Authors: Lucinda Riley
The next day Greta bought Cheska a chocolate bar then dragged her into a public phone box while she arranged interviews. She lied through her teeth, telling prospective employers that yes, she
could type, and yes, she did have office experience. Having organised two appointments for the following morning, she now had the problem of what to do with Cheska while she attended them. Greta
walked slowly back home, dragging her daughter behind her and feeling disheartened. In the hallway, an old lady was picking up the leaves that had made their way inside from the street.
‘Hello, dearie. You new?’
‘Yes. We’ve just moved into the top-floor flat. I’m Greta Simpson, and this is my daughter, Cheska.’
The old lady’s eyes settled on the little girl. ‘Have you been eating chocolate, dear?’
Cheska nodded shyly.
‘Here.’ The woman pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped Cheska’s face. Surprisingly, the little girl didn’t complain. ‘There. That’s better,
isn’t it? I’m Mabel Brierley, by the way. I live in number two. Husband at work, is he?’
‘I’m a widow, actually.’
‘So am I, dear. Died in the war, did he?’
‘Yes, well, just afterwards. He was injured during the Normandy landings and never recovered. He passed away just after VE Day.’
‘Oh, I am sorry. Lost mine in the First World War. Tragic times we live in, ain’t they, dearie?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Greta sombrely.
‘Any time you want a cup of tea and a bit of company, I’m always here. Nice to have a little one around the place. And such a pretty thing, aren’t you?’ She bent forward,
smiling, and chucked Cheska under her chin.
Greta watched her daughter smile back at Mabel and decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘I was wondering, Mrs Brierley, do you know anyone who would be able to look after Cheska for a
few hours tomorrow morning? I’ve got a job interview and I can’t really take her with me.’
‘Well, now let me think.’ Mabel scratched her head. ‘No, I can’t say I do. Unless . . .’ She looked down at the little girl. ‘I suppose I could mind her, as
long as it wouldn’t be for too long.’
‘Oh, would you? I’d be so grateful, and I’ll be back by lunchtime. Of course, I’ll pay you.’
‘All right, then, dearie. We widows have to help each other out, don’t we? What time?’
‘Could I bring her down at nine?’
‘Yes. See you then.’
Relieved, Greta carried Cheska up the stairs to their rooms.
Dressed in the one smart suit and hat she had brought with her, Greta took Cheska down to Mabel the following morning. The little girl whimpered when her mother explained that
she had to go out for a while, but would be back by lunchtime.
‘Don’t you worry, Mrs Simpson. Cheska and me’ll be fine,’ Mabel reassured her.
Greta left before she could witness the tears that were bound to come and caught a bus to Old Street for her first interview.
The position was as a clerk in a bank, performing menial tasks such as filing, combined with a little bit of typing. Greta was nervous and her lies were unpractised. She came out of the
interview with the office manager knowing she wouldn’t be hearing from him.
The next interview was for the position of sales assistant on the perfume counter in the Swan & Edgar department store at Piccadilly. Her prospective boss was a woman in her mid-forties with
sharp features, crisply dressed in a masculine suit. She asked Greta if she had any dependants and Greta lied more smoothly this time but still came out of the shop knowing it would be a miracle if
she were offered the position. Feeling depressed, she walked along the road to a news stand to buy a paper.
Every day for a week Greta dropped Cheska off at Mabel’s and spent the mornings going to interviews. She’d begun to realise that mass post-war unemployment, a problem that had seemed
so distant and unrelated to her while she was at Marchmont, was having a marked effect on her prospects of finding a job. Greta soldiered on, though, the thought of returning to Wales and Owen
making her all the more determined.
On Friday she deposited Cheska with Mabel as usual and set off on the bus for Mayfair. She wasn’t optimistic about her interview, which was for the position of receptionist with a firm of
solicitors. Yesterday a prospective employer had given her a typing test, which she’d failed miserably.
Taking a deep breath, Greta rang the bell on the side of the imposing black front door.
‘Can I help you?’ The woman who opened it was young, with a friendly smile.
‘Yes. I have an appointment with Mr Pickering at half past eleven.’
‘Right. Follow me.’
Greta walked behind the girl and was ushered into the reception area. The room had oak-panelled walls, a thick carpet and leather armchairs.
The girl indicated one of the chairs. ‘Do sit down. I’ll go and tell Mr Pickering you’re here.’
