to Katherine. Said she was having a grand birthday and thanked her for the two matching silk scarves she’d sent. ‘I’m getting great use out of them,’ she said. Which was the truth. They’d come in extremely handy the evening before when the hinge fell off the hen-house door, and something was needed to re-tether it to the post. How’s London?’ Agnes asked wistfully. ‘Still godless?’
‘Absolutely, Granny,’ Katherine said enthusiastically. ‘Worse than ever. Why don’t you visit me, and you can see for yourself?’
‘Ah, no,’ said Agnes. ‘It mightn’t be as bad as you say and I’d be disappointed. No, I’m better off here with my imagination.’
8
Katherine swung out of the red-brick, converted house in which she had her first-floor flat and a passing motorist nearly mounted the pavement while he gazed intently at her. In her grey suit, she looked fresh and crisp, and not a single hair on her head was out of place – it wouldn’t have dared. At the gate she paused and feasted her eyes on her pride and joy, her powder-blue Karmann Ghia. Katherine loved her car very much and would have kissed it if she hadn’t been afraid that one of her early-rising neighbours might see her.
People were often surprised that Katherine owned such a stylish car. But what they didn’t realize was that Katherine was the type of person who aimed high. When she chose to aim at all.
People were also surprised that Katherine owned such an
unreliable
car. The Karmann Ghia was the one reckless thing in her almost entirely careful life. Though her heart and her bank balance were nearly broken by it, Katherine remained devoted. So frequently was she round at the VW garage, that she joked with Lionel, the mechanic, that she’d call her first-born after him. He was charmed and she felt he didn’t need to know that she had no intention of ever having children.
Katherine didn’t normally drive to work, but as it was Saturday, and the streets were clear, she did. To her amazement, she was able to park right outside Breen Helmsford, the advertising agency where she was the accountant.
‘Praise the Lord,’ she muttered. ‘It’s a miracle.’
As with the car, people were often surprised to discover that Katherine worked in advertising. They didn’t think she was dynamic and gung-ho enough. She was too serious and reserved. Luckily, as an accountant it wasn’t part of her job description to be wildly enthusiastic all the time, or to bandy around phrases like, ‘Let’s run this one up the flagpole and see if the cat licks it!’ On the contrary, her job was to douse the worst excesses, to be awkward about people’s expenses, to insist on taxi receipts, to question why a bill for a weekend in a double room at a country hotel with nine bottles of champagne was being claimed or to point out that putting through a restaurant bill and the credit-card slip for the same meal constituted claiming twice and might be just the smallest bit fraudulent. Even though, as accountant, she was supposed to be above such mundane tasks, she didn’t trust her assistants to weed out swizz-masters.
‘Morning, Katherine,’ Desmond, the porter, called, as she made for the lifts. ‘Bunch of tossers getting you to come in on the weekend, eh?’
But instead of receiving the bitter tirade of agreement that he’d got from the other employees who were already in, Katherine just smiled noncommittally and said, ‘I suppose someone’s got to do it.’
Desmond was baffled. ‘An odd fish,’ was how he described her. ‘And no young man waiting for her, that’s plain to see. Else why’d she be happy to come to work on a Saturday? It’s no life,’ he’d say, with a heavy sigh, ‘for a young girl.’
Breen Helmsford was small by most advertising agency standards, with only about seventy employees, crammed into two huge, open-plan floors, with occasional glass boxes as offices for the higher-ups.
When Katherine walked in, lots of people
‘Absolutely, Granny,’ Katherine said enthusiastically. ‘Worse than ever. Why don’t you visit me, and you can see for yourself?’
‘Ah, no,’ said Agnes. ‘It mightn’t be as bad as you say and I’d be disappointed. No, I’m better off here with my imagination.’
8
Katherine swung out of the red-brick, converted house in which she had her first-floor flat and a passing motorist nearly mounted the pavement while he gazed intently at her. In her grey suit, she looked fresh and crisp, and not a single hair on her head was out of place – it wouldn’t have dared. At the gate she paused and feasted her eyes on her pride and joy, her powder-blue Karmann Ghia. Katherine loved her car very much and would have kissed it if she hadn’t been afraid that one of her early-rising neighbours might see her.
People were often surprised that Katherine owned such a stylish car. But what they didn’t realize was that Katherine was the type of person who aimed high. When she chose to aim at all.
People were also surprised that Katherine owned such an
unreliable
car. The Karmann Ghia was the one reckless thing in her almost entirely careful life. Though her heart and her bank balance were nearly broken by it, Katherine remained devoted. So frequently was she round at the VW garage, that she joked with Lionel, the mechanic, that she’d call her first-born after him. He was charmed and she felt he didn’t need to know that she had no intention of ever having children.
Katherine didn’t normally drive to work, but as it was Saturday, and the streets were clear, she did. To her amazement, she was able to park right outside Breen Helmsford, the advertising agency where she was the accountant.
‘Praise the Lord,’ she muttered. ‘It’s a miracle.’
As with the car, people were often surprised to discover that Katherine worked in advertising. They didn’t think she was dynamic and gung-ho enough. She was too serious and reserved. Luckily, as an accountant it wasn’t part of her job description to be wildly enthusiastic all the time, or to bandy around phrases like, ‘Let’s run this one up the flagpole and see if the cat licks it!’ On the contrary, her job was to douse the worst excesses, to be awkward about people’s expenses, to insist on taxi receipts, to question why a bill for a weekend in a double room at a country hotel with nine bottles of champagne was being claimed or to point out that putting through a restaurant bill and the credit-card slip for the same meal constituted claiming twice and might be just the smallest bit fraudulent. Even though, as accountant, she was supposed to be above such mundane tasks, she didn’t trust her assistants to weed out swizz-masters.
‘Morning, Katherine,’ Desmond, the porter, called, as she made for the lifts. ‘Bunch of tossers getting you to come in on the weekend, eh?’
But instead of receiving the bitter tirade of agreement that he’d got from the other employees who were already in, Katherine just smiled noncommittally and said, ‘I suppose someone’s got to do it.’
Desmond was baffled. ‘An odd fish,’ was how he described her. ‘And no young man waiting for her, that’s plain to see. Else why’d she be happy to come to work on a Saturday? It’s no life,’ he’d say, with a heavy sigh, ‘for a young girl.’
Breen Helmsford was small by most advertising agency standards, with only about seventy employees, crammed into two huge, open-plan floors, with occasional glass boxes as offices for the higher-ups.
When Katherine walked in, lots of people
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