Read Online The Second-last Woman in England by Maggie Joel - Free Book Online
Authors: Maggie Joel
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into the city past bombsites and half-demolished office blocks and the remains of half a dozen churches. She changed buses at Trafalgar Square and there were no more bombsites. Hyde Park shone brilliantly in the morning sunlight and large, gleaming black cars cruised down Park Lane. In the distance a troop of Horseguards trotted silently through the park and a small crowd of smartly dressed women and small children with their nannies stood and watched.
This is not my London, she thought, clutching her small case tightly in her lap.
She arrived too early and had to sit in an ABC café on Old Brompton Road sipping a cup of tea and watching the early risers on their Sunday morning strolls or walking their dogs. No one looked dressed for church.
At nine o’clock she presented herself at the Wallises’ front door, but instead of pressing the doorbell her index finger paused, midair, refusing to go the last few inches and she found herself glancing to left and right down the length of the street waiting for someone to stop her, for a shout, running feet on the pavement, a policeman’s whistle to pierce the serene Sunday morning stillness.
She took a deep breath. She had every right to be here, a God-given right. There could be—there must be—no turning back now. Too many years had already passed. She rang the doorbell.
The housekeeper, Mrs Thompson, opened the front door so rapidly she must have been standing right behind it.
‘They’ve given you the job, then?’ she enquired, peering at Jean with a raised eyebrow.
‘Yes. Hello. It’s Miss Corbett. Jean. I start today.’
‘I dare say!’ Mrs Thompson replied in a manner that suggested she had seen nannies come and go, and at this time in her life she didn’t need to see any more. ‘Well, I expect it’s for the best,’ she added cryptically. ‘You’re very early though,’ and she peered at Jean as though the explanation for this early arrival could be read on her face. ‘They aren’t up yet.’
It was nine o’clock and hadn’t she been told to be here at nine? But it seemed best not to argue.
‘Well, you’d better come in,’ Mrs Thompson announced, sounding as though she had weighed up various options and had arrived at this, the best one.
She was a stocky woman, short and broad, and Jean found herself regarding the top of Mrs Thompson’s helmet of unlikely tight blonde curls as she stepped past her into the hallway. Yellow would be a more accurate description of the curls, the kind of brassy yellow that came out of a hairdresser’s bottle. She wore a tight-fitting floral dress that looked at least one size too small with buttons that strained across an enormous bust, and a white apron double-tied around her waist.
Mrs Thompson led the way up a flight of stairs. Then they climbed a second flight and continued going up until Jean lost count of which floor they were on and Mrs Thompson turned purple and began to wheeze. At last she paused on a distant landing and opened a door on her right.
‘This is the room,’ she gasped. She didn’t say: This is your room.
They stood in the doorway surveying the room, Mrs Thompson with an air of suspicion as though she half expected the now departed Nanny Peters to be hiding in the cupboard.
‘That’s the bed,’ she said (Jean had already spotted the bed), ‘the window—I don’t think it opens or nothing, but they do say you can see right over to the hospital and beyond from there. There’s a chest under the bed and the tallboy here for your clothes and what-not,’ (she paused to regard Jean’s meagre suitcase) ‘and the bathroom’s out here, second door on the left. I’m across the landing there.’
She finished up by reaching for a cigarette and appeared in no hurry to depart.
‘Well, I must unpack,’ Jean declared, going into the room. She placed her case on the pink, tasselled bedspread and hoped Mrs Thompson didn’t intend to stand and watch. She slowly undid the clasps and
This is not my London, she thought, clutching her small case tightly in her lap.
She arrived too early and had to sit in an ABC café on Old Brompton Road sipping a cup of tea and watching the early risers on their Sunday morning strolls or walking their dogs. No one looked dressed for church.
At nine o’clock she presented herself at the Wallises’ front door, but instead of pressing the doorbell her index finger paused, midair, refusing to go the last few inches and she found herself glancing to left and right down the length of the street waiting for someone to stop her, for a shout, running feet on the pavement, a policeman’s whistle to pierce the serene Sunday morning stillness.
She took a deep breath. She had every right to be here, a God-given right. There could be—there must be—no turning back now. Too many years had already passed. She rang the doorbell.
The housekeeper, Mrs Thompson, opened the front door so rapidly she must have been standing right behind it.
‘They’ve given you the job, then?’ she enquired, peering at Jean with a raised eyebrow.
‘Yes. Hello. It’s Miss Corbett. Jean. I start today.’
‘I dare say!’ Mrs Thompson replied in a manner that suggested she had seen nannies come and go, and at this time in her life she didn’t need to see any more. ‘Well, I expect it’s for the best,’ she added cryptically. ‘You’re very early though,’ and she peered at Jean as though the explanation for this early arrival could be read on her face. ‘They aren’t up yet.’
It was nine o’clock and hadn’t she been told to be here at nine? But it seemed best not to argue.
‘Well, you’d better come in,’ Mrs Thompson announced, sounding as though she had weighed up various options and had arrived at this, the best one.
She was a stocky woman, short and broad, and Jean found herself regarding the top of Mrs Thompson’s helmet of unlikely tight blonde curls as she stepped past her into the hallway. Yellow would be a more accurate description of the curls, the kind of brassy yellow that came out of a hairdresser’s bottle. She wore a tight-fitting floral dress that looked at least one size too small with buttons that strained across an enormous bust, and a white apron double-tied around her waist.
Mrs Thompson led the way up a flight of stairs. Then they climbed a second flight and continued going up until Jean lost count of which floor they were on and Mrs Thompson turned purple and began to wheeze. At last she paused on a distant landing and opened a door on her right.
‘This is the room,’ she gasped. She didn’t say: This is your room.
They stood in the doorway surveying the room, Mrs Thompson with an air of suspicion as though she half expected the now departed Nanny Peters to be hiding in the cupboard.
‘That’s the bed,’ she said (Jean had already spotted the bed), ‘the window—I don’t think it opens or nothing, but they do say you can see right over to the hospital and beyond from there. There’s a chest under the bed and the tallboy here for your clothes and what-not,’ (she paused to regard Jean’s meagre suitcase) ‘and the bathroom’s out here, second door on the left. I’m across the landing there.’
She finished up by reaching for a cigarette and appeared in no hurry to depart.
‘Well, I must unpack,’ Jean declared, going into the room. She placed her case on the pink, tasselled bedspread and hoped Mrs Thompson didn’t intend to stand and watch. She slowly undid the clasps and
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