Free The Means of Escape by Penelope Fitzgerald Page B

the point that Mr Tanner had been wanting to make all along – whereas the first daughter never got to be anything in particular, this second little girl grew up to be a lawyer with a firm in Wellington, and she did very well.
    All the time Brinkman continued to sit there by the table and smoke his pipe. Two more women born into the world! It must have seemed to him that if this sort of thing went on there should be a good chance, in the end, for him to acquire one for himself. Meanwhile, they would have to serve dinner sometime.

Not Shown
    L ady P lived at Tailfirst, which was not shown to the public. Fothergill was the resident administrator, or dogsbody, at Tailfirst Farm, which was shown 1 April to end October, Mon., Wed., Sat.: no coach-parties, no backpackers, guide dogs by arrangement, WC, small shop. It was the old Home Farm, sympathetically rebuilt in red brick between 1892 and 1894 by Philip Webb (a good example of his later manner), the small herb and lavender garden possibly suggested by Gertrude Jekyll. The National Trust had steadfastly refused to take it over; still, they can make mistakes, like the rest of us.
    ‘Now Fothergill, as to the room stewards,’ said Lady P., returning with frighteningly renewed energies from the Maldives.
    ‘The ladies …’
    ‘The Trust calls them room stewards …’
    ‘Two of them, of course, are your own recommendations – Mrs Feare, who was at the Old Pottery Shop untilit closed, and Mrs Twine, who was dinner lady at the village school.’
    ‘Until that closed. Faithful souls both.’
    ‘I’m sure they are, and that is my great difficulty.’
    ‘Don’t confuse yourself with detail. You must treasure Twine and Feare, and dispense with Mrs Horrabin.’
    ‘I should very much like to do that,’ said Fothergill.
    Lady P. looked at him sharply. ‘I’m told in the village that you only engaged her last Wednesday. Now, in any group of employees, and perhaps particularly with low-paid employees, a dominating figure creates discord.’
    ‘Do you know Mrs Horrabin well, Lady P?’ asked Fothergill.
    ‘Of course not. I’ve been obliged to meet her, I think twice, on my Recreation Committee. She comes from the Industrial Estate at Battisford, as you ought to know.’
    ‘I do know it.’
    ‘You don’t look well, you know, Fothergill. When you came into the room I thought, the man doesn’t look well. Are you still worrying about anything?’
    He collected himself for a moment. ‘In what way am I to get rid of Mrs Horrabin?’
    ‘I’m sure you don’t want me to tell you how to do your job,’ said Lady P.
    ‘I do want you to tell me.’
    Fothergill lived in one of the attics (not shown) at the Farm, on a salary so small that it was difficult to see how he had survived for the past year. Undoubtedly there was something not quite right about him, or by the time hewas fifty-six – if that was his real age – he would be married (perhaps he had been), and he would certainly by now have found some better employment. Lady P, who found it better in every way not to leave such things to her husband, had drafted the advertisement which was specifically aimed at applicants with something not quite right about them, who would come cheap: ‘Rent-free accommodation, remote, peaceful situation, ample free time, suit writer.’ Fothergill wasn’t a writer, but then he soon discovered there wasn’t much free time either.
    ‘I do want you to tell me,’ he repeated.
    He had known very little about architecture when he came, nothing about tile hanging, weather boarding, lead box-guttering or late Victorian electrical fittings, and he had never heard of Philip Webb. He learned these things between maintaining the garden, the very old Land Rover and the still older petrol mower. But the home-made damson cordial was manufactured and supplied by a Pakistani-owned firm in Sheffield, no trouble there, and to his surprise, Mrs Feare and Mrs Twine had agreed to come. ‘You’re a