Living With Marc

‘No way,’ he said implacably.

Robin pulled her other hand clear but Mrs Myson had her at once by the elbow and was smiling sweetly at Marc. ‘At least Robin must stay to tea.’

‘No, thank you,’ Robin said promptly. She would choke trying to swallow while he watched her.

‘With me,’ said Maybelle Myson. ‘I am allowed guests, aren’t I?’ That was another joke, and again he shook his head at her, a smile lifting the edge of a mouth that Robin would have likened to a rat-trap.

‘I’ll tell Elsie to bring up a tray,’ he said.

‘This way, my dear,’ said Maybelle.

As she followed the old lady up the wide staircase Robin didn’t have to look back to know that Marc Hammond was still standing in the hallway below, watching her. She could feel his eyes on her almost like a hand shoving her, so that she took every step carefully as if she might stumble.

She hadn’t realised the effect that meeting him again face to face might have on her. She would never forget how she was sacked; it had been so humiliating. But it was more than three years ago. Since then she had had her share of bad scenes and she had thought she was tough.

She was tough. She had had to be. She had learned as a child not to wear her heart on her sleeve or to show hurt or anger unless she was unbearably provoked. But Marc Hammond seemed to storm through her defences. She found herself almost holding her breath, until they reached the top of the stairs and she followed Mrs Myson into a room and the door closed behind them, shutting him out down in the hall.

This was a sitting room. Chairs and a long sofa were covered in pale blue silk. There were fresh flowers—an arrangement of freesias and roses. Their perfume filled the air. It was a delightful room.

Mrs Myson sat with her feet up on the sofa and Robin took a low stool. Mrs Myson began telling her about some of the other applicants for the job. Some of them sounded reasonable to Robin, although

Maybelle Myson had been dead set against every one—almost as prejudiced as Marc Hammond was against Robin, and Robin was the one she couldn’t have.

‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you turned up,’ Maybelle said.

‘He won’t let me stay,’ Robin pointed out.

‘We’ll see.’ Maybelle gave a little nod, and Robin wondered if the old lady would go against Marc Hammond’s advice. Perhaps he was here in a professional capacity, as her lawyer, although that was not at all how it had seemed.

‘Are you related?’ she asked. Maybelle could have been his grandmother

‘Marc’s grandmother was my sister,’ she said. ‘I’m his aunt—well, his great-aunt. We had no children. I would have liked a daughter, a granddaughter.’ Briefly she sounded wistful, then her eyes filled with tenderness. ‘But Marc has always been like a son to me. Better than most sons I hear about.’

There was a tap on the door and the woman who had let ‘Miss Johnson’ into the house came into the room carrying a tray. Maybelle Myson thanked her and she put down the tray on a side-table, pausing to give Robin a long, hard stare from head to foot before she went out.

The tray was laid with tiny sandwiches, a Dundee cake, cream, sugar and lemon, and a teapot, cups, saucers and plates in beautiful china.

Robin poured, and took lemon tea because the amber liquid and the lemon rind looked so pretty in the eggshell-thin white cup. She took a bite of cake, letting the crumbs melt on her tongue, listening to Maybelle Myson.

Until now Robin had known next to nothing about Maybelle. She was always well dressed and anyone could see she was a lady in the true sense of the word-but their talk had always been cheerful chatter—no heart-to-hearts or confidences. But somehow Robin had felt they were on the same wavelength in spite of an age gap of a couple of generations.

Now, as they took tea together, she listened enthralled while Maybelle talked, telling Robin she had been a widow for years. Her husband had been an engineer and they had travelled the world together. Marc Hammond was right; Maybelle Myson had had a life packed with adventure in far-away places.

Listening had Robin on the edge of her chair, because it was nearly like being there herself. One of Robin’s dreams was to really travel—not to holiday resorts but somewhere explorers and archaeologists went—and although Marc Hammond could stop her getting a job here he probably wouldn’t stop her keeping in touch. Or coming to tea, perhaps. Because the more she saw and learned of Maybelle Myson, the more she liked her.

Several times Mrs Myson had started to ask Robin about herself but Robin had answered briefly and got Maybelle back to her memories. They were fascinating and, to Robin, Robin’s own life was not. She would much rather hear how a bridge had been built over a raging river in a jungle than talk about herself. Although, after their second cup of tea and when most of the sandwiches had gone, Maybelle Myson said firmly, ‘Now, tell me about yourself.’

