Michelle Douglas - Rags To Riches - Her Duty To Please

She told her mother that the arrangements for her new job seemed quite satisfactory, persuaded Mrs Snow to undertake the housekeeping until Aunt Millicent could come, and then sifted through her wardrobe. The jersey two-piece and the corn silk blouse, an equally sober skirt and an assortment of tops and a warmer woolly or two, a short wool jacket to go over everything and a perfectly plain dress in a soft blue crêpe; an adequate choice of clothes, she considered, adding a raincoat, plain slippers and undies.

She had good shoes and a leather handbag; gloves and stockings and a headscarf or two would fill the odd corners in the one case she intended taking. Her overnight bag would take the rest. She liked clothes, but working in the children’s convalescent home had called for sensible skirts and tops in sensible colours, and she had seldom had much of a social life. She was uneasily aware that her clothes were dull, but there was no time to change that, and anyway, she hadn’t much money. Perhaps she would get a new outfit in Holland…

The week went quickly. She cleaned and polished, washed and ironed, laid in a stock of food and got a room ready for Aunt Millicent. And she went into Henley and bought new shoes, low-heeled brown leather and expensive, and when she saw a pink angora sweater in a shop window she bought that too. She was in two minds about buying a new jacket, but caution took over then. She had already spent more money than she’d intended. Though caution wasn’t quite strong enough to prevent her buying a pretty silk blouse which would render the sober skirt less sober.

On Sunday morning she was ready and waiting by eleven o’clock—waiting with her parents who, despite their wish to get back to researching the Ancient Celts, had come into the hall to see her off. Cherub was there too, looking morose, and she stooped to give him a final hug; they would miss each other.

Exactly on the hour a car drew up outside and Briskett got out, wished them all good morning, stowed her case in the boot and held the rear car door open for her.

‘Oh, I’d rather sit in front with you,’ said Araminta, and she gave her parents a final kiss before getting into the car, waved them a cheerful goodbye and sat back beside Briskett. It was a comfortable car, a Jaguar, and she could see from the moment Briskett took the wheel that despite his unlikely looks they hid the soul of a born driver.

There wasn’t much traffic until they reached Henley and here Briskett took the road to Oxford.

‘Aren’t I to go to the London address?’ asked Araminta.

‘No, miss. The doctor thought it wise if you were to make the acquaintance of the boys at their home. They live with their parents at Oxford. The doctor will come for you and them later today and drive to Harwich for the night ferry.’

‘Oh, well, I expect that’s a good idea. Are you coming to Holland too?’

‘No, miss. I’ll stay to keep an eye on things here; the boss has adequate help in Holland. He’s for ever to-ing and fro-ing—having two homes, as it were.’

‘Then why can’t the two boys stay here in England?’

‘He’ll be in Holland for a few weeks, popping over here when he is needed. Much in demand, he is.’

‘We won’t be expected to pop over, too? Very unsettling for the little boys…’

‘Oh, no, miss. That’s why you’ve been engaged; he can come and go without being hampered, as you might say.’

The house he stopped before in Oxford was in a terrace of similar comfortably large houses, standing well back from the road. Araminta got out and stood beside Briskett in the massive porch waiting for someone to answer the bell. She was a self-contained girl, not given to sudden bursts of excitement, but she was feeling nervous now.

Supposing the boys disliked her on sight? It was possible. Or their parents might not like the look of her. After all, they knew nothing about her, and now that she came to think about it, nor did Dr van der Breugh. But she didn’t allow these uncertain feelings to show; the door was opened by a girl in a pinafore, looking harassed, and she and Briskett went into the hall.

‘Miss Pomfrey,’ said Briskett. ‘She’s expected.’

The girl nodded and led them across the hall and into a large room overlooking a garden at the back of the house. It was comfortably furnished, extremely untidy, and there were four people in it. The man and woman sitting in easy chairs with the Sunday papers strewn around them got up.

The woman was young and pretty, tall and slim, and well dressed in casual clothes. She came to meet Araminta as she hesitated by the door.

‘Miss Pomfrey, how nice of you to come all this way. We’re so grateful. I’m Lucy Ingram, Marcus’s sister—but of course you know that—and this is my husband, Jack.’

Araminta shook hands with her and then with Mr Ingram, a rather short stout man with a pleasant rugged face, while his wife spoke to Briskett, who left the room with a cheerful, ‘So long, miss, I’ll see you later.’

‘Such a reliable man, and so devoted to Marcus,’ said his sister. ‘Come and meet the boys.’

They were at the other end of the room, sitting at a small table doing a jigsaw puzzle, unnaturally and suspiciously quiet. They were identical twins which, reflected Araminta, wasn’t going to make things any easier, and they looked too good to be true.

‘Peter and Paul,’ said their mother. ‘If you look carefully you’ll see that Peter has a small scar over his right eye. He fell out of a tree years ago—it makes it easy to tell them apart.’

She beckoned them over and they came at once, two seemingly angelic children. Araminta wondered what kind of a bribe they had been offered to behave so beautifully. She shook their small hands in turn and smiled.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to help me to tell you apart, and you mustn’t mind if I muddle you up at first.’

‘I’m Peter. What’s your name—not Miss Pomfrey, your real name?’

‘Araminta.’

The boys looked at each other. ‘That’s a long name.’

They cast their mother a quick look. ‘We’ll call you Mintie.’

‘That’s not very polite,’ began Mrs Ingram.

‘If you’ve no objection, I think it’s a nice idea. I don’t feel a bit like Miss Pomfrey…’

‘Well, if you don’t mind—go and have your milk, boys, while we have our coffee and then you can show Miss…Mintie your room and get to know each other a bit.’

They went away obediently, eyeing her as they went, and Araminta was led to a sofa and given coffee while she listened to Mrs Ingram’s friendly chatter. From time to time her husband spoke, asking her quietly about her work at the children’s home and if she had ever been to Holland before.

‘The boys,’ he told her forthrightly, ‘can be little demons, but I dare say you are quite used to that. On the whole they’re decent kids, and they dote on their uncle.’

Araminta, considering this remark, thought that probably it would be quite easy to dote on him, although, considering the terseness of his letter to her, not very rewarding. She would have liked to get to know him, but common sense told her that that was unlikely. Besides, once she was back in England again, he would be consigned to an easily forgotten past and she would have embarked on her nursing career…

She dismissed her thoughts and listened carefully to Mrs Ingram’s instructions about the boys’ clothing and meals.

‘I’m telling you all these silly little details,’ explained Mrs Ingram, ‘because Marcus won’t want to be bothered with them.’ She looked anxious. ‘I hope you won’t find it too much…’

Araminta made haste to assure her that that was unlikely. ‘At the children’s home we had about forty children, and I’m used to them—two little boys will be delightful. They don’t mind going to Holland?’