Free The Charmers by Stella Gibbons

her down was just a convenient arrangement with an old friend.”
    “
No
, James. It goes deeper, and you have to look for the
hidden motive
,” Mrs. Traill said severely.
    “Well, I’m going upstairs to look at my
Times
,” and with a cheerful laugh he went out.
    Christine was sorry. She had already responded to the un-Mortimer-like atmosphere of Pemberton Hall sufficiently to admit to herself that she preferred the company of its gentlemen to that of its ladies; they were less critical, she felt, more ready to be pleased with what she did. At Mortimer Road you always expressed thankfulness when no men were about, and must tell yourself you meant it.
    “Antonia always has been crazy about clothes.” Mrs. Meredith said musingly, “Remembering her drawing ‘fashion ladies’ when she was seven, Fabia, and designing frocks with longish skirts well before anyone would look at them, in the late ’twenties? You know,” with a vivid transformation of tone and expression, “I’d give my ears for her job, Ferenc or no Ferenc, but all she does is grizzle.”
    “P’raps she doesn’t like going out to work any more?” put in Christine, rinsing cups; continually, during the past three days, she had thought of all those years at Lloyd and Farmer’s and wondered how she had endured them. The relaxed atmosphere in the room invited her to join in the conversation.
    Diana just glanced at her.
    “Oh bosh, she adores it. That’s why there’s all this fuss about Ferenc. She’s terrified she’ll have to resign, just to save her face, if he gets made top designer, or whatever Nigel calls it. I think it would be more dignified if she retired now, before she has to. She can afford it—she must have thousands put away, she’s been earning a great deal of money for over fifteen years.”
    “It’s not that simple,” said Mrs. Traill.
    “It never is, bless your neurotic old heart … Well, this won’t do, I must go out and buy a hat,” and Diana sauntered off.
    Mrs. Traill shook her silvery fleece. “Diana and her hats—so
ageing
,” she said, following her friend out of the kitchen.
    Christine began to make her plans for the evening. Her employers could look after themselves; they would understand that she must be on hand, with a new cleaner arriving and black at that; and she herself would eat something later, when Mr. Johnson’s capacities had been proved and her mind was at rest—or not, perhaps.
    It would be better, she decided, to have them all downstairs at supper when he arrived and not wandering around the house, for Mrs. Meredith had made it plain that she would hate the sight of him, and Mrs. Traill—well, she might get too friendly with him: for I’m sure, thought Christine, that she likes men, black or white.
    She saw none of them all that day, and greatly enjoyed pottering about her flat and cautiously cooking her lunch. By six, when Mr. Johnson was expected, she had assembled an attractive-looking cold meal in the kitchen.
    Six o’clock struck.
    She drew herself up, and prepared to meet her ebony Mrs. Benson.

     
    Punctually at a quarter to seven, there was a by-no-means hesitant knock, followed by a peal on the bell.
    “You’re three-quarters of an hour late,” accused Christine, jerking the door open with no wavering hand.
    Mr. Johnson, who looked about nineteen and was having trouble with a voluminous scarf and the evening breeze, gave a loud cheerful laugh.
    “Oh, yes. I know I late. I couldn’t help. I got responsibilities. You got a very big house. This all your house?” He followed her into the hall, looking around with smiling curiosity.
    “No, it isn’t. I’m the housekeeper. It belongs to some ladies and gentlemen who’ve bought it. Come this way.”
    She led him down the stairs. Instinct told her to talk to him as if he were a child, and a child who must be kept in order.
Begin
, decided Christine, as you
mean
to go on; I can see he’s the kind who’ll be sitting about drinking