‘What do you want to know?’ Robin asked.

‘Well, where do you live?’

‘At home. With my aunt and uncle. They’ve brought me up since I was five, when my mother died. She was my mother’s sister.’

Maybelle Myson said, ‘Like Marc’s grandmother and me.’ She went on gaily, ‘I always approve of aunts.’

You would not approve of mine, thought Robin, but she managed to keep her voice light and bright, asking, ‘Are you really eighty-two? You don’t took anywhere near that.’

She was not trying to flatter. Maybelle Myson could have knocked ten or more years off her age and got away with it easily, and now she said, ‘Thank you,’ and laughed. ‘Most of the time I feel, say, fifty-something, although there are days when I am every minute of my age, but don’t tell anyone that.’ Robin laughed with her. ‘How old are you, Robin?’ she enquired.

‘Twenty.’ Robin thought for a moment before she added, ‘Today,’ because it had been a grim birthday.

Of course Maybelle said, ‘Twenty today? How lovely for you. You must be very happy.’ Robin kept on smiling although bitter laughter was churning inside her. ‘I was married before I was twenty,’ Maybelle reminisced. ‘He was so handsome.’ She got off the sofa and went to a drawer. Robin expected photographs and leaned forward, but she came back holding something in the palm of her hand.

‘Happy birthday,’ she said, and into Robin’s hand she dropped a heavy chain bracelet. Three chunky charms hung from the fastener-ring: a cross, an anchor and a heart. ‘Faith, hope and charity,’ said Maybelle. ‘With those you can’t go far wrong.’

It looked like gold, and a gift had been the last thing that Robin had expected. She felt tears welling in her eyes and blinked them away fiercely. She never shed tears in front of anyone, but after this morning, and after Marc Hammond, she was vulnerable to kindness and this was such a generous gesture.

‘That is so kind of you,’ she said. ‘I do appreciate it and it is beautiful, but of course I couldn’t take it unless—’ She bit her lip. This was awkward. ‘Is it gold? Is it as real as it looks?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then no, thank you. Please, I’d feel awful taking something this valuable.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Maybelle briskly, but when Robin shook her head and gave the bracelet back she took it, keeping hold of Robin’s wrist. ‘Well, try it on.’

There was no harm in that. It was weighty on Robin’s slim wrist. She had never worn anything like it before and it should surely have been an heirloom. She said again, ‘It’s beautiful but I can’t take it.’

Maybelle did her mischievous twinkle. ‘Wear it while you’re on duty.’

‘What? Oh, we can forget that. I’m not going to be on duty here.’ As she spoke she had a pang of regret because she could have been the right one for this job, given half a chance. Which she would not be getting from Marc Hammond.

‘Marc is going to make me have a driver,’ said Maybelle. ‘And a companion. A minder is what he has in mind. He’d wrap me in cotton wool if he could and sometimes that can be comforting.’

Sometimes it must be, thought Robin, who had never had a protector who did not ask more from her than he offered. ‘So,’ said Maybelle Myson, ‘we must bring him round to accepting you.’

‘He won’t.’

Robin was sure of that. The vibes between them had been as threatening as a collision course. When she was alone she would remember how he had looked and sounded, even the touch of him, although only his eyes had touched her, and she would shake inside.

But Maybelle couldn’t know this. Now she said, ‘We’ll go through my appointments for the next few weeks and show him how far I’ll be driving and tell him how useful you would be.’

‘We’re wasting our time,’ Robin said, and then asked, because she was curious, ‘If you’re the one who’s getting a companion why does it have to be his say-so?’

‘Because Marc’s the boss,’ Maybelle Myson replied cheerfully.

She was a thoroughly modern woman in all but age but Marc Hammond made the rules, although it was a tender bullying Maybelle Myson got. He thought she should be kept safe from the likes of Robin Johnson. But it would be his fault if Maybelle went on turning down the other applicants and driving herself. She was a menace on the roads and before Robin left here she would tell him that.

‘Your legs are younger than mine,’ said Maybelle. ‘Would you go downstairs? Through the first door on your left as you come into the house there’s a bureau, and in the top drawer of that, right on top, you’ll find a notebook with a red cover. Would you fetch it for me?’