The Good Servant, page 18
She passed Marion a piece of paper with her number written in pencil.
She had written to George, sending him the number and the address: The Highlands Guest House, Church Street, Kensington.
And today he was arriving in London.
‘Crawfie dear, may I ask why you wish to leave your duties a little earlier tonight?’ The Duchess smiled, a particular smile that Marion knew preceded a change in mood. Her lips had tightened and her eyes were steady and intent on Crawfie’s own. ‘Only, it is of great inconvenience to the Duke and me this evening.’
Crawfie knew from asking Ainslie earlier, that the royal couple had no engagements and would be dining alone at home. She had fully hoped that she would be given permission to meet George.
‘Of course, ma’am. I was going to meet a friend, but I can do that another time.’ How else could Crawfie reply?
‘Thank you.’
Crawfie was dismissed.
She left the room and returned to the nursery, where the Princesses were diligently working on the assignments she had left with them.
Alah looked up from her darning, noticing Crawfie’s glum face. ‘She said no?’
Crawfie nodded.
‘Who said no?’ asked Princess Margaret.
Lilibet gave her a frown. ‘Don’t ask personal questions. It is rude.’
Margaret stuck her tongue out at her sister. ‘It’s not rude to ask questions. Crawfie always says that asking questions helps us to understand things. Isn’t that right, Crawfie?’
Alah ignored her. ‘The girls have almost finished their work and I promised them a walk in the gardens when you got back.’
Crawfie looked at the clock on the mantel. It was four now and she was due to meet George at five thirty, but she wouldn’t finish her duties until six thirty. Would George wait for her? There was no way she could get a message to him to let him know what had happened.
‘I think there will be lots of conkers to collect,’ Lilibet said.
Crawfie was pulled back to the present. ‘Conkers?’
‘Yes.’ Margaret joined in. ‘Bobo said she would have them baked hard by Cook in the oven. Then we can beat Papa. You said you would take us.’
Crawfie put her anxiety to one side. She could think about this later. ‘All right then, girls. Put your work away neatly and get your coats on.’
When they had gone to collect their outdoor clothes, Alah whispered, ‘What time are you meeting your friend?’ She had managed to get as much as she could out of Crawfie, which wasn’t much, but she did know that a gentleman friend was on his way from Scotland to meet her at the Leicester Square Lyons Corner House. Crawfie shook her head. ‘Five thirty, but there’s no chance now.’
‘Look, you have the Princesses back here by five and nobody will know if you slip off. I’ll be telling no one and Bobo will not dare.’
‘But suppose the Duke and Duchess come looking for me?’
‘Then you’ll have a headache and be sleeping soundly. I’ll tell any callers that you are not to be disturbed. Now get your coat and collect some conkers.’
Just after five, Crawfie delivered the Princesses back to the nursery, their pockets bulging with shiny conkers, some still in their spikey green armour.
‘Oh dear, dear!’ Alah said in front of them. ‘Poor Crawfie, you look awful pale. Have you got one of your heads?’
Crawfie blushed at the lie. Alah’s subterfuge was so kindly meant, but it made her feel a fool. She managed an embarrassed, ‘I think so, yes.’
‘Then you’d best get to bed. Off you go. Bobo and I will see to the young ladies.’
Nervously, Crawfie slipped out of the below stairs door next to the kitchen unnoticed. She calculated that it would take her about twenty minutes to get to Leicester Square, so she set off with a brisk stride and her head down, hoping that Ainslie or Cook didn’t spot her.
The September afternoon had the scent of autumn about it. Yellow leaves from the plane trees were scuttling on the roads, and the pavements were crowded with hurrying, sidestepping office workers leaving for their train home. She dodged round them, pulling her coat tightly around her. At last she reached her destination just as a nearby church clock chimed five thirty.
The place was filling up with workers meeting up with friends, planning the evening ahead of them. Marion scanned the room. A waitress approached her.
‘May I have a table for two, please?’ Marion asked and was shown to a small table in the centre of the room.
‘What will you have?’ the woman asked, with the pen and notepad ready.
