The Fortunes of Francesca

In the meantime, she would pop into the corner shop on her way home and get something special—bacon and half a dozen eggs, mushrooms, if there were any, and plenty of fried bread, thought Franny, her mouth watering.

Later in the evening, well-fed with these delicacies, the three of them had a light-hearted discussion about a rosy but improbable future.

At exactly ten o’clock on the Monday morning Franny presented herself to Lady Trumper. She looked neat and tidy in her navy skirt and white blouse topped by a navy cardigan. The garments did nothing to add to her looks, but Lady Trumper noticed and approved. At least the girl didn’t wear a skirt up to her thighs and one of those vulgar tops printed with some stupid sentence…

‘You may use the small room through that door, Miss Bowen. The post is already there; kindly open it and let me see anything of interest. And any invitations, of course.’

Hardly a task to tax her intelligence, thought Franny, dealing with the pile of envelopes with calm efficiency. She took their contents to Lady Trumper presently.

‘I will read them and give you instructions as to their replies. There is a registered envelope on my writing desk. Take it to the post office. You will need money. There is a purse in the left-hand drawer—take five pounds from it and put the change into it when you return.’

So Franny got into her mac again, tied a scarf over her head, since it was drizzling with the threat of sleet, and found her way to the post office. It was quite a walk, but she needed to know a little of her surroundings. Back at the house presently, she prudently went round to the side entrance. Barker and the cook were in the kitchen. ‘I came in this way because I’m wet and I might leave marks over the hall floor,’ said Franny. ‘May I leave my mac here to dry?’

‘Certainly, and it would be convenient if you would continue to use the side door in future,’ said Barker. ‘Mrs Down will make coffee shortly, if you will come here when it is convenient for Lady Trumper?’

When she had gone, Mrs Down said thoughtfully, ‘Not quite our sort, is she, Mr Barker? Ever so polite and nice, but I bet she’s seen better days.’

‘There is that possibility,’ agreed Barker. ‘Let us hope she remembers her position in this household.’ He gave a derisive laugh. ‘Girl Friday…’

If he had hoped that Franny would put a foot wrong, he was to be disappointed, for she behaved exactly as she should. The general opinion when she left the kitchen after her coffee break was that she was OK.

Queuing for her bus at the end of her first day, Franny decided that it hadn’t been too bad. She had been kept busy with small jobs—none of them important, but they were time-consuming. Then the answering of letters and invitations had taken up a good deal of the afternoon, while Lady Trumper rested, but Franny had been brought up a cup of tea by Shirley, the housemaid, and had been allowed half an hour to have her dinner with the rest of the staff in the kitchen.

This had been a splendidly satisfying meal. Franny had enjoyed every mouthful, and hoped that Aunt Emma was eating the lunch she had prepared for her to heat up while giving polite replies to the questions being put to her by Mrs Down.

Mrs Down had remarked afterwards that Miss Bowen was a nice young lady, but not very forthcoming. Respectable enough, she had conceded, living with an aunt and a young brother who, Franny had told her vaguely, was studying, although she hadn’t said at what.

For the rest of that week Franny found herself doing a variety of jobs. She was indeed a girl Friday: opening the door to callers on Barker’s half-day, cooking lunch when Mrs Down was prostrated by migraine, taking charge of a toddler while his mother—a niece of Lady Trumper’s—came to call. And besides all this there was the daily routine of post to be opened and answered, phone calls to take, knitting to unravel, bills to be paid…

At least, reflected Franny, going home tired on Friday evening, she hadn’t been bored. She had a week’s wages in her purse and two days to be at home. As a girl who looked on the bright side of life, Franny was happy. She hadn’t been given notice, so presumably Lady Trumper was satisfied with her work. Franny hadn’t expected to be told as much—Lady Trumper wasn’t a woman to praise. After all why, that lady had often asked her nearest and dearest, should she give praise to someone who was only doing their job?

Not that Franny minded that. She didn’t dislike Lady Trumper, but neither did she like her. She was, however, providing Franny with her bread and butter…

It was during the following week that she came face to face with the doctor who had attended to Elsie. She had been sent to the hospital to fetch Elsie back, for her stay there had been prolonged by an infection which had needed treatment and antibiotics. Although Elsie was fit to be discharged she was still not quite herself.

