Betty Neels - Only by Chance

Henrietta, lingering over her own breakfast, was doing her weekly sums. Each week she managed to save something—never very much, but even the coppers and the small silver mounted up slowly in the jamjar on the shelf beside the gas stove in one corner of the room. It was a flimsy shield against the ever present threat of being out of work.

Presently she tidied up, got into a coat, tied a scarf over her head and went to the shops, where she laid out her money with a careful eye. Since the shopkeepers in the neighbourhood liked her, because she never asked for credit, the butcher gave her a marrowbone to add to the stewing steak she had bought, and the baker threw in a couple of rolls with the yesterday’s loaf she bought.

She bore her purchases home, fed the cat and kitten, ate her snack lunch and set about cleaning the room. It didn’t take long, so that presently she drew the armchair up to the fire and opened her library book, waiting patiently while Dickens made himself comfortable on her lap.

When he had settled she lifted the kitten on too, and he made room for it, rumbling in his hoarse voice in what she hoped was a fatherly fashion. Apparently it was, for the kitten curled up as close as it could get and went to sleep at once.

Henrietta worked at St Alkelda’s on Monday, Wednesday and Thursday of each week and did her cleaning on each weekday morning—a monotonous round of dull days enlivened by her free Sundays, when she took herself off to one of London’s parks and then went to evensong at any one of London’s churches. She was by no means content with her lot, but she didn’t grumble; she had work and a roof over her head, and things would get better.

She was saving every penny so that she could enrol at night school and learn shorthand and typing. The course didn’t cost much, but it meant bus fares, notebooks, pens and pencils, and perhaps hidden extras that she knew nothing about. Besides, she needed to have money to fall back on should she find herself out of work. She had as much chance of being made redundant as anyone else.

It was a good thing that the owner of the fruit and vegetable stall at Saturday’s market had taken her on in the afternoon. He paid very little, but she didn’t blame him for that—he had to live as well—and he allowed her to take home a cauliflower or a bag of apples by way of perks. The jamjar was filling up nicely—another six months or so and she could start on plans to improve things.

‘A pity you haven’t any looks worth mentioning,’ she told the looking-glass hanging above the rickety chest of drawers. ‘No one—that is, to speak plainly, no man—is going to look at you twice and whisk you off to the altar. You have to become a career girl, so that by the time you’re thirty you’ll be carrying one of those briefcases and wearing a tailored suit and high heels.’ She nodded at her reflection.

Later, as she gave Dickens and the kitten their suppers, she uttered aloud a thought which had been at the back of her head for quite some time. ‘I wonder who he was—the man whose foot I trod upon? He had a nice voice...’

Dickens paused in his gobbling to give her a thoughtful look, but the kitten didn’t want to waste time—he ate up and then mewed for more.

‘I shall call you Oliver Twist; you’re always asking for second helpings,’ said Henrietta, filling his saucer. So the kitten acquired a name twice as big as itself which inevitably within a few hours had been shortened to Ollie.

She heard the voice again on the following Monday afternoon, towards the end of a tiring day, and most unfortunately she was quite unable to turn round and see its owner. She was sitting facing the wall between two old ladies who, what with having trouble with their dentures and shaking hands, needed a good deal of help with the tea and buns they were enjoying.

If there had been no one else there, Henrietta would have turned round and taken a look, but Mrs Carter was with him, droning on about something or other, she was always complaining bitterly to any of the medical staff who might have come to the department to see how a patient was getting on.

The owner of the voice was listening patiently, his eyes on the back of Henrietta’s mousy bun of hair, recognising her at once—which upon reflection surprised him, for he hadn’t seen her clearly. Perhaps it was her voice, quiet and cheerful, urging the old ladies to enjoy their tea.

Mrs Carter paused for breath and he said, ‘Yes, indeed, Mrs Carter,’ which encouraged her to start again as he allowed his thoughts to wander. Not that he allowed that to show. His handsome face was wearing the bland listening expression he so often hid behind when he was with someone he disliked, and he disliked Mrs Carter. She was efficient, ran her department on oiled wheels, but he had upon occasion seen how she treated her staff... He became aware of what Mrs Carter was saying.

‘I need more trained staff, sir. I’m fobbed off with anyone who chooses to apply for a job here. That girl there, sitting between those two patients—she does her best but she’s not carrying her weight, and when she’s reproved she answers back. No manners, but what can you expect these days? She’ll have to go, of course.’

She had made no effort to lower her rather loud voice and the man beside her frowned. It was obvious that the girl had heard every word; probably she had been meant to.

He said clearly, ‘It appears to me that she is coping admirably, Mrs Carter. One does not need to be highly skilled to be patient and kind, and the young lady you mention appears to possess both these virtues...’

Mrs Carter bridled. ‘Well. I’m sure you are right, sir.’ She would have liked to argue about it, but although she would never admit it, even to herself, she was a little in awe of him.

He was a senior consultant—she had heard him described as a medical genius—who specialised in brain surgery. He was a giant of a man with more than his share of good looks and, it was said, the world’s goods. Not that anyone knew for certain; he rarely spoke about himself to his colleagues, and if they knew about his private life they never spoke of it.

He said now, ‘I should like to take a look at Mrs Collins. Is she making any progress? There was a certain lack of co-ordination after I operated, but there should be some improvement.’

Henrietta heard Mrs Carter answer as they walked away, but she still didn’t turn round. She knew who he was now; at least, she knew that he was someone important in the hospital. He had put Mrs Carter neatly in her place, and Henrietta was grateful for his kindness, but she hoped that she would never meet him face to face—she would die of shame...

As usual she was the last to leave. She locked up and hurried across to the porter’s office to hand over the keys. It was another dark and wet evening, and she couldn’t wait to get home and have a cup of tea. Mrs Carter’s remarks had worried her, she didn’t think that she would be sacked unless she had done something truly awful, and although Mrs Carter was always finding fault she had never threatened her with dismissal.

She bade the porter goodnight and made her way to the side-door, ducking her head at the sudden gust of wind and rain until brought to a sudden halt by something solid. An arm steadied her.

‘Ah, I was afraid that I might have missed you. I feel that I owe you an apology on Mrs Carter’s behalf. But let us be more comfortable in the car while I give it.’

‘I’m going home,’ said Henrietta, ‘and there is really no need...’

She could have saved her breath. The arm, solid as a rock but gentle, was urging her across the forecourt to the sacred corner where the consultants parked their cars. Her companion opened the door of one of them—a Bentley—popped her inside, got in his side and turned to her. “That’s better. What is your name?’