Emma’s Wedding

It was providential that while out shopping with her mother they were accosted by an elderly lady who greeted them with obvious pleasure.

‘Mrs Dawson—and Emma, isn’t it? Perhaps you don’t remember me. You came to the hotel to play bridge. I live at the hotel now that my husband has died and I’m delighted to see a face I know…’ She added eagerly, ‘Let’s go and have coffee together and a chat. Is your husband with you?’

‘I am also a widow—it’s Mrs Craig, isn’t it? I do remember now; we had some pleasant afternoons at bridge. My husband died very recently, and Emma and I have come to live here.’

‘I’m so very sorry. Of course you would want to get away from Richmond for a time. Perhaps we could meet soon and then arrange a game of bridge later?’

Mrs Dawson brightened. ‘That would be delightful…’

‘Then you must come and have tea with me sometimes at the hotel.’ Mrs Craig added kindly, ‘You need to have a few distractions, you know.’ She smiled at Emma. ‘I’m sure you have several young friends from earlier visits?’

Emma said cheerfully, ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ and added, ‘I’ve one or two calls to make now, while you have coffee. It is so nice to meet you again, Mrs Craig.’ She looked at her mother. ‘I’ll see you at home, Mother.’

She raced away. The rest of the shopping could wait. Here was the opportunity to go to the library…

The library was at the back of the town, and only a handful of people were wandering round the bookshelves. There were two people behind the desk: one a severe-looking lady with a no-nonsense hair style, her companion a girl with a good deal of blonde hair, fashionably tousled, and with too much make-up on her pretty face. She looked up from the pile of books she was arranging and grinned at Emma as she came to a halt and addressed the severe lady.

‘Good morning,’ said Emma. ‘You are advertising for an assistant for two evenings a week. I should like to apply for the job.’

The severe lady eyed her. She said shortly, ‘My name is Miss Johnson. Are you experienced?’

‘No, Miss Johnson, but I like books. I have A levels in English Literature, French, Modern Art and Maths. I am twenty-seven years old and I have lived at home since I left school. I have come here to live with my mother and I need a job.’

‘Two sessions a week, six hours, at just under five pounds an hour.’ Miss Johnson didn’t sound encouraging. ‘Five o’clock until eight on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Occasionally extra hours, if there is sickness or one of us is on holiday.’ She gave what might be called a ladylike sniff. ‘You seem sensible. I don’t want some giddy girl leaving at the end of a week…’

‘I should like to work here if you will have me,’ said Emma. ‘You will want references…?’

‘Of course, and as soon as possible. If they are satisfactory you can come on a week’s trial.’

Emma wrote down Mr Trump’s address and phone number and then Dr Jakes’s who had known her for years. ‘Will you let me know or would you prefer me to call back? We aren’t on the phone yet. It’s being fitted shortly.’

‘You’re in rooms or a flat?’

‘No, we live at Waterside Cottage, the end one along Victoria Quay.’

Miss Johnson looked slightly less severe. ‘You are staying there? Renting the cottage for the summer?’

‘No, it belongs to my mother.’

The job, Emma could see, was hers.

She bade Miss Johnson a polite goodbye and went back into the main street; she turned into a narrow lane running uphill, lined by small pretty cottages. The last cottage at the top of the hill was larger than the rest and she knocked on the door.

The woman who answered the door was still young, slim and tall and dressed a little too fashionably for Salcombe. Her hair was immaculate and so was her make-up.

She looked Emma up and down and said, ‘Yes?’

‘You are advertising for someone to clean holiday cottages…’

‘Come in.’ She led Emma into a well-furnished sitting room.

‘I doubt if you’d do. It’s hard work—Wednesdays and Saturdays, cleaning up the cottages and getting them ready for the next lot. And a fine mess some of them are in, I can tell you. I need someone for those two days. From ten o’clock in the morning and everything ready by four o’clock when the next lot come.’

She waved Emma to a chair. ‘Beds, bathroom, loo, Hoovering. Kitchen spotless—and that means cupboards too. You come here and collect the cleaning stuff and bedlinen and hand in the used stuff before you leave. Six hours’ work a day, five pounds an hour, and tips if anyone leaves them.’

‘For two days?’