‘May I wait a few minutes? My friend hasn’t arrived yet.’
Ten minutes went by. The train was probably late arriving at King’s Cross, Marion thought to herself. At least she could sit and compose herself, plan what she would say to him. She would be open and friendly, tell him not to worry that she had waited. After all, she was in the warm.
Another fifteen minutes went by and Marion decided to order a pot of tea and a teacake.
By six o’clock, she began to worry. Had she given him the right address? Had there been a train crash? Was he lost somewhere on a bus? Had he gone straight to Kensington? She had sent him the address, so perhaps he was now being shown around his new home by the landlady.
She’d give him another ten minutes.
Then another five.
At half past six, the afternoon crush around her had dissipated. She felt exposed, sitting in the middle of the emptying room. She saw a couple of women look at her and nudge each other, giggling as they left.
‘Can I get you anything else, miss?’ the waitress asked again.
‘No, thank you. I am afraid my friend must have been delayed. I wonder, if a man called George Buthlay comes in, medium height with a moustache, carrying a suitcase – would you tell him I waited but that I have now gone home?’
‘Of course, miss.’
Marion paid her bill, leaving a good tip for the waitress who had been so kind, and walked out into the darkening night. There was rain in the air and smartly dressed people were hurrying to the picture houses, theatres and restaurants. She walked all four sides of Leicester Square hoping to see George, maybe getting out of a taxi, flustered and worried.
But there was no sign of him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
145 Piccadilly, mid-September 1936
When Marion returned to 145 Piccadilly, Alah and Bobo were waiting. Bobo was goggle-eyed with curiosity, and though Alah managed to keep her inquisitiveness under control, she was nonetheless desperate to gather news. Alah was a shrewd woman who could read a person’s face easily – it was what made her a successful nanny – and she had read Crawfie’s mind without difficulty. The dear lass had her heart set on a man.
Romance was not something that often troubled the nursery floor and Alah noted the presence of it with interest.
‘Ah, you’re back,’ Alah said. ‘Bobo, put the kettle on and put another lump of coal on the fire as you go.’ She turned her attention back to Crawfie. ‘Is it cold outside, dear? Come and sit down.’
‘A bit chilly.’ Crawfie shook off her coat without looking at Alah. ‘I need to hang this up and get a jumper from my room. I’ll be back in a minute.’
Alah watched the young governess as she went into her room. She was not herself, to be sure. No cheery hello, no smiles, no eye contact.
Something was very wrong.
Alah covertly checked that Bobo was still occupied in the small nursery kitchen, before tiptoeing across the landing and putting her ear to Crawfie’s door. If she really was putting her coat away, Alah would hear the clang of a hanger in the wardrobe. What she heard was sniffling, whimpering and nose blowing. Crawfie was crying.
A few minutes passed before Crawfie returned to the nursery sitting room, wrapped in a navy cardigan. Alah was sitting in her chair by the fire as if she had never left, but she noted the swollen eyelids and cheeks pinkened by the undoubted splashing of cold water. She mentioned neither.
‘Feeling a bit warmer, dear?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Crawfie’s voice and eyes were low.
The two women drank their tea without speaking. The fire crackled and the mantel clock ticked pleasantly as the evening traffic droned by beneath the nursery window.
Alah broke the silence. ‘Have you had anything to eat? Bobo is making scrambled egg with a little toast. Will you join us?’
Crawfie put down her half-drunk cup. ‘I feel a bit of a headache coming on. I think I might just get an early night, if you don’t mind.’
Alah knew a lie when she heard one. ‘Why would I? Get some rest.’
As Bobo brought the tray of scrambled eggs round to the nursery sitting room, she saw Crawfie disappear into her room and close the door firmly behind her. She was filled with disappointment.
‘She hasn’t gone to bed, has she?’ she asked Alah.
‘A little under the weather. She will be fine in the morning.’
Bobo put the tray down. ‘Did she tell you anything about …’
Alah held her palm up as a stop sign, and Bobo was quietened. ‘I believe Sandy Powell is on the wireless tonight. Shall we listen as we eat?’
