Only by Chance

Henrietta got into bed. ‘You’re a splendid fellow, Dickens,’ she told him as she put out the light and heard his raucous purr.

She had to be up early, of course, but once she was dressed and on her way even on a miserably cold and dark morning it wasn’t too bad. She would go home presently, and have breakfast and do her small chores, initiate the kitten into the pleasures of the balcony and do her careful shopping.

The other cleaners greeted her cheerfully as they started their work but there wasn’t time to gossip, and once they had finished they wasted no time in getting back home. Henrietta, standing on a crowded bus, thought of her breakfast—toast and a boiled egg and a great pot of tea...

The cats were still on the bed, but they got down as she went in. She lighted the fire and, since the room was cold, gave them their breakfasts and fetched the cardboard box lined with old blanket that Dickens regarded as his own. She watched while he got in, to sit washing his face after his meal, and presently, when the kitten crept in beside him, he took no notice. Then, his own toilet completed, he began to clean the kitten and, that done to his satisfaction, they both went to sleep again.

Henrietta, lingering over her own breakfast, was doing her weekly sums. Each week she managed to save something—never very much, but even the coppers and the small silver mounted up slowly in the jamjar on the shelf beside the gas stove in one corner of the room. It was a flimsy shield against the ever present threat of being out of work.

Presently she tidied up, got into a coat, tied a scarf over her head and went to the shops, where she laid out her money with a careful eye. Since the shopkeepers in the neighbourhood liked her, because she never asked for credit, the butcher gave her a marrowbone to add to the stewing steak she had bought, and the baker threw in a couple of rolls with the yesterday’s loaf she bought.

She bore her purchases home, fed the cat and kitten, ate her snack lunch and set about cleaning the room. It didn’t take long, so that presently she drew the armchair up to the fire and opened her library book, waiting patiently while Dickens made himself comfortable on her lap.

When he had settled she lifted the kitten on too, and he made room for it, rumbling in his hoarse voice in what she hoped was a fatherly fashion. Apparently it was, for the kitten curled up as close as it could get and went to sleep at once.

Henrietta worked at St Alkelda’s on Monday, Wednesday and Thursday of each week and did her cleaning on each weekday morning—a monotonous round of dull days enlivened by her free Sundays, when she took herself off to one of London’s parks and then went to evensong at any one of London’s churches. She was by no means content with her lot, but she didn’t grumble; she had work and a roof over her head, and things would get better.

She was saving every penny so that she could enrol at night school and learn shorthand and typing. The course didn’t cost much, but it meant bus fares, notebooks, pens and pencils, and perhaps hidden extras that she knew nothing about. Besides, she needed to have money to fall back on should she find herself out of work. She had as much chance of being made redundant as anyone else.

It was a good thing that the owner of the fruit and vegetable stall at Saturday’s market had taken her on in the afternoon. He paid very little, but she didn’t blame him for that—he had to live as well—and he allowed her to take home a cauliflower or a bag of apples by way of perks. The jamjar was filling up nicely—another six months or so and she could start on plans to improve things.

‘A pity you haven’t any looks worth mentioning,’ she told the looking-glass hanging above the rickety chest of drawers. ‘No one—that is, to speak plainly, no man—is going to look at you twice and whisk you off to the altar. You have to become a career girl, so that by the time you’re thirty you’ll be carrying one of those briefcases and wearing a tailored suit and high heels.’ She nodded at her reflection.

Later, as she gave Dickens and the kitten their suppers, she uttered aloud a thought which had been at the back of her head for quite some time. ‘I wonder who he was—the man whose foot I trod upon? He had a nice voice...’

Dickens paused in his gobbling to give her a thoughtful look, but the kitten didn’t want to waste time—he ate up and then mewed for more.

‘I shall call you Oliver Twist; you’re always asking for second helpings,’ said Henrietta, filling his saucer. So the kitten acquired a name twice as big as itself which inevitably within a few hours had been shortened to Ollie.

She heard the voice again on the following Monday afternoon, towards the end of a tiring day, and most unfortunately she was quite unable to turn round and see its owner. She was sitting facing the wall between two old ladies who, what with having trouble with their dentures and shaking hands, needed a good deal of help with the tea and buns they were enjoying.

If there had been no one else there, Henrietta would have turned round and taken a look, but Mrs Carter was with him, droning on about something or other, she was always complaining bitterly to any of the medical staff who might have come to the department to see how a patient was getting on.

The owner of the voice was listening patiently, his eyes on the back of Henrietta’s mousy bun of hair, recognising her at once—which upon reflection surprised him, for he hadn’t seen her clearly. Perhaps it was her voice, quiet and cheerful, urging the old ladies to enjoy their tea.

Mrs Carter paused for breath and he said, ‘Yes, indeed, Mrs Carter,’ which encouraged her to start again as he allowed his thoughts to wander. Not that he allowed that to show. His handsome face was wearing the bland listening expression he so often hid behind when he was with someone he disliked, and he disliked Mrs Carter. She was efficient, ran her department on oiled wheels, but he had upon occasion seen how she treated her staff... He became aware of what Mrs Carter was saying.

