Emma’s Wedding

Emma, about to ask who he was, sensed that Mrs Trott wasn’t going to tell her and prudently held her tongue. He must live in the town for he had a bill. He didn’t look like a fisherman or a farm worker and he wouldn’t own a shop, not dressed like that, and besides he didn’t look like any of those. He had been rude, staring like that; she had no wish to meet him again but it would be interesting to know just who he was.

She went back to the cottage and found a man waiting impatiently to collect the car and, what with one thing and another, she soon forgot the man at the baker’s.

It was imperative to find work but she wasn’t going to rush into the first job that was vacant. With a little wangling she thought that she could manage two part-time jobs. They would cease at the end of the summer and even one part-time job might be hard to find after that.

‘I must just make hay while the sun shines,’ said Emma, and over the next few days scanned the local newspapers. She went from one end of the town to the other, sizing up what was on offer. Waitresses were wanted, an improver was needed at the hairdressers—but what was an improver? Chambermaids at the various hotels, an assistant in an arts and crafts shop, someone to clean holiday cottages between lets, and an educated lady to assist the librarian at the public library on two evenings a week…

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.