“It’s Vivian Gossinger.”
So what if it is,
Flora managed to remind herself as she released the stubborn bolt and opened the door.
This is my place even if I don’t pay any rent and I didn’t
invite him, so he’ll just have to take me as he finds me.
This spurt of defiance to the tenets of her upbringing stood her in good stead until Mr. Gossinger crossed the threshold and stood looking at her with wonder in his eyes.
“I’ve been cutting my hair,” she whispered, handing him the scissors like a child caught stealing.
“I think it is most becoming,” said Mr. Gossinger with obvious sincerity. “Were you planning to leave the long part or would you like me to even it up for you?”
“Yes, please,” said Flora.
“Thank you for straightening me out, sir,” said Flora in her best housemaid’s voice.
“My pleasure,” Mr. Vivian Gossinger assured her. “You look positively charming with your hair short, but I do hope you didn’t feel obliged to cut it for the money.”
“You mean to sell?” Flora nearly laughed but remembered in the nick of time that people of her sort were not in the habit of sharing a chuckle with their betters.
“Please don’t think me impertinent, Flora, but I did wonder if you might be a bit short of the ready when it came to setting yourself up in this flat.”
“That is kind of you, Mr. Gossinger,” Flora stood in the center of the little shop with elbows at her sides as if holding a tea tray, “but Sir Henry advanced me some
money on what I’ll be getting from my grandfather’s will. I’m not saying it’s a lot.” She realized she was gabbing on because she was nervous, mostly because she hadn’t yet looked in the mirror to assess whether or not she looked like a chicken. “Grandpa tied up most of his savings for me to receive when I’m thirty. He may have been worried I’d meet up with the wrong sort of man, because I think that’s what happened to my mother.” Her voice petered out.
“I know Hutchins loved you very much,” said Vivian.
“I’ll manage fine. Especially when I get a job.” Flora decided it was a good thing there wasn’t a stick of furniture in the shop or flat above or she would have felt obliged to ask him to sit down, and then he would have felt equally obliged to stay awhile. “As for my hair,” she touched the spiky ends, “it’s not like it was my one beauty, as with Jo in
Little Women.”
“That’s true.” Vivian smiled. “You also have very pretty eyes.”
Flora meant to reply that he oughtn’t to say stuff like that. She wasn’t a child anymore to be praised and handed toffees. Instead, she heard herself say: “Do you really think I have nice eyes?”
“Definitely.” Vivian leaned closer so that his face was within inches of Flora’s. “They’re not an ordinary blue; they’ve got flecks of amber and bronze in them. Here, if you don’t believe me, take a look for yourself.” He went over to the counter at the back of the shop, picked up her hand mirror, and handed it to Flora.
“I’m afraid to look,” she told him.
“Coward.”
Flora found herself laughing, but she stopped and bit her lip when she peeked in the mirror. Her hair didn’t look as if it had been to Vidal Sassoon. But she had to admit she did look different in a good sort of way. Her eyes seemed to have come alive and she found herself
wondering if a touch of pencil and mascara wouldn’t bring them out even more.
“Well?” asked Vivian.
“There’s no point in having second thoughts, most of my hair is now in that wastepaper basket under the sink.”
“You could have stepped straight from the pages of
Oliver Twist.”
“Is that good?” Flora had to smile at him.
“You have to be the most enchanting urchin in all London.” Vivian reclined against the shop counter, studying her intently.
“Not just Bethnal Green?” This was madness, but it was also magic.
It’s this place,
Flora told herself,
and the feeling it gives that all sorts of wonderful things can happen because there’s nothing here to get in the way. Only blank walls and empty floors. No rules set down in black and white.
Her heart turned over when Vivian cupped her face with his hand. For an exquisitely scary moment she was sure he was going to kiss her.
“I brought a picnic basket,” he said, taking a good six steps backward, which as far as Flora was concerned amounted to a slap in the face.
“What did you say?” she asked, praying he wouldn’t notice her embarrassment.
“I heard from Uncle Henry that you were moving in today and I thought I could help out by bringing over a meal. It’s outside.” Vivian was now crossing the room, talking over his shoulder. “Won’t be two ticks.”