Lady Trumper, wealthy though she was, was also frugal when it came to spending money on anything which didn’t concern herself, and she bade Franny take a bus to the hospital and procure a taxi for the return journey, which was a brief one. And a good thing, too, for it was another grey, damp day. Even in this, the more elegant district of London, the streets looked dreary. Not that Franny minded; it meant she was out of the house for an hour.

It was a short walk from the bus stop to the hospital; she arrived at its entrance with her woolly hat sodden on her head and the mac clinging damply to her skirt and blouse. Her face was wet, too, as were the odds and ends of brown hair which had escaped from the hat. She presented not a shred of glamour, and the professor, coming to the entrance hall as she walked through the doors, cast an amused eye over her person, recognising her at once.

He had told his godmother that he couldn’t remember her face and realised that he had been mistaken. Though not at its best at the moment, he recalled vividly her small, unassuming nose, gently curving mouth and determined chin. It was a face redeemed from plainness by large, long-lashed eyes. Grey, he remembered.

He crossed the vast place and stopped in front of her.

‘Forgive me for not knowing your name, but you were kind enough to help with Lady Trumper’s maid. I had every intention of driving you back from the hospital; I should have told you so. I apologise for that.’

Franny beamed up at him. ‘Oh, that didn’t matter at all; there were plenty of buses. I’ve come to fetch Elsie back to Lady Trumper’s house.’

Franny, chatty by nature, was pleased to have someone to talk to. She didn’t know who he was, of course, but he had a trustworthy face. She would have embarked on an account of Elsie’s accident, but was cut short when he moved a bundle of papers from one arm to the other and took a step away from her. ‘Very nice meeting you, Miss—er…’ he said vaguely, obviously thinking about something else.

He strode off and she wondered if he would remember that they had met again just now. She thought it unlikely. A bit vague, she reflected, but I dare say clever people often are. Being clever must make one feel lonely sometimes, living, as it were, on a higher plane than those around one. Poor man, reflected Franny, going to find out where Elsie was. It was to be hoped that he had a wife and children to keep him normal.

Professor van der Kettener, unaware of these kindly thoughts, had forgotten all about her by the time he was immersed in a bit of tricky heart surgery.

Elsie, still looking a bit washed out, was ready and waiting, eager to get back to her job. ‘Not but what they weren’t very kind,’ she told Franny, ‘but, when all’s said and done, hospitals aren’t like home, are they?’

When they were ready Franny hailed a taxi—much to Elsie’s delight—and on their return to Lady Trumper’s handed Elsie over to Mrs Down, who fussed over her in a motherly fashion, before Lady Trumper sent for her. Franny, sitting at the desk, writing invitation cards for one of Lady Trumper’s bridge parties, listened to her employer laying down the law—extra care in the kitchen was required and Elsie must do her best not to be so careless.

‘The kitchen is well equipped,’ Lady Trumper pointed out. ‘There is no excuse for carelessness. I am a most careful person myself and I expect you to be the same, Elsie. You may go.’

Franny paused in her work. She was quite sure that Lady Trumper knew nothing about knives or kitchens or being tired and sometimes overworked. She spoke her mind without stopping to think.

‘I’m sure Elsie is always very careful, Lady Trumper, but she has to handle knives and all kinds of kitchen equipment. She isn’t in a position to walk away from her work if it gets too much for her. When did you last visit your kitchen, Lady Trumper?’ asked Franny outrageously.

Lady Trumper had become really red in the face and needed to heave several deep breaths before she could speak. ‘Miss Bowen, I can hardly believe my ears. How dare you speak to me in this fashion? The impertinence…’

‘I don’t intend to be impertinent, Lady Trumper, but you made Elsie feel that she had done something wrong. No one in their senses cuts themselves with a kitchen knife. But, of course, sitting here for most of the day, you would find it hard to believe that.’

‘Miss Bowen, leave at once. I am very displeased with you.’

Franny gave her a thoughtful look. ‘Of course you are annoyed. I expect you feel a bit guilty; one always does when one has been unfair to someone. But I’ll go, although it would be sensible if I were to finish writing these cards first. Another five minutes is all I need.’

Lady Trumper took such a deep breath that her corsets creaked. ‘You will go now…’

The door opened and the professor walked in.