‘That’s what I said. I’ll want references. Local, are you? Haven’t seen you around. Can’t stand the place myself. The cottages belonged to my father and I’ve taken them over for a year or two. I’m fully booked for the season.’

She crossed one elegantly shod foot over the other. ‘Week’s notice on either side?’

‘I live here,’ said Emma, ‘and I need a job. I’d like to come if you are satisfied with my references.’

‘Please yourself, though I’d be glad to take you on. It isn’t a job that appeals to the girls around here.’

It didn’t appeal all that much to Emma, but sixty pounds a week did…

She gave her references once more, and was told she’d be told in two days’ time. ‘If I take you on you’ll need to be shown round. There’s another girl cleans the other two cottages across the road.’

Emma went home, got the lunch and listened to her mother’s account of her morning with Mrs Craig. ‘She has asked me to go to the hotel one afternoon for a rubber of bridge.’ She hesitated. ‘They play for money—quite small stakes…’

‘Well,’ said Emma, ‘you’re good at the game, aren’t you? I dare say you won’t be out of pocket. Nice to have found a friend, and I’m sure you’ll make more once the season starts.’

Two days later there was a note in the post. Her references for the cleaning job were satisfactory, she could begin work on the following Saturday and in the meantime call that morning to be shown her work. It was signed Dulcie Brooke-Tigh. Emma considered that the name suited the lady very well.

She went to the library that afternoon and Miss Johnson told her unsmilingly that her references were satisfactory and she could start work on Tuesday. ‘A week’s notice and you will be paid each Thursday evening.’

Emma, walking on air, laid out rather more money than she should have done at the butchers, and on Sunday went to church with her mother and said her prayers with childlike gratitude.

The cleaning job was going to be hard work. Mrs Brooke-Tigh, for all her languid appearance, was a hard-headed businesswoman, intent on making money. There was enough work for two people in the cottages, but as long as she could get a girl anxious for the job she wasn’t bothered. She had led Emma round the two cottages she would be responsible for, told her to start work punctually and then had gone back into her own cottage and shut the door. She didn’t like living at Salcombe, but the holiday cottages were money-spinners…

The library was surprisingly full when Emma, punctual to the minute, presented herself at the desk.

Miss Johnson wasted no time on friendly chat. ‘Phoebe will show you the shelves, then come back here and I will show you how to stamp the books. If I am busy take that trolley of returned books and put them back on the shelves. And do it carefully; I will not tolerate slovenly work.’

Which wasn’t very encouraging, but Phoebe’s cheerful wink was friendly. The work wasn’t difficult or tiring, and Emma, who loved books, found the three hours had passed almost too quickly. And Miss Johnson, despite her austere goodnight, had not complained.

Emma went back to the cottage to eat a late supper and then sit down to do her sums. Her mother had her pension, of course, and that plus the money from the two jobs would suffice to keep them in tolerable comfort. There wouldn’t be much over, but they had the kind of expensive, understated clothes which would last for several years…She explained it all to her mother, who told her rather impatiently to take over their finances. ‘I quite realise that I must give up some of my pension, dear, but I suppose I may have enough for the hairdresser and small expenses?’

Emma did some sums in her head and offered a generous slice of the pension—more than she could spare. But her mother’s happiness and peace of mind were her first concern; after years of living in comfort, and being used to having everything she wanted within reason, she could hardly be expected to adapt easily to their more frugal way of living.

On Saturday morning she went to the cottages. She had told her mother that she had two jobs, glossing over the cleaning and enlarging on the library, and, since Mrs Dawson was meeting Mrs Craig for coffee, Emma had said that she would do the shopping and that her mother wasn’t to wait lunch if she wasn’t home.

She had known it was going to be hard work and it was, for the previous week’s tenants had made no effort to leave the cottage tidy, let alone clean. Emma cleaned and scoured, then Hoovered and made beds and tidied cupboards, cleaned the cooker and the bath, and at the end of it was rewarded by Mrs Brooke-Tigh’s nod of approval and, even better than that, the tip she had found in the bedroom—a small sum, but it swelled the thirty pounds she was paid as she left.

‘Wednesday at ten o’clock,’ said Mrs Brooke-Tigh.

Emma walked down the lane with the girl who cleaned the other two cottages.

