it was something one didn’t do unless one was on one’s beam ends, and she wasn’t that, not yet. She went back home and after her tea, composed an advertisement to put into the weekly local paper.

As it happened there was no need to send it. The next morning Charlie came plodding through the never-ending rain with another letter from Mr Banks. Sadie sat him down at the kitchen table and gave him a cup of tea while the letter burned a hole in her pocket.

‘Bad luck about you having to leave,’ observed Charlie. ‘We’m all that put out. Pity it do be the wrong time of year for work, like.’

Sadie poured herself another cup and sat down opposite him. ‘I hate to go, Charlie, I’m just hoping I’ll find something to do not too far away.’

‘Happen it’s good news in your letter?’

‘Well, no, Charlie, I don’t think so. The cottage is sold—he’d have known that, of course—I expect it’s something to do with that.’

He got up and opened the door on to the wind and the rain. ‘Well, I’ll be off. Be seeing you.’

She closed the door once he’d reached the gate and got on his bike to go back to the village, then she whipped the letter out and tore it open. It was brief and businesslike, but then Mr Banks was always that. The new owner of the cottage had enquired as to the possibility of finding a housekeeper for the cottage and he, Mr Banks, had lost no time in putting her name forward. She would live in and receive a salary to be agreed upon at a later date. He strongly advised her to accept the post, and would she let him know as soon as possible if she wished to take the job?

Sadie read the letter through several times, picked up the placid Tom and danced round the kitchen until she was out of breath. ‘We’re saved!’ she told him. ‘We’re going to stay here, Tom…’ She paused so suddenly that Tom let out a protesting mew. ‘But only if we can both stay—I must be certain of that.’ She put him down again, bundled into her mac and wellies and hurried down to the village.

Mrs Beamish wished her a good morning and in the same breath: ‘Charlie popped his head in,’ she observed, ‘said you’d a letter from London again.’ She eyed Sadie’s face with interested curiosity. ‘Good news, is it, love?’

It was nice to have someone to tell. Sadie poured the whole lot out and to the accompaniment of, ‘He be a good man, surely,’ and ‘Well I never did, Miss Sadie, love,’ she asked if she might use the telephone. The village had a phone box, erected by some unimaginative person a good half a mile from the village itself and for that reason seldom used.

Mrs Beamish not only lent the phone, she stayed close by so that she didn’t miss a word of what was said, nodding her head at Sadie’s ‘Yes, Mr Banks, no, Mr Banks,’ and then, ‘but Bob the thatcher won’t work in this weather: he’ll have to wait until the spring.’ She looked anxiously at Mrs Beamish, who nodded her head vigorously. ‘No, it doesn’t leak,’ said Sadie, ‘it looks as though it might, but I promise you it doesn’t. And what about the furniture?’

She stood listening so intently that Mrs Beamish got a little impatient and coughed, then looked put out when Sadie said finally, ‘All right, Mr Banks, and thank you very much.’

There were two more customers in the shop now, both listening hard. ‘What about the furniture, Sadie?’ one of them asked.

‘Well, he wants it, most of it, that is, but he’s bringing rugs and things like that—they’re to be delivered some time during next week. Mr Banks says I’ll have to be at home to put things straight and get in groceries and so on.’

‘So he’ll be here well before Christmas?’ asked Mrs Beamish, her eyes sliding over her shelves of tins and packets. He might be a good customer.

‘Yes, I expect so, but I don’t know if he’ll be here for Christmas. I suppose it’s according to whether he has to work.’

‘Well, love, we’re that pleased—it’ll bring a bit of life to the village, having a real writer here. I suppose he’ll have a car, but where is he going to put it?’