‘Thank you.’ Greta watched the girl open a door at the back of the room and disappear, closing it behind her. She wondered whether it was worth staying. In a smart practice like
this, she was sure they’d want someone with years of experience.
She looked up as the door at the back of the room reopened.
‘Greta Simpson, I presume?’
Greta stood up and held out her hand to a tall, very attractive man, whom she guessed was in his mid-thirties, dressed impeccably in a pinstripe suit. He had piercing blue eyes and thick black
hair that was receding slightly at the temples. ‘Yes. How do you do?’
Mr Pickering took her hand and gave it a firm shake. ‘Very well, thank you. Would you like to follow me?’
‘Certainly.’ Greta accompanied him to the door at the back of the room, which he held open as she passed through.
‘In here.’ Mr Pickering guided Greta into a large, untidy office. The desk was laden with papers, and heavy legal books lined the shelves behind it. ‘Do sit down, Mrs Simpson.
I apologise for the mess, but I’m afraid it’s the only environment in which I can work.’ He smiled pleasantly as he sat down behind the desk and studied her, his fingers forming a
steeple under his chin. ‘So, tell me a little bit about yourself.’
Greta went through her story, but didn’t mention Cheska.
‘Right. Any experience working in an office?’
After a week of lying Greta decided to come clean.
‘No, but I’m extremely eager and willing to learn.’
‘Well –’ Mr Pickering tapped a pencil on his desk – ‘the position we’re offering is not really a technical job. We deal with some very wealthy, important
people and we like to make sure they’re looked after from the minute they walk into the building. We’d expect you to greet our clients, offer them tea and, above all, to be discreet.
Most of the clients are coming to visit us because they have a . . . personal problem of some sort. The telephone on the desk in reception would be your responsibility, as would the appointments
diary for myself and my partner, Mr Sallis. We also have Moira, our secretary, who handles the typing and office administration very efficiently, but you’d be called upon to help her out on
occasions. You’d be replacing Mrs Forbes, whom you met in reception. We’re sorry to lose her, but she’s having a baby in the New Year. You’re – er – not thinking
along those lines, are you, Mrs Simpson?’
Greta managed to look suitably shocked. ‘In my present circumstances as a widow, I doubt that is an option open to me.’
‘Good. Continuity, you see, is key. The clients like to establish a rapport. And I’m sure, with your pretty face, you’ll be able to charm them. So, would you like to give it a
try? Start on Monday?’
‘I . . .’ Greta was so surprised she couldn’t think of what to say.
‘Or would you prefer to go away and think about it?’
‘No, no,’ she said quickly. ‘I’d love to take the job.’
‘Excellent. I think you’ll be perfect.’ Mr Pickering stood up. ‘I do apologise, but I have a lunch appointment. If you want to know any more, have a word with Sally . . .
I mean, Mrs Forbes. She’ll fill you in. The salary is two hundred and fifty pounds a year. Is that acceptable?’
‘Oh yes, absolutely.’ Greta stood and reached her hand across the desk. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Pickering. I won’t let you down, I promise.’
‘I’m sure you won’t. Good day, Mrs Simpson.’
As Greta left the office and walked into the reception area, a wave of euphoria overwhelmed her. Not even three weeks in London, and she’d managed to find herself somewhere to live and a
means of supporting herself and her daughter.
‘How did it go?’ asked Sally.
‘He offered me the position. I start on Monday.’
‘Thank goodness for that! He’s seen lots of girls, you know. I was beginning to think I’d be giving birth at my desk if he didn’t find someone soon. No one seemed to be
quite charming enough, if you know what I mean!’
‘I think so. Have you been happy here?’ asked Greta.
‘Very. Mr Pickering is easy to work for, and the old man – sorry – Mr Sallis, the senior partner, is a sweetie. Mind you, just watch out for Veronica. That’s Mr
Sallis’s daughter. She’s married to Mr Pickering and an absolute harridan! She floats in here from time to time on her way to somewhere frightfully grand for lunch. She rules her
husband with a rod of iron. She’s the real power behind the throne. If she doesn’t like you, you’re out. My predecessor left because of her.’
‘I see.’
‘But don’t worry. Her Majesty doesn’t grace us with her presence too often, thank goodness. Anything else you’d like to know while you’re here?’
Greta asked a few questions, which Sally answered in detail, then she looked at her watch. ‘Oh dear. I didn’t realise it was so late! I must be going.’