‘Mean old bag,’ said the girl. ‘Doesn’t even give us a cup of coffee. Think you’ll stay?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Emma.

The future, while not rosy, promised security just so long as people like Mrs Brooke-Tigh needed her services.

When she got home her mother told her that Mrs Craig had met a friend while they were having their coffee and they had gone to the little restaurant behind the boutique and had lunch. ‘I was a guest, dear, and I must say I enjoyed myself.’ She smiled. ‘I seem to be making friends. You must do the same, dear.’

Emma said, ‘Yes, Mother,’ and wondered if she would have time to look for friends. Young women of her own age? Men? The thought crossed her mind that the only person she would like to see again was the man in the baker’s shop.

CHAPTER TWO

EMMA welcomed the quiet of Sunday. It had been a busy week, with its doubts and worries and the uncertainty of coping with her jobs. But she had managed. There was money in the household purse and she would soon do even better. She went with her mother to church and was glad to see that one or two of the ladies in the congregation smiled their good mornings to her mother. If her mother could settle down and have the social life she had always enjoyed things would be a lot easier. I might even join some kind of evening classes during the winter, thought Emma, and meet people…

She spent Monday cleaning the cottage, shopping and hanging the wash in the little back yard, while her mother went to the library to choose a book. On the way back she had stopped to look at the shops and found a charming little scarf, just what she needed to cheer up her grey dress. ‘It was rather more than I wanted to spend, dear,’ she explained, ‘but exactly what I like, and I get my pension on Thursday…’

The library was half empty when Emma got there on Tuesday evening.

‘WI meeting,’ said Miss Johnson. ‘There will be a rush after seven o’clock.’

She nodded to a trolley loaded with books. ‘Get those back onto the shelves as quickly as you can. Phoebe is looking up something for a visitor.’

Sure enough after an hour the library filled up with ladies from the WI, intent on finding something pleasant to read, and Emma, intent on doing her best, was surprised when Miss Johnson sent Phoebe to the doors to put up the ‘Closed’ sign and usher the dawdlers out.

Emma was on her knees, collecting up some books someone had dropped on the floor, when there was a sudden commotion at the door and the man from the baker’s shop strode in.

Miss Johnson looked up. She said severely, ‘We are closed, Doctor,’ but she smiled as she spoke.

‘Rupert Bear—have you a copy? The bookshop’s closed and small William next door won’t go to sleep until he’s read to. It must be Rupert Bear.’ He smiled at Miss Johnson, and Emma, watching from the floor, could see Miss Johnson melting under it.

‘Emma, fetch Rupert Bear from the last shelf in the children’s section.’

As Emma got to her feet he turned and looked at her.

‘Well, well,’ he said softly, and his stare was just as intent as it had been in the baker’s shop.

She found it disturbing, so that when she came back with the book she said tartly, ‘May I have your library ticket?’

‘Have I got one? Even if I knew where it was I wouldn’t have stopped to get it, not with small William bawling his head off.’

He took the book from her, thanked Miss Johnson and was off.

Emma set the books neatly in their places and hoped that someone would say something. It was Phoebe who spoke.

‘The poor man. I bet he’s had a busy day, and now he’s got to spend his evening reading to a small boy. As though he hadn’t enough on his plate…’

Miss Johnson said repressively, ‘He is clearly devoted to children. Emma, make a note that the book hasn’t been checked out. Dr van Dyke will return it in due course.’

Well, reflected Emma, at least I know who he is. And on the way home, as she and Phoebe walked as far as the main street she asked, ‘Is he the only doctor here?’

‘Lord, no. There’s three of them at the medical practice, and he’s not permanent, just taken over from Dr Finn for a few months.’

Why had he stared so, and why had he said, ‘Well, well,’ in that satisfied voice? wondered Emma, saying goodnight and going back home through the quiet town.

It wouldn’t be quiet for much longer. Visitors were beginning to trickle in, most of them coming ashore from their yachts, mingling with those who came regularly early in the season, to walk the coastal paths and spend leisurely days strolling through the town. More restaurants had opened, the ice cream parlour had opened its doors, and the little coastal ferry had begun its regular trips.