‘I need more trained staff, sir. I’m fobbed off with anyone who chooses to apply for a job here. That girl there, sitting between those two patients—she does her best but she’s not carrying her weight, and when she’s reproved she answers back. No manners, but what can you expect these days? She’ll have to go, of course.’

She had made no effort to lower her rather loud voice and the man beside her frowned. It was obvious that the girl had heard every word; probably she had been meant to.

He said clearly, ‘It appears to me that she is coping admirably, Mrs Carter. One does not need to be highly skilled to be patient and kind, and the young lady you mention appears to possess both these virtues...’

Mrs Carter bridled. ‘Well. I’m sure you are right, sir.’ She would have liked to argue about it, but although she would never admit it, even to herself, she was a little in awe of him.

He was a senior consultant—she had heard him described as a medical genius—who specialised in brain surgery. He was a giant of a man with more than his share of good looks and, it was said, the world’s goods. Not that anyone knew for certain; he rarely spoke about himself to his colleagues, and if they knew about his private life they never spoke of it.

He said now, ‘I should like to take a look at Mrs Collins. Is she making any progress? There was a certain lack of co-ordination after I operated, but there should be some improvement.’

Henrietta heard Mrs Carter answer as they walked away, but she still didn’t turn round. She knew who he was now; at least, she knew that he was someone important in the hospital. He had put Mrs Carter neatly in her place, and Henrietta was grateful for his kindness, but she hoped that she would never meet him face to face—she would die of shame...

As usual she was the last to leave. She locked up and hurried across to the porter’s office to hand over the keys. It was another dark and wet evening, and she couldn’t wait to get home and have a cup of tea. Mrs Carter’s remarks had worried her, she didn’t think that she would be sacked unless she had done something truly awful, and although Mrs Carter was always finding fault she had never threatened her with dismissal.

She bade the porter goodnight and made her way to the side-door, ducking her head at the sudden gust of wind and rain until brought to a sudden halt by something solid. An arm steadied her.

‘Ah, I was afraid that I might have missed you. I feel that I owe you an apology on Mrs Carter’s behalf. But let us be more comfortable in the car while I give it.’

‘I’m going home,’ said Henrietta, ‘and there is really no need...’

She could have saved her breath. The arm, solid as a rock but gentle, was urging her across the forecourt to the sacred corner where the consultants parked their cars. Her companion opened the door of one of them—a Bentley—popped her inside, got in his side and turned to her. “That’s better. What is your name?’

Was he going to give her the sack? she thought wildly. She had been told that the consultants had a good deal of influence. She sat up straight, her nose twitching at the faint whiff of good leather upholstery. ‘Henrietta Cowper.’

He offered a large hand. ‘Ross-Pitt.’

She shook it. ‘How do you do, Mr Ross-Pitt?’

She gave him an enquiring look and he said at once, ‘You will have heard every word Mrs Carter uttered this afternoon. I can assure you that there have been no complaints about your work. Mrs Carter is an excellent organiser, and knows her job inside out, but she can be rather hard on people. I’m sure she didn’t mean all she said!’

Henrietta, who knew better, didn’t contradict him and he went on, ‘You like your work?’ His voice was friendly but detached.

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘You’re not full-time?’

‘No, no, three days a week.’ She paused. ‘It is kind of you to explain, Mr Ross-Pitt. I’m grateful’ She put a hand on the door. ‘Goodbye.’

‘I’ll drive you home. Stay where you are; it’s pelting down—you’ll drown.’

‘I live very near here...’

The engine was purring almost silently. ‘Where?’

‘Well Denvers Street; it’s a turning off the main road on the left-hand side, but there’s no need...’

He took no notice of that, but drove out of the fore-court into the busy main road. ‘The third turning on the left,’ said Henrietta, and then added, ‘It’s number thirty, halfway down on the right.’

When he stopped she started to scramble out, only to be restrained by his hand. ‘Wait.’ He had a very quiet voice. ‘Have you a key?’

‘The door isn’t locked; it’s flatlets and bedsitters.’

He got out and opened her door, and waited while she got out. ‘Thank you very much.’ She looked up into his placid face. ‘Do get back into your car, you’ll get soaked.’ She smiled at him. ‘Goodnight, sir.’

He gave a little nod. ‘Goodnight, Miss Henrietta Cowper.’ He waited in the rain until she had gone into the house.

A funny little thing, he reflected as he drove away. Lovely eyes, but an ordinary face. Of course, wet hair hanging around a rain-washed face hardly helped. He liked her voice, though. He turned the car and drove back to the main road, making for the motorway which would take him to his home.

He had a flat above his consulting rooms in Wimpole Street, but home was a rambling old house just south of Thaxted, and since the hospital was close to the M11 he chose to travel to and fro. After a day in the operating theatre or a session in Outpatients he enjoyed the drive, and the drive to the city in the early morning, even in midwinter, was no problem—the Bentley swallowed the miles with well-bred silent speed while he considered the day’s work ahead of him.