CHAPTER TWO

THE professor looked at his godmother, whose blood pressure, he felt sure, was at a dangerous level, and then at Franny, composed and cheerful, obviously on the point of leaving.

‘Am I interrupting?’ he asked placidly.

‘No—yes,’ said Lady Trumper. ‘This girl has had the impertinence to criticise my treatment of one of my maids. I have dismissed her.’

‘Oh, I shouldn’t do anything hastily,’ said the professor. ‘This is a free country in which one may express one’s opinion without being flung into prison.’ He turned to Franny.

‘Were you deliberately rude, Miss—Miss…?’

‘Bowen,’ said Franny, and thought what a very large man he was—he would need a large house in which to live… ‘No, I don’t think so, it was just that it was something I had to say.’ She added cheerfully, ‘I should learn to hold my tongue, but I only pointed out that Elsie hadn’t cut herself deliberately. I mean, you wouldn’t, would you?’ She paused. ‘Well, I suppose if one were contemplating suicide… Lady Trumper was rather hard on the poor girl, although I’m sure she didn’t mean to be.’

Franny gave that lady a kindly look and started to tidy the desk. ‘I’ll go.’

The professor crossed the room and laid a large and beautifully cared for hand over hers. ‘No, no. I’m sure Lady Trumper understands now that you spoke with the best intentions.’ He turned to look at his godmother. ‘Is that not so, my dear?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so…’

‘And Miss…’ he had forgotten her name again ‘…is entirely satisfactory in her work?’

‘Yes,’ said Lady Trumper, gobbling a little.

‘Then in that case is there any need to refine upon the matter? Elsie certainly had quite a severe cut, and it was unfortunate that it should have become infected. I’m sure that you will see that she does nothing to endanger her complete recovery.’

He talks like a professor, thought Franny admiringly, and with an accent, too. I wonder what it sounds like when he talks in Dutch…?

‘I will overlook the matter,’ said Lady Trumper grandly, ‘but I must insist on no more plain speaking from Miss Bowen. My nerves are badly shaken.’

How did one shake nerves? wondered Franny. Not that Lady Trumper had any. The professor, watching her face, allowed himself a smile. He spoke quickly before she could voice her thoughts.

‘I’m sure Miss Bowen will give consideration to your nerves in her future observations.’ He looked at Franny. ‘Is that not so, Miss—er—Bowen?’

‘Oh, I’ll be very careful.’ Franny smiled at them both. ‘I like working for Lady Trumper and I will do my best to keep a still tongue in my head.’

This forthright speech left Lady Trumper with nothing to say and the professor said easily, ‘Well, in that case, perhaps Miss Bowen might be allowed to go on with whatever she was doing while we have a little chat.’

Franny knew a hint when it was uttered. She picked up the invitation cards and went to her little cubbyhole of a room and closed the door. She had been dismissed—kindly, but dismissed, just as Elsie would have been dismissed.

And why should you mind? she asked herself. Remember that you are in a lowly position in this household. Not that it will be for always. Once Finn was a doctor with a splendid practice somewhere she would keep house for him and be respected as his sister. When he was married she would retire to a small bungalow and later live on her old-age pension.

That she had got a bit muddled in her plans for the future didn’t worry her. She spent a good deal of time making plans, most of them utter rubbish and highly improbable.

She wrote another half-dozen cards and paused, struck by the thought that it would be nice to marry someone like the professor. He had everything: good looks, a successful profession—at least, she supposed that he had—and a splendid motor car. Was he married? she wondered. And what exactly did he do? Professor of what? And why was he here in England when he had a perfectly good country of his own?

Inquisitive by nature, Franny decided to find out. Franny being Franny, if she had the opportunity to ask him she would, but that wasn’t likely. However a few casual questions in the kitchen over dinner tomorrow might prove fruitful…

She had finished the cards when she heard Lady Trumper’s raised voice, so she opened the door and said, ‘Yes, Lady Trumper?’

‘You have finished the cards? Stamp the envelopes and take them to the letter box and then come back here. I want you to take some documents to my solicitor. I do not trust the post. Hand them to the senior partner, Mr Augustus Ruskin, personally, and get a receipt for them. You are to take a taxi there. You may bus back.’

‘Your solicitor, Lady Trumper? Is his office close by?’

‘In the City. Please don’t waste any more time, Miss Bowen.’