Emma was pleased to see that her mother was already starting to enjoy what social life there was. She played bridge regularly with Mrs Craig and her friends, met them for coffee and occasionally did some shopping. But her gentle complaints made it clear that life in a small, off-the-beaten-track town was something she was bravely enduring, and whenever Emma pointed out that there was little chance of them ever leaving the cottage, Mrs Dawson dissolved into gentle tears.

‘You should have married Derek,’ she said tearfully. ‘We could have lived comfortably at his house. It was large enough for me to have had my own apartment…’

A remark Emma found hard to answer.

As for Emma, she hadn’t much time to repine; there was the cottage to clean, the washing and the ironing, all the small household chores which she had never had to do…At first her mother had said that she would do all the shopping, but, being unused to doing this on an economical scale, it had proved quite disastrous to the household purse, so Emma had added that to her other chores. Not that she minded. She was soon on friendly terms with the shopkeepers and there was a certain satisfaction in buying groceries with a strict eye on economy instead of lifting the phone and giving the order Mrs Dawson had penned each week with a serene disregard for expense…

And Miss Johnson had unbent very slightly, pleased to find that Emma really enjoyed her work at the library. She had even had a chat about her own taste in books, deploring the lack of interest in most of the borrowers for what she called a ‘good class of book’. As for Phoebe, who did her work in a cheerful slapdash fashion, Emma liked her and listened sympathetically whenever Phoebe found the time to tell her of her numerous boyfriends.

But Mrs Brooke-Tigh didn’t unbend. Emma was doing a menial’s job, therefore she was treated as such; she checked the cottages with an eagle eye but beyond a distant nod had nothing to say. Emma didn’t mind the cleaning but she did not like Mrs Brooke-Tigh; once the season was over she would look around for another job, something where she might meet friendly people. In a bar? she wondered, having very little idea of what that would be like. But at least there would be people and she might meet someone.

Did Dr van Dyke go into pubs? she wondered. Probably not. He wouldn’t have time. She thought about him, rather wistfully, from time to time, when she was tired and lonely for the company of someone her own age. The only way she would get to know him was to get ill. And she never got ill…

Spring was sliding into early summer; at the weekends the narrow streets were filled by visiting yachtsmen and family parties driving down for a breath of sea air and a meal at one of the pubs. And with them, one Sunday, came Derek.

Mrs Dawson was going out to lunch with one of her bridge friends, persuaded that Emma didn’t mind being on her own. ‘We will go to evensong together,’ said her mother, ‘but it is such a treat to have luncheon with people I like, dear, and I knew you wouldn’t mind.’

She peered at herself in the mirror. ‘Is this hat all right? I really need some new clothes.’

‘You look very smart, Mother, and the hat’s just right. Have a lovely lunch. I’ll have tea ready around four o’clock.’

Alone, Emma went into the tiny courtyard beyond the kitchen and saw to the tubs of tulips and the wallflowers growing against the wall. She would have an early lunch and go for a walk—a long walk. North Sands, perhaps, and if the little kiosk by the beach there was open she would have a cup of coffee. She went back into the cottage as someone banged the door knocker.

Derek stood there, dressed very correctly in a blazer and cords, Italian silk tie and beautifully polished shoes. For a split second Emma had a vivid mental picture of an elderly sweater and uncombed hair.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she wanted to know with a regrettable lack of delight.

Derek gave her a kind smile. He was a worthy young man with pleasant manners and had become accustomed to being liked and respected.

He said now, ‘I’ve surprised you…’

‘Indeed you have.’ Emma added reluctantly. ‘You’d better come in.’

Derek looked around him. ‘A nice little place—rather different from Richmond, though. Has your mother settled down?’

‘Yes. Why are you here?’

‘I wanted to see you, Emma. To talk. If you would change into a dress we could have lunch—I’m staying at the other end of the town.’

‘We can talk here. I’ll make cheese sandwiches…’

‘My dear girl, you deserve more than a cheese sandwich. We can talk over lunch at the hotel.’

‘What about?’

‘Something which will please you…’

Perhaps something they hadn’t known anything about had been salvaged from her father’s estate…She said slowly, ‘Very well. You’ll have to wait while I change, though, and I must be back before four o’clock. Mother’s out to lunch.’

While she changed out of trousers and a cotton top into something suitable to accompany Derek’s elegance, she wondered what he had come to tell her. Mr Trump had hinted when they had left their home that eventually there might be a little more money. Perhaps Derek had brought it with him.