‘Well, nice to meet you. I’ll be here for a few days after you’ve started, to show you the ropes, but I’m sure you’ll do fine.’
‘Thank you. When is your baby due? I—’ Greta only just managed to stop herself before she launched into sympathetic conversation about the last tiring months of pregnancy.
‘See you on Monday. Goodbye.’
Greta hurried out into the street and treated herself to a taxi, anxious to get home as soon as possible. She decided she would ask Mabel if she was interested in minding Cheska on a permanent
basis during the day. If she wasn’t, she’d have to place an advertisement in the local newsagent’s window.
When Greta arrived home, a smiling Cheska, her face smeared with chocolate, came running out of Mabel’s flat to greet her.
‘Hello, darling.’ Greta swept her daughter up in her arms. ‘Have you had a nice time?’
‘We made fairy cakes, Mummy.’ Cheska snuggled into her mother.
‘Has she been good?’ she asked Mabel, who’d appeared at the door.
‘As gold. You have a lovely little girl there, Mrs Simpson.’
‘Oh, please call me Greta. Do you have a spare five minutes, Mabel? There’s something I’d like to ask you.’
‘Yes. Come in, dear, do. I’ve just brewed up.’
Greta picked Cheska up and carried her into Mabel’s flat, which was cluttered with heavy, old-fashioned furniture. It smelt faintly of violets and disinfectant.
Mabel sat them down in her sitting room, then brought through a tray on which was a teapot covered in a bright, knitted tea-cosy, cups and a plate of rather burnt fairy cakes.
‘There you go.’ Mabel passed Greta a cup of strong tea. ‘Now, what was it you wanted to ask, dearie?’
‘Well, this morning I managed to find myself a job working for a firm of solicitors in Mayfair.’
‘Ooh, aren’t you the clever one? Never learned to read and write meself. Women didn’t in them days, see.’
‘Well, the problem I’ve got is Cheska. I have to go out and earn a living but obviously I can’t take her with me.’
‘No. ’Course you can’t.’
‘So I was wondering whether you’d be interested in minding her on a regular basis? I’d pay you, naturally.’
‘Well, let me see. What hours are we talking about?’
‘I’d have to leave at eight-thirty and I wouldn’t be back until six.’
‘Five days a week?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, we could give it a go, couldn’t we?’ Mabel smiled at Cheska, who was happily eating a cake on her mother’s knee. ‘She’d be company for me an’
all.’
They then agreed a wage of fifteen shillings a week.
‘That’ll be fine,’ said Mabel. ‘Any extra pennies come in handy these days. My husband’s pension only just covers the rent and food.’
‘Well, I really am very grateful. Anyway, we mustn’t take up any more of your time today. Come on, Cheska, let’s go and have some lunch.’ Greta stood up.
‘You know what you want to do, don’t you, dear?’ said Mabel as she led them to the front door.
‘What’s that?’
‘Find a new husband. I’m sure a good-looking girl like you could find herself a nice wealthy gentleman to marry and take care of the two of you. It’s not right for a mother to
have to work.’
‘That’s kind of you, Mabel, but I don’t think any man would be interested in a widow and her daughter,’ Greta said with a rueful smile. ‘See you on
Monday.’
‘Yes, dear. Mind how you go.’
As Greta carried Cheska upstairs to their flat, she thought about what Mabel had said. Even if she were free to do so, she doubted she’d ever marry again.
Greta and Cheska spent an enjoyable Saturday afternoon shopping in the West End. Fashionable boutiques had been few and far between in Wales. At Marchmont, all she’d
needed were warm, practical garments.
Now the stores seemed to be overflowing with the kind of clothes Greta hadn’t seen since before the war. Cheska was fascinated by the huge department stores, trotting after her mother with
an expression of wonder on her face. Greta bought two inexpensive suits and three blouses for work and also a cream Aran sweater and a tartan kilt for Cheska.
On Sunday night Greta sat her daughter down and explained that Mummy had to go out to work so the two of them could have nice things to eat and pretty dresses to wear. She told her that Mabel
would look after her during the day, but Mummy would be back home to put her to bed at night. Cheska seemed to accept this with little fuss. She announced that Mabel was nice and gave her
chocolate.
The next morning Greta left Cheska at Mabel’s flat. The little girl went to her without a whimper. Feeling relieved, Greta caught a bus to work.