Crawfie spent an anxious night.
The moment she had turned off her light, the anxiety and worry that had gnawed at her brain exploded. Why hadn’t George come? He might be injured or, God forbid, dead. No one in London knew him. How would they identify him? Who would the hospital contact?
Or had he even come to London at all? Maybe he had missed the train. Or cancelled his ticket. Perhaps he’d changed his mind about coming at all. The more she thought about what might have happened, the more anxious and mystified she became.
A horrible thought chilled her. It was her fault. She had so stubbornly stuck to her determination to care for the Princesses that she hadn’t made enough room for George in her life. When he had said he was looking at jobs in London, had he expected her to offer to stay in Scotland? How must he be feeling? He must see her as cold – unfeeling, unavailable, uncaring. He must think she wasn’t interested in him, that she was a selfish, work-obsessed woman. The kind who emasculated men.
For all the time she had known him, more than a year now, she had never once put him first. She remembered the night of the non-proposal with shame, and how the thought of being married had terrified her. What kind of person was she, that she was so afraid of marrying a man she loved?
All these thoughts agitated until eventually she fell into a fretful sleep.
At 2.00 a.m. she woke filled with powerful indignation. How could he just leave her waiting for him? It was a shabby thing to do and he must know how much she was worrying.
By 4.45 a.m. the flames of anger licked in her lower gut. How dare he? How could George treat her like some lackey? He had used her to find him a place to stay. He had humiliated her.
Well, he wouldn’t get a second chance. How could she have been so gullible and foolish? If she ever saw him again, she would tell him exactly what she thought of him. Nobody would ever take her for a fool again.
As the glimmer of dawn began to lighten the London sky, Crawfie’s thoughts and emotions had gone full circle – back to the certainty that George must be lying injured in a hospital bed. He had amnesia and couldn’t tell the kindly doctor and nurses who were quietly checking his pulse and attending to his bandages who he was or where he had come from. She would have to find him. She didn’t care if the Duchess wouldn’t let her go. She would go anyway. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and then jumped at a knock on her door. Was it the police? Had they found him?
She pulled her bed jacket around her and called out, ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Alah.’ The door opened and a hand appeared holding a cup of tea, followed by Alah in her dressing gown.
‘I wanted to see how you are and thought you might like a cup?’
This kindness provoked a sudden outpouring of Crawfie’s tears.
‘Now, now,’ Alah said gently, ‘What on earth has happened?’
Crawfie told her everything, Alah’s lips getting tighter with disapproval as the story progressed.
Crawfie wiped her eyes and sniffed. ‘So, you see, anything could have happened to him. I am so worried.’
Alah thought carefully before saying, ‘Now, dear, if I know men, they always fall on their feet. A pound to a penny he’ll turn up sooner or later. Why, at this moment, he’s probably reading the morning paper and eating a full English somewhere. Mark my words.’ She patted Crawfie’s hands. ‘I think it’s best we keep this between ourselves.’
Crawfie agreed. ‘Please don’t tell Bobo. She’s a dear but … well, you know.’
‘She’ll hear nothing from me.’ Alah patted her hand again.
Crawfie was exhausted and empty of further tears. She asked pitifully, ‘But what shall I do? Should I report him missing?’
‘Maybe in a few days but not now. No news is good news, isn’t it? You’re bound to hear from him soon.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Now, you get yourself up and dressed and ready for the schoolroom.’
‘Good morning, Crawfie,’ the two Princesses chimed as they entered the schoolroom, followed by Dookie the corgi.
‘Good morning, girls and Master Dookie.’ Crawfie bent to tickle the dog’s ears. ‘And how are you with a paint brush, young sir?’
The Princesses giggled. ‘He can paint muddy paws up the stairs,’ Margaret said.
Lilibet crouched down to pat him. ‘He’s very good at that. And getting fur on Alah’s favourite chair.’
‘Well, he’ll have to be a very good boy if he is to stay for lessons today.’ Crawfie straightened up, her head suddenly swimming with the rush of blood to her head and lack of sleep.