‘It will probably be after five o’clock by the time I find a bus to bring me back here. Shall I go home, Lady Trumper? Of course, if I can get back here before then I’ll do so.’

Lady Trumper, who was conveyed by car whenever she wished to go out and had no idea how long a bus journey took, said severely, ‘Very well. I believe that I can trust you to be honest.’

Franny said nothing. There was a great deal she would have liked to say, but she wanted to keep the job. She stamped the invitations, then wrapped in her old mac since it was raining again, posted them and went back to collect the large envelope Lady Trumper had ready for her.

‘Barker tells me that taxi fares have been considerably increased. You will take ten pounds for the fare and for your bus ticket.’

Franny was soon getting into the taxi Barker had summoned and prepared to enjoy the ride. She considered that it was a lot of fuss about some papers or other; anyone else would have sent them by registered post. But since it allowed her an hour or two of freedom she wasn’t going to quibble about it. The driver was a cheerful Cockney, and they enjoyed a friendly chat as he took her into London’s heart. The evening rush hadn’t started but the City pavements were crowded, lights shining from the vast grey buildings.

‘This is where the money is,’ said the cabby. ‘Talking in millions behind them walls, I dare say. Pity they can’t use some of it ter do a bit of work on the ’ospital. Up that lane there, St Giles’. ’Ad me appendix out there—looked after me a treat, they did.’

Franny said with real sympathy, ‘Oh, poor you. Are you all right now?’

‘Right as rain. ’Ere’s yer office. Going back ter where I picked yer up?’

‘No, I’m to go home. I work there, but I live near Waterloo Station.’

She got out and paid him and gave him a handsome tip. ‘Thank you for a nice ride.’

‘A pleasure—enjoyed it meself. Mind ’ow yer go. Waterloo ain’t all that nice for a young lady.’

The solicitor’s office was in a large grey building with an imposing entrance and a porter guarding it. ‘Take the lift,’ he advised her. ‘Third floor—Ruskin, Ruskin and Ruskin.’

Brothers? wondered Franny, stepping gingerly into the lift and pressing a button anxiously. Or grandfather, son and grandson? Cousins…?

The lift bore her upwards smoothly and she nipped out smartly. She disliked lifts, so going back she would use the stairs.

The office was large, thickly carpeted and furnished with heavy chairs and a great many portraits—presumably of dead and gone Ruskins—on its walls. Franny made herself known to the severe lady sitting behind a desk facing the door and was asked to sit. But only for a moment, for after a word into the intercom she was bidden to go through the door behind the desk. It had MR AUGUSTUS RUSKIN in gold letters on it and when she peered round the door she saw him behind a vast desk. He must be a grandfather, even a great-grandfather, she thought. He stood up politely and she saw that he was quite shaky. But there was nothing shaky about his manner or his voice.

‘Miss Bowen? You have an envelope for me? Lady Trumper informed me of it.’

He sat down again and held out a hand.

‘You are Mr Augustus Ruskin?’ Franny asked. ‘I’m to give it only to him. Lady Trumper’s orders.’

He fixed her with a sharp old eye. ‘I am indeed he. You do quite right to query my identity, Miss Bowen.’

‘That’s all right, then,’ said Franny, and handed the envelope over. ‘Do I have to take any messages back?’

‘Thank you. No.’ He stood up again and Franny bade him a hasty goodbye, fearful that all the getting up and sitting down wouldn’t do someone of his age much good. The severe lady inclined her head without looking up as Franny went past her and ran down the stairs and out into the street.

It was well past five o’clock now, and the pavements were packed with people hurrying home. She didn’t know the City well and made for the nearest bus stop. There was a long queue already there and the bus timetable was miles away. If she attempted to go and look at it, the people in the queue would think that she was trying to get on first. She walked on, intent on finding someone who could tell her which bus to take, but there were no shops and no policemen. She stood on the edge of the pavement on a corner, waiting to cross the side street. She would have to take the Underground.

There was a steady stream of cars filtering from the side street into the main street, and she waited patiently for a gap so that she could dart across, thinking longingly of her tea. Finn would be hungry, he always was, and Auntie wouldn’t have bothered to eat much during the day. She would make a cheese pudding, she decided, filling, tasting and economical…

Professor van der Kettener saw her as he edged his car down the lane, away from the hospital. There she was, this very ordinary girl in her shabby mac, obviously intent on getting across the street. She looked remarkably cheerful, too. As he drew level with her, he leaned over and opened the car door.

