The Right Kind of Girl

‘It’s only for a few weeks, Emma, and I’m sure I shall have plenty to keep me occupied. I’ve been so well cared for here, and everyone has been so kind. Everything’s all right at home? Queenie is well?’

‘She’s splendid and everything is fine. I’ll bring you some more clothes, shall I?’ She made a list and observed, ‘I’ll bring them tomorrow, for the professor didn’t say when you were going—when there’s a vacancy I expect—he just said a day or two.’

When she got up to go her mother walked part of the way with her, anxious to show how strong she had become. By the lifts they said goodbye, though, ‘I’m a slow walker,’ said Mrs Trent. ‘It won’t do to keep him waiting.’

For once, Emma was glad of Sir Paul’s silence, for she had a lot to think about. They were almost at Buckfastleigh when he told her that her mother would be transferred on the day after tomorrow.

‘So tomorrow will be the last day I go to the hospital?’

‘Yes. Talk to Sister when you see her tomorrow; she will give you all the particulars and the phone number. Your mother will go by ambulance. The matron there is a very kind woman, there are plenty of staff and two resident doctors so your mother will be well cared for.’

‘I’m sure of that. She’s looking foward to going; she feels she’s really getting well.’

‘It has been a worrying time for you.’ his voice was kind ‘—but I think she will make a complete recovery.’

Indoors she put the pie in the oven, fed an impatient Queenie and sat down to add up the money in her purse—enough to rent a car from Mr Dobbs on the following weekend and not much over. She ate her supper, packed a case with the clothes her mother would need and went to put the dustbin out before she went to bed.

The local paper had been pushed through the letterbox. She took it back to the kitchen and turned to the page where the few advertisements were and there, staring her in the face, was a chance of a job. It stated:

Wanted urgently—a sensible woman to help immediately for two or three weeks while present staff are ill. Someone able to cope with a small baby as well as normal household chores and able to cook.

Emma, reading it, thought that the woman wouldn’t only have to be sensible, she would need to be a bundle of energy as well, but it was only for two or three weeks and it might be exactly what she was looking for. The phone number was a local one too.

Emma went to bed convinced that miracles did happen and slept soundly.

In the morning she waited with impatience until half-past eight before going round to use Mr Dobbs’s phone. The voice which answered her was a woman’s, shrill and agitated.

‘Thank heaven—I’m at my wits’ end and there’s no one here. The baby’s been crying all night…’

‘If you would give me your address. I live in Buckfastleigh.’

‘So do I. Picket House—go past the otter sanctuary and it’s at the end of the road down a turning on the left. You’ve got a car?’

‘No, a bike. I’ll come straight away, shall I?’

She listened to a jumble of incoherent thanks and, after phoning the surgery to cancel her lift with Sir Paul, hurried back to the house. Queenie, having breakfasted, was preparing to take a nap. Emma left food for her, got into her coat, tied a scarf over her head and fetched her bike. At least it wasn’t raining as she pedalled briskly from one end of the little town to the other.

Picket House was a rambling old place, beautifully maintained, lying back from the lane, surrounded by a large garden. Emma skidded to the front door and halted, and before she had got off her bike it was opened.

‘Come in, come in, do.’ The girl wasn’t much older than Emma but there the resemblance ended, for she was extremely pretty, with fair, curly hair, big blue eyes and a dainty little nose. She pulled Emma inside and then burst into tears. ‘I’ve had a dreadful night, you have no idea. Cook’s ill with flu and so is Elsie, and the nurse who’s supposed to come sent a message to say that her mother’s ill.’

‘There’s no one who could come—your mother or a sister?’

‘They’re in Scotland.’ She dismissed them with a wave of the hand. ‘And Mike, my husband, he’s in America and won’t be back for weeks.’ She wiped her eyes and smiled a little. ‘You will come and help me?’

‘Yes—yes, of course. You’ll want references…?’

‘Yes, yes—but later will do for that. I want a bath and I’ve not had breakfast. To tell the truth, I’m not much of a cook.’

‘The baby?’ asked Emma, taking off her coat and scarf and hanging them on the elaborate hat-stand in the hall. ‘A boy or a girl?’

‘Oh, a boy.’

‘Has he had a feed?’

‘I gave him one during the night but I’m not sure if I mixed it properly; he was sick afterwards.’

‘You don’t feed him yourself?’

The pretty face was screwed up in. horror. ‘No, no, I couldn’t possibly—I’m far too sensitive. Could you move in until the nurse can come?’

‘I can’t live here, but I’ll come early in the morning and stay until the baby’s last feed, if that would do?’

‘I’ll be alone during the night…’

‘If the baby’s had a good feed he should sleep for the night and I’ll leave a feed ready for you to warm up.’

‘Will you cook and tidy up a bit? I’m hopeless at housework.’

It seemed to Emma that now would be the time to learn about it, but she didn’t say so. ‘I don’t know your name,’ she said.

‘Hervey—Doreen Hervey.’

‘Emma Trent. Should we take a look at the baby before I get your breakfast?’

‘Oh, yes, I suppose so. He’s very small, just a month old. You’re not a nurse, are you?’

‘No, but I took a course in baby care and housewifery when I left school.’

They were going upstairs. ‘Would you come for a hundred pounds a week?’

‘Yes.’ It would be two or three weeks and she could save every penny of it.

They had reached the wide landing, and from somewhere along a passage leading to the back of the house there was a small, wailing noise.

The nursery was perfection—pastel walls, a thick carpet underfoot, pretty curtains drawn back from spotless white net, the right furniture and gloriously warm. The cot was a splendid affair and Mrs Hervey went to lean over it. ‘There he is,’ she said unnecessarily.

He was a very small baby, with dark hair, screwed up eyes and a wide open mouth. The wails had turned to screams and he was waving miniature fists in a fury of infant rage.

‘The lamb,’ said Emma. ‘He’s wet; I’ll change him. When did he have his feed? Can you remember the time?’

‘I can’t possibly remember; I was so tired. I suppose it was about two o’clock.’

‘Is his feed in the kitchen?’

‘Yes, on the table. I suppose he’s hungry?’

Emma suppressed a desire to shake Mrs Hervey. ‘Go and have your bath while I change him and feed him. Perhaps you could start breakfast—boil an egg and make toast?’