When she went downstairs he was standing by the window, watching the people strolling along the path.

‘Of course you can’t possibly stay here. This poky little place—nothing to do all day.’

She didn’t bother to answer him, and he said impatiently, ‘We shall have to walk; I left the car at the hotel.’

They walked, saying little. ‘I can’t think why you can’t tell me whatever it is at once,’ said Emma.

‘In good time.’ They got out of the road onto the narrow pavement to allow a car to creep past. Dr van Dyke was sitting in it. If he saw her he gave no sign.

The hotel was full. They had drinks in the bar and were given a table overlooking the estuary, but Derek ignored the magnificent view while he aired his knowledge with the wine waiter.

I should be enjoying myself, reflected Emma, and I’m not.

Derek talked about his work, mutual friends she had known, the new owner of her old home.

Emma polished off the last of her trifle. ‘Are you staying here on holiday?’

‘No, I must return tomorrow.’

‘Then you’d better tell me whatever it is.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘It’s half past two…’

He gave a little laugh. ‘Can’t get rid of me soon enough, Emma?’

He put his hand over hers on the table. ‘Dear Emma, I have given much thought to this. The scandal of your father’s bankruptcy has died down; there are no debts, no need for people to rake over cold ashes. There is no likelihood of it hindering my career. I have come to ask you to marry me. I know you have no money and a difficult social position, but I flatter myself that I can provide both of these for my wife. In a few years the whole unfortunate matter will be forgotten. I have the deepest regard for you and you will, I know, make me an excellent wife.’

Emma had listened to this speech without moving or uttering a sound. She was so angry that she felt as though she would explode or burst into flames. She got to her feet, a well brought up young woman who had been reared to good manners and politeness whatever the circumstances.

‘Get stuffed,’ said Emma, and walked out of the restaurant, through the bar and swing doors and into the car park.

She was white with rage and shaking, and heedless of where she was walking. Which was why she bumped into Dr van Dyke’s massive chest.

She stared up into his placid face. ‘The worm, the miserable rat,’ she raged. ‘Him and his precious career…’

The doctor said soothingly, ‘This rat, is he still in the hotel? You don’t wish to meet him again?’

‘If I were a man I’d knock him down…’ She sniffed and gulped and two tears slid down her cheeks.

‘Then perhaps it would be a good idea if you were to sit in my car for a time—in case he comes looking for you. And, if you would like to, tell me what has upset you.’

He took her arm and walked her to the car. He popped her inside and got in beside her. ‘Have a good cry if you want to, and then I’ll drive you home.’

He gave her a large handkerchief and sat patiently while she sniffed and snuffled and presently blew her nose and mopped her face. He didn’t look at her, he was watching a man—presumably the rat—walking up and down the car park, looking around him. Presently he went back into the hotel and the doctor said, ‘He’s a snappy dresser, your rat.’

She sat up straight. ‘He’s gone? He didn’t see me?’

‘No.’ The doctor settled back comfortably. ‘What has he done to upset you? It must have been something very upsetting to cause you to leave Sunday lunch at this hotel.’

‘I’d finished,’ said Emma, ‘and it’s kind of you to ask but it’s—it’s…’

‘None of my business. Quite right, it isn’t. I’ll drive you home. Where do you live?’

‘The end cottage along Victoria Quay. But I can walk. It is at the end of Main Street and you can’t drive there.’

He didn’t answer but backed the car and turned and went out of the car park and drove up the narrow road to the back of the town. It was a very long way round and he had to park by the pub.

As he stopped Emma said, ‘Thank you. I hope I haven’t spoilt your afternoon.’

It would hardly do to tell her that he was enjoying every minute of it. ‘I’ll walk along with you, just in case the rat has got there first.’

‘Do you think he has? I mean, I don’t suppose he’ll want to se me again.’ She sniffed. ‘I certainly don’t want to see him.’

The doctor got out of the car and opened her door. It was a splendid car, she noticed, a dark blue Rolls-Royce, taking up almost all the space before the pub.

‘You have a nice car,’ said Emma, feeling that she owed him something more than thanks. And then blushed because it had been a silly thing to say. Walking beside him, she reflected that although she had wanted to meet him she could have wished for other circumstances.