Chapter One
“Back again, already?” Mrs Prettle, of Prettle's Employment Bureau, shook her mauve rinsed head and looked disapproving. “Really, miss Chapel.”
“Not guilty this time,” Lucy protested, depositing her carrier bag of shopping on the floor and resting thankfully in the chair before Mrs Prettle's desk. “I am a victim of high finance, mergers and takeovers, skullduggery in the financial stratosphere.”
“You're out of work again,” Mrs Prettle said heavily. “Redundant. if you please.”
“It amounts to the same thing.”
“True,” Lucy admitted, “but this time I am blameless and so exempt from one of your little lectures. Aren't I?”
“You are also exempted from picking up a wage packet at the end of the week,” Mrs Prettle said.
“Which is where you come in.” Lucy smiled disarmingly.
“No, I do not,” Mrs Prettle said firmly, pursing her thin lips, her slight, wiry frame erect beneath the large, fluffy Angora cardigan. “I would remind you that I run an agency for people who require employment; steady, permanent employment. I have no time to spare for people who regard work as a sort of hobby, and jobs as something to be collected, like postage stamps, or Victorian bric-a-brac.”
“I am the one who should be complaining: After all. you did provide me with a job that, three weeks later, suddenly ceased to exist. I am the injured party!” Lucy looked suitably aggrieved.
“Unfortunate." Mrs Prettle's expression proved that she did not share Lucy's View point.
“To say the least!”
“But I daresay your past work record did nothing to convince your new employers that you would be a loyal, long serving employee.”
“Mr Webster was made redundant as well,” Lucy informed her.
“Never!" Mrs Prettle looked shocked. “The poor man has worked there for donkey's years.”
“I helped him move his plants from the office to his home. He was rather upset.” “Why? Did you damage some of his plants?” Mrs Prettle looked aggressive. “Upset about his job,” Lucy explained.
“I should think he is upset. And with very good reason. Redundancy is a fine reward for the years of service he has given. A fine gentleman, Mr Webster. Many of my girls have cause to be grateful for the help he has given. I must get in touch with him.” Mrs Prettle scribbled a note on her desk pad to remind her of her intentions.
“And what about me?”
“Well,” Mrs Prettle looked slightly less disapproving, “perhaps you were the victim of circumstance. This time.”
“So what have you got to offer me?”
“Nothing. You are about to become the victim for the second time, a victim of the economical situation. Jobs are very scarce at the moment.”
“But I must have a job. And soon.”
“I take it that thrift is not numbered among your few virtues. I'm sorry, I am afraid that my more dependable girls must take priority for the vacancies I do have," Mrs Prettle said primly.
“If they are so dependable, why are they also out of work?" Lucy countered. Mrs Prettle smiled coldly.
“You must have something.” Lucy said desperately. “I'll consider anything.” “Anything?” Mrs Prettle asked casually, toying with her pen.
“Anything.” Lucy noticed the gleam in Mrs Prettle's eyes. “Within reason, that is,” she added hurriedly.
“Within or without of reason, I should advise you to accept the position I will send you after. Against my better judgment, I might add. But this is the only vacancy I have for you.” Mrs Prettle arose and pulled out a drawer in the filing cabinet behind her desk. She felt quite pleased with herself. This was one way of filling this obstinate vacancy, already refused by seven of her girls. And Nancy had been really upset when she had returned from her interview.
“Take it or leave it?” Lucy asked bitterly.
“Not at all.” Mrs Prettle smiled sweetly. “As far as you are concerned, it is purely a take it situation.” She scribbled down an address and passed the paper to Lucy.
“Valley House, Scarton,” Lucy read. She looked up. “Scarton? Where is that?” she asked, puzzled.
“A very long way from here.” Mrs Prettle said with satisfaction. She took out a cash box and counted out a number of pound notes. “Don't worry. expenses are provided.”
“Along with a map and a compass. I suppose?”
“Yes, it is a rather out of the way place.” Mrs Prettle laughed and looked pleased. “Now, I'll tell you the train you must catch and the times. And I will warn you again that there are very few jobs available at the moment.”
“That sounds more like a threat,” Lucy said dispiritedly. “What must I do in Scarton? Milk cows? Build roads?”
“Nothing so drastic. But Miss Westgate will explain all. Please try not to antagonize her.”
“I shall be my usual charming self,” Lucy assured her.
“I would much rather you tried to make a favorable impression,” Mrs Prettle said sweetly.
Scarton Village was reached via a train and bus journey of three hours. The bus deposited Lucy outside a deserted warehouse that still bore the fading sign proclaiming: BOBBINS FAMOUS PICKLED HERRINGS.
Lucy stared around the small Square flanked by tiny shops and houses. The narrow streets leading from the Square were almost deserted, except for a distant figure hunched against the chill east wind that prowled the cobbled streets and moaned around the granite blocks of the buildings.
'Perhaps Mr Bobbins pickled the entire village before he left.‘ Lucy thought fