Superfluous Women (2 page)

Daisy assented. The soup was rich enough to banish the cough pastille taste, and the shepherd's pie was delicious.

When Sally returned with the pudding, Daisy asked, “Do you know where Orchard Road is?”

“Oh yes, madam. I can tell you how to get there.”

“Is it far?”

“Maybe ten minutes to this end, 'bout the same again or a bit less to the other end. Which end was you wanting?”

“The house is called Cherry Trees.”

“I know it. There's three ladies just moved in. My Auntie May cleaned for Mrs. Gray, that sold the house, and the new ladies kept her on. Friends of yours?”

“One of them, Miss Chandler. I hope to make the acquaintance of her friends.”

Sally looked doubtful. “When you're feeling more yourself, madam,” she said firmly. “It's down the New Town end, too far for you to walk yet awhile. Unless you was to hire a car?” She sounded even more doubtful.

Daisy laughed, which made her start to cough. After a sip of water, she shook her head and ventured to speak: “I'll wait a bit.”

She waited two days, two days of early nights, late rising, and afternoon naps, eating and sleeping well, walking a little farther each day. On the morning of the third day, Thursday, she wrote a note to Willie Chandler and gave the Boots, a skinny youth, sixpence to deliver it.

An answer came the same evening. Willie was sorry Daisy had been ill. Assuming she didn't like to stay out late, would she care to come to tea the next day, to meet Willie's friends and housemates, Vera Leighton and Isabel Sutcliffe? If she arrived at about half past four, Isabel would be at home. Vera, a teacher, was usually home by five at the latest. Unfortunately Willie herself often didn't get home till six thirty, sometimes seven, but if Daisy felt up to staying that long, they could talk as Willie walked her back to the hotel.

Edward, the Boots, earned another sixpence taking Daisy's acceptance to Cherry Trees.

The next afternoon she set out early, reckoning that Sally's twenty-minute walk would be at least a half hour for her. The weather was still good, cloudy but with the sun breaking through now and then. It was a pleasant walk along Aylesbury End, a slight downhill slope. She hoped she would still consider it slight when she had to walk up it going back.

Once she left the shops and cottages behind her, high beech hedges, bronze-leaved, hid many of the houses and gardens along her way. On the opposite side of the street occasional roofs were visible through treetops. They seemed to be quite big houses, fairly modern. The railway hadn't come to Beaconsfield till the turn of the century. Sally had told her about being taken as a little girl to the opening of the station. The New Town had sprung up around it and now spread to meet Old Town.

Where Orchard Road forked off to the left, Daisy saw a bench on the far side. She crossed and sat down for a minute or two.
Not far now,
she assured herself as she trudged onward.

On either side of the street, the beech hedges continued, allowing only occasional glimpses of largish houses and gardens. At last she came to the green-painted gate she was looking for. A white plaque declared in black script that this was Cherry Trees. She paused for a moment, leaning against a gatepost, to catch her breath.

She had made it, without dropping dead on the way. So much for her doctor's gloomy prognostications!

 

TWO

A stout,
red-faced woman came down the garden path towards Daisy, the yellowish gravel crunching beneath her run-down shoes, bulging with bunions. She wore a lime green, polka-dotted head scarf over greying hair, and a shapeless, shabby black coat nearly to her ankles.

Daisy opened the gate as she approached, and stood aside. The woman gave her a suspicious look and grunted what might have been an acknowledgement.

Mrs. Hedger, Daisy assumed. Sally, without saying anything derogatory, had given the impression that her Auntie May was a bit of a curmudgeon.

As Daisy stepped through the gateway, she saw that the gravel path led to a brick and timber house, the timbers silvery grey with age and the roof tiles lichened. The fa
ç
ade was rectangular but asymmetrical, with the front door off-centre, a small window to its left, a large one to the right. Yellow climbing roses, still in bloom, flanked the door and spread to meet above it. On each side of the path grew a cherry tree. Long, narrow scarlet leaves still clung to the branches, though many had already fallen.

Beneath one tree a woman was raking the debris into a pile. The gardener was tall and sturdy—robust was the word that came to mind—her dark hair in a severe bob, almost an Eton crop. She was clad in a red pullover, khaki trousers, and stout boots.