‘Why?’ asked Margaret.
‘Because I don’t want him dipping his tail in the paint pot.’
The girls laughed again. ‘He will be good, we promise.’
Dookie skulked under the girls’ desk and flopped down with a sigh. ‘See?’ said Lilibet.
Crawfie didn’t usually encourage Dookie to visit the schoolroom, but she didn’t have the mental energy to throw him out today.
‘What are we painting?’ Margaret asked.
‘I hope it’s a horse,’ said Lilibet.
‘Well, yes, it is.’ Crawfie went to the large book on her desk and turned to the page she had marked with a strip of paper. ‘It’s a painting of a horse called Molly Long Legs. She was a famous racehorse and here is a picture of her with her jockey.’ She held the book up in front of the girls, who were instantly enraptured. ‘She’s a brown horse.’
Lilibet interrupted. ‘You mean she’s a bay. That’s what a brown horse is called.’
‘Ah yes. A bay. Well done,’ Crawfie said. ‘And she has a very short tail. Do you know why?’
Lilibet’s arm shot up but Margaret shouted out, ‘So that it doesn’t get caught up in the rigging of a carriage.’
Lilibet, not to be outdone said, ‘And it’s called docking. I know because Grandpa told us all about it when we were little.’
‘Very good. Now this painting is by a man called Mr Stubbs. George Stub—’ Crawfie stopped. She had successfully put George from her mind for just a few seconds but now, saying his name in another setting brought fresh anguish.
Margaret pulled a face at her sister and chattered on, ‘Mummy likes his paintings.’
‘She has two in her drawing room,’ Lilibet added. ‘And don’t stick your tongue out at me, Margaret, it’s rude.’
‘But I wanted to tell Crawfie that bit. You are showing off.’
‘I don’t show off.’
‘Did!’
‘Didn’t!’
Dookie ran out from under the desk and started barking, running in small circles from one girl to the other.
Crawfie banged the book shut. ‘QUIET.’
Lilibet blushed and said quietly, ‘Sorry, Crawfie.’
Margaret, in shock at the sudden noise, began to cry.
Crawfie grabbed Dookie, who immediately nipped her hand, and hauled him out of the room and into the corridor. A footman was approaching. ‘Take this dog away from my schoolroom,’ she ordered.
‘Where shall I take him?’ he asked, grabbing the dog by its scruff.
‘Anywhere but here.’ Crawfie was shaking. Two fingers of her left hand had deep teeth marks and were starting to bleed.
‘Are you all right?’ the footman asked. ‘You might need some iodine on that.’ He frowned, scooping Dookie into an armlock. ‘Oh and I’ve got a note for you, miss.’ He handed over a small white envelope, marked only with her name.
She knew the handwriting. Tears pricked her eyes.
The footman was wrestling with Dookie. ‘Stop your fighting or you’ll get my boot up your backside, you horrible little mutt.’
‘Thank you.’ Crawfie stood watching as dog and footman walked away. ‘And I am so sorry to be so snappy,’ she called after him. ‘I didn’t sleep very well.’
‘That’s all right, miss,’ he said over the head of the struggling Dookie. ‘I’ve had much worse from the boss.’
The unopened letter from George was still in her hand. He was alive, then. Where was he – down in the kitchen, charming Cook into making him a cup of tea? Or was he talking to Ainslie? The whole household would see him. Were they gossiping in the pantry about him … and her?
‘Crawfie?’ Lilibet’s voice startled her. She was peering around the doorway. ‘We are very sorry. Can we paint our pictures now, please?’
Crawfie stuffed the envelope into the pocket of her cardigan. She took a deep breath and, steadying herself, said with authority, ‘Yes, but no more Dookie in my lessons.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
145 Piccadilly, mid-September 1936
The letter burned in her pocket all morning. The lunch hour couldn’t come quickly enough. She delivered the Princesses to the dining room with haste, desperate to return to the privacy of her bedroom to read George’s message. But as she made to escape, the Duchess called her back.