Flora was tempted to bolt the door on him when he went out into the street, but reason prevailed. Perhaps he hadn’t meant anything, or noticed that she’d gone silly on him. It wasn’t like she’d puckered up her lips or thrown her arms around him, now, was it? And going on what the housekeeper before Mrs. Much had said, men could be awfully thick at times. In the minute
taken by Vivian to return with a wicker hamper, Flora had herself back together.
“Really, this is kind of you, sir,” she placed particular emphasis on the last word, “but you shouldn’t have gone and put yourself out. Your family has already done plenty, letting me have the flat rent-free for a year.”
“And so they ought.” Vivian Gossinger set the hamper in the middle of the floor. “Your grandfather was an incomparable butler; Uncle Henry will never be able to replace him—or you, for that matter, Flora.”
“That’s nice to hear.” Flora felt her guard slipping again and took refuge in saying sharply, “I hope that food didn’t come from Fortnum and Mason.”
“Not guilty on that score.” Vivian flashed her his rare but oddly infectious grin. “I’ve had to cut a few corners lately on account of losing my job selling Macho Man beauty products for men. Everything in here,” he tapped the basket with the toe of his shoe, “comes from good old Tesco’s.”
“I’m sure you still spent far too much,” Flora protested.
“I didn’t say I’m unemployed. They don’t know about it at Gossinger, but for the last fortnight I’ve been working at a flea market only a few miles or so from here, and becoming quite the expert in cracked china.”
“I’ll never forget your kindness . . .”
“You sound,” Vivian Gossinger brushed back a wayward lock of hair, “as if you’re about to push me out the door.”
“Well,” Flora tried and failed to squelch a spurt of happiness, “I don’t want to hold you up.”
“Opening a tin of corned beef is no job for a woman. Besides, there are some things I’d really like to talk to you about, Flora. That afternoon in the garden after your grandfather’s funeral wasn’t the right time.”
“You sound like it’s something important.”
“Nothing that can’t wait until you’ve had something to eat.”
Mr. Gossinger knelt and spread a green-and-white check tablecloth on the floor before unpacking the picnic basket in earnest. In addition to the tin of corned beef, there were several packets of cheese, a loaf of sliced bread, a bunch of black grapes, and a carton of orange juice. “I’m afraid I forgot the mustard, but there is some butter in here somewhere.” He again delved into the basket and triumphantly produced this item. “It’s a man thing,” he flashed his disarming grin, “being able to produce a well-balanced meal with only a couple of days’ notice. I even remembered dessert. Look,” he held up a packet of chocolate biscuits, “it says right here on the label: ‘By Appointment To Her Majesty The Queen.’ “
“You can’t do better than that.” Flora felt a pang at the memory of the letter she had written to the Queen about Grandpa’s silver polish. “How about letting me lay the table? That’s if you remembered the cutlery.” Flora knelt down across the tablecloth from Vivian. There seemed no point in putting up any more fuss. Within half an hour he would be gone, and in all probability they would never meet again.
“I was determined to go whole hog.” He handed her the knives and forks and sat back on his haunches.
“My word, sir,” Flora could not repress a smile, “they’re real stainless steel, made around 1960, by the looks of it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Practically positive. Are you sure we ought to be using it?”
“I don’t know,” said Vivian, entering into the spirit of the thing, “I’m not sure whether any of the pieces are insured; do you think they should be?”
“My grandfather was the one who knew about old stuff.” Flora set out the knives and forks. The change in
her voice made it clear that at least for her the game had suddenly gone flat.
“You must have learned quite a bit from him, working alongside him as you did.”
“Yes, being a maid in a house like Gossinger Hall gives a girl many opportunities to get to know a good piece of china or glass when she sees it.”
“And silver,” said Vivian Gossinger.
“That, too, but I’ll never be a patch on Grandpa when it comes to knowing where and when a pair of marrow spoons was made and even the name of the smith.” Flora spoke slowly and awkwardly because the horrible suspicion had entered her mind that a piece from the silver collection might have been put away in the wrong place. Had Sir Henry, or maybe her Ladyship, rung up Mr. Gossinger and asked him to go to Bethnal Green and ply her with kindness and corned beef sandwiches in hopes of eliciting a confession that she had taken it?