‘Jump in quickly,’ he told her. ‘I can’t stop.’

Franny did as she was told, settled in her seat, fastened her safety belt and turned to look at him. ‘How very kind. I was beginning to think that I would be there for ever. If you would put me down at the next bus stop? You don’t happen to know which bus goes to Waterloo, I suppose?’

‘I’m afraid not. Why do you want to go to Waterloo?’

‘Well, I live fairly near the station.’

He drove smoothly past a bus stop. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Oh, I had to take some papers to Mr Augustus Ruskin, Lady Trumper’s solicitor. Such a dear old man; he ought to have retired years ago. There’s a bus stop.’

The professor said impatiently, ‘I can’t pull up here. I’ll drive you home.’

‘No, I don’t think so, thank you. You sound cross. I expect you’ve had a busy day and you’re tired. The last thing you would want to do would be to drive miles out of your way. I’m quite able to get on a bus, you know.’ She sounded motherly. ‘Look, there’s a bus stop—if you’ll stop just for a minute.’

‘Certainly not. Kindly tell me where you live, Miss Bowen.’

‘Twenty-nine Fish Street, just off Waterloo Road. You have to turn off into Lower Marsh. You can go over Waterloo Bridge.’ She turned to smile at his severe profile. ‘You can call me Franny, if you like.’

‘Tell me, Miss Bowen, are you so free with your friendship with everyone you meet?’

‘Goodness me, no,’ said Franny chattily. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t dare be friendly with Barker.’

‘Ah, you don’t count butlers among your friends?’ observed the professor nastily.

She refused to be put out. ‘I don’t know any, only him. At least…’

‘At least what?’ He was crossing Waterloo Bridge, and when she didn’t answer, he asked, ‘Well?’

‘Nothing,’ said Franny. ‘It’s the next turning on the right and then the third street on the right.’

Fish Street, even with the evening dark masking its shabbiness, all the same looked depressing in the light from the street lamps.

‘Left or right?’ asked the professor.

‘The left, halfway down—here.’

He drew up smoothly, got out and opened her door. She got out too, to stand looking up into his face. ‘It was very kind of you to bring me home,’ said Franny. ‘You need not have done it, you know, especially as you didn’t want to.’ She gave him a sunny smile. ‘Your good deed for the day!’ she told him. ‘Goodnight, Professor. Go home quickly and have a good dinner; it will make you feel better.’

He towered over her. ‘I have never met anyone like you before,’ he said slowly. ‘I trust Lady Trumper doesn’t have to listen to your chatter?’

‘No. No, she doesn’t, I only speak when spoken to. I’m sorry if I bored you, only I thought—well, I thought you looked the kind of person one could chat with.’ She crossed the narrow pavement and took out her key.

‘Goodnight, Professor.’ The door closed softly behind her.

The professor drove himself back over Westminster Bridge, along Whitehall, into Trafalgar Square and so into Pall Mall, going north until he reached Wimpole Street. He had a flat here, over his consulting room, for he spent a fair amount of time in London. He drove the car round to the mews behind the row of tall houses, walked back to his front door and let himself in.

The hall was narrow with the waiting room and his consulting room on one side of it. An elegant staircase led to the floor above and he took these two at a time to his own front door, just as it was opened by a rotund little man with a thatch of grey hair and a round, merry face.

He answered the professor’s greeting merrily. ‘A bit on the late side, aren’t you, sir? But dinner’s waiting for you when you want it. You’re going out later—I was to remind you…’

The professor had thrown down his coat and was crossing the hall to one of the doors leading from it, his bag and a pile of letters in his hand.

‘Thanks, Crisp. Dinner in ten minutes.’

His study was a comfortable room lined with bookshelves, with a fire burning in the small fireplace and a desk loaded with papers, a computer, telephone and reference books. He sat down behind it with a sigh of pleasure. This was where he would have liked to have spent his evening, writing learned articles for the medical journals, reading, going over his notes concerning his patients. If it hadn’t been for that girl he would have been home an hour earlier and would have had time to finish notes for a lecture he was to give later that week. He wondered briefly why he had stopped to give her a lift. She hadn’t been particularly grateful…