At the click of the gate latch, she glanced round in dismay. “Mrs. Dalrymple—I mean Fletcher? Willie still refers to you as Daisy Dalrymple. Good lord, is it half past four already? I'm so sorry.” Her voice hinted at a Yorkshire upbringing. She leant her rake against the tree trunk and came towards Daisy, pulling off her gardening gloves. “I'm Isabel Sutcliffe.”

“Yes, I'm Daisy Fletcher.” Daisy and Isabel shook hands. “How do you do?”

“Come on in. I just don't notice the time when I'm busy, but don't worry, the scones are keeping warm in the oven and it won't take a moment to make tea.”

The fragrance of the roses gave way to lingering odours of baking when Isabel opened the front door and ushered Daisy into the entrance hall, floored with redbrick tile.

“Lovely and warm!” Daisy exclaimed as her new acquaintance took off her boots and donned house slippers.

“I made up a good fire in the sitting room because Willie says you've been ill. Let me take your coat, then you can go and thaw out. I'll just put my boots by the back door and dash upstairs and change. I'll be with you in a trice.”

“Please don't bother to change for my sake, Miss Sutcliffe.”

“Really? Right-oh. Do please call me Isabel.”

“And I'm Daisy, of course.”

The furniture in the sitting room was Craftsman-style beechwood, upholstered in a modern geometrical dark and light blue print, with blue and white curtains drawn across the wide window. Sinking into a large, well-cushioned chair, Daisy held out her hands to the roaring fire.

The original fireplace had been huge, surrounded by smoke-blackened beams. A good half was blocked off, faced with blue and white Dutch tiles, leaving a good-sized grate in the centre. Looking around, Daisy wondered whether the room had once been part of a farmhouse kitchen. Isabel, having changed boots for house slippers, returned with a tea tray and confirmed her guess.

“The land was once a cherry orchard, as you might surmise from the name of the street and the house.” She poured tea. “Here, have a scone while they're warm. Shop jam, I'm afraid, but come again next year and you'll get homemade.”

“Thanks.”

“This house was the original farmhouse, eighteenth century according to the house agent. The previous owner, a London businessman, bought it in 1904 or thereabouts, knowing the railway was coming. He sold off the land for building and pretty much gutted the house to modernise it. He put in gas, then his second wife made him electrify. They left the gas range, though. I'm glad, because it's what I'm used to, what I cooked on at home, in Yorkshire.”

“I'm glad, too, since it produced such light scones.” Daisy helped herself to a third. “Delicious! You're a good cook.”

“Practice. Mother and I turned our house into lodgings when Papa died. That's how I met Willie and Vera. They were among our lodgers.”

“How did you end up here in Bucks?”

“You know Willie went from typist to bookkeeper to chartered accountant?”

“Yes. She was always good at arithmetic at school. We didn't go as far as anything worthy of being called maths—unsuitable for ladies and too taxing for our delicate female brains. Willie was probably the only one who actually enjoyed numbers and would have liked to go further.”

Isabel grinned. “Incomprehensible, isn't it? A lot of people at her old firm were green with envy, and one old fuddy-duddy of a partner didn't approve of a woman in that position, so she went looking for another job. She got one in High Wycombe and found digs there. Vera and I decided to follow her south. After my mother died, we sort of became a family.… You know the situation, nearly a million men dead and many more disabled in the war. ‘Superfluous women,' they call us.”

“I was lucky,” Daisy said soberly. “Meeting Alec and us falling for each other, I mean. Vera's a teacher, Willie said?”

“That's right. Luckily there was an opening in the junior school here in Beaconsfield. She came down in August. I put my house and furniture up for sale and joined them when it sold. We were in horrible lodgings in Wycombe while I hunted for a place to buy. They'd both saved a bit of money, so we went in together, but of course my share is by far the biggest, which is just as well as I have no skills except housekeeping and gardening! Sorry, I'm talking your ears off.”

“No, you're not. I'm interested. Besides, talking still makes me start coughing sometimes, so I'm much better off listening. Yes, I'd love another cup, please,” she added as Isabel lifted the teapot in her direction. “And is that parkin? I adore parkin.”