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, laying a plate down between each set of knife and fork, “that you’d be an absolute whiz working in the flea market.”
“Really?” Flora decided she had a wickedly suspicious mind. “I’ve always loved rummaging through the stalls. I think,” she ran her fingers through the short hair so that it spiked up in truly elfin fashion, “I think it comes from always having so much fun playing dressing-up games in the trunk room at Gossinger. There was a lovely feather boa and hats and dresses such as ladies wore in the twenties. That was such a pretty fashion, don’t you think?”
Looking at her glowing face, Vivian Gossinger regretfully decided that he could not tell her what he was thinking. What he did say was that he would be happy to introduce her to several owners of stalls in the flea market where he was employed if she thought she’d like to work there.
“Of course I would, but it wouldn’t do.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Flora—whose emotions had rarely had such a workout in so short a space of time—actually snapped out the words, “because I can’t work alongside you, Mr. Gossinger! Sir Henry and her Ladyship would have fits. And I’d rather not think what my grandfather would have to say if he was alive.”
“You think I couldn’t handle the competition, because I’ve already lost one selling job.”
“It’s not that and you know it.”
“Well, then, I promise I’m not going to be a nag if you’ll agree to let me take you to the flea market tomorrow, just to see if there are any feather boas for sale.”
“I’ll have to think about it.” Flora knew she was being weak, but the temptation was so strong ... Vivian, sensing that the tide might be beginning to turn, proposed a glass of orange juice.
“I apologize for it not being a better vintage,” he told her.
“I’m sure it’s lovely.” Flora took an experimental sip and nodded her head.
If he’d been entertaining a real lady he’d have brought wine with one of those unpronounceable names,
she decided.
And that’s good. This way I know that when it comes right down to it, he hasn’t forgotten we’re from different worlds. So the best thing I can do is act natural so he doesn’t think I’ve taken him wrong.
Flora promptly accepted her own advice and began buttering bread and cutting up corned beef. After which she and Vivian tucked in and made a very good meal, fortified by more orange juice.
“You know, it actually makes me feel a bit giddy,” she said, which had the instant effect of turning Vivian Gossinger, who had been looking very cheerful, sober.
“I expect that’s because you’re worn out after packing up and leaving home.” He swallowed the last of a
grape and got to his feet. “Why don’t I help you get those suitcases upstairs so you can begin to get settled?”
“Thanks.” Flora scrambled up and wiped her hands together. See! It had all been over in a flash; he’d be out of here in next to no time and by tomorrow he would have forgotten all about her, his uncle’s maidservant. “The stairs are through the kitchen.” And she reached for one of the cases, but Vivian had got his hands on both of them and was heading past the shop counter and into the kitchen, where he stopped dead in his tracks.
“There’s no table and not a single chair. I thought it would seem more like a real picnic to eat on the floor. I’d no idea it was a matter of necessity,” he said.
“I’ll get some furniture tomorrow.”
“Furniture.” Mr. Gossinger put down the suitcases. “Do you have a bed?”
“I’ll get one of those, too.”
“Well, I must say,” he turned to face Flora, “I’m surprised at Uncle Henry and Aunt Mabel, letting you come to a place like this. They’ve got house accounts all over the place and it would have been easy as wink to have some pieces delivered.”
“It wasn’t their responsibility.”
“You’re wrong.” Vivian looked angry. “They owed it to your grandfather to see you didn’t walk into an empty place. And one would think after all that hoopla about Uncle—"
“About what?”
“Oh, you know,” Vivian picked up the cases, “how Uncle Henry always went on about how Hutchins was the best butler that ever lived.”
“That wasn’t hoopla,” Flora flashed back without a thought to respecting her betters. “Besides, Sir Henry and Lady Gossinger have their hands full right now, what with losing their entire staff at one go.”
“I knew Mrs. Much was leaving.”
“But you didn’t know about Mr. Tipp?”
“What about him?” Vivian put down the cases for the second time and resettled his spectacles. “He’s not dead, is he?”