“It is. Let me cut you a slice. The thing is, we haven't been here long enough to make any friends, so I'm pretty much alone all day except for the shopping and our char three days a week. And she's not exactly chatty.”

“Mrs. Hedger?”

“How on earth did you know?”

“Her niece is a waitress at the Saracen's Head. Sally's chatty all right, very friendly and helpful.”

“Oh, yes, she came over to give her aunt a hand one day. Mrs. H is the grim-faced sort, never two words when one will do, but she's efficient. It wouldn't be easy to replace her in a small place like this, so I'm glad she was willing to stay on when Mrs. Gray left. She already knows things like how to cope with the cranky boiler and how to open the desk drawer that always sticks.”

“Very handy!”

“We bought the furnishings with the house, you see. Mrs. Gray was going abroad and wanted to get rid of everything. She's recently widowed, poor thing, though I can't say she seemed exactly grief-stricken when she showed us round the house. Mr. Vaughn, the house agent, told us her husband was thirty years older. A lot of us surplus women grasp anything in trousers they can catch.” Isabel grimaced. “No, that was catty. I don't know anything about their marriage.”

“I know what you mean, though.”

“I expect I shall turn into a catty old maid.” Isabel seemed unconcerned at the prospect. “The others have careers to occupy their minds, but I—” She raised her head as if listening. “The front door. That'll be Vera. If you'll excuse me, I'll just go and put on the kettle. She'll be dying for her tea.”

Daisy heard voices in the hall, then Vera Leighton came in. A wiry woman, she had mousy, frizzy hair pulled back in a knot with exuberant wisps escaping. It was the only exuberant thing about her. She looked tired, and her dark grey skirt and jacket and prim white blouse did nothing to enliven the picture, though doubtless proper for a schoolmistress.

She introduced herself in a low, pleasant voice. Perching on the arm of a chair, she said, “I'm glad you're recovered enough to come to tea. Isabel and I have been longing to meet you. We all read your articles in
Town and Country,
of course, and Willie has told us so much about you.”

Daisy wondered how much Willie could find to say about her writing. She was sure she had asked her friend not to mention that Alec was a police detective, and she certainly hadn't disclosed her own unorthodox activities in the detecting line. If that was what Vera was talking about, Willie must have heard through the Old Girls' bush telegraph.

“Well…” she temporised.

“One should never say that.” Vera smiled, lighting up with amusement so that she became quite attractive, almost pretty. “It always makes me want to ask, ‘What exactly did she tell you?' Nothing but good, I assure you.”

Laughing, Daisy agreed. “I've never found a response that wasn't either discourteous or defensive. I'll just have to reciprocate in kind. Isabel told me you found a job here just when you wanted it. You must have had excellent references from your last position.”

“I was lucky that there was an opening, but yes, I'm a pretty good teacher though I don't like to boast.”

“How do you like your new school?”

Vera's face clouded. “The children are marvellous. Two or three naughty ones—there always are; none as bad as the little toughs I had in Huddersfield.” She hesitated, then decided not to utter the “but” Daisy was sure hovered on her lips. “Willie is our great success story, of course. The first woman chartered accountant qualified in 1919, and there still aren't many. Where on earth is Izzie with the tea? I'm parched.”

“Do go and change if you want to. Don't mind me.”

“Are you sure you don't mind? Teachers are expected to look so boringly respectable. Which I dare say I am, but I like to wear a bit of colour at home. I'll be back in two ticks.”

Left on her own, Daisy's eyelids grew heavy. She awoke with a start at the clink of china. For a moment she thought she was in her hotel room and Sally had brought her tea. She started to thank her, then, blinking, recognised the room and the two anxious faces looking at her over the teacups.

“Oh dear, I nodded off. How impolite! I hope I didn't snore.”

“Not at all, just wheezed a bit,” Vera assured her. She had brushed out her hair and wore it in a single loose plait. Though still on the mousy side, she was a trifle more vibrant in a brown skirt and canary-yellow jumper, set off by a short but good string of pearls and lipstick in a brownish red shade. “Are you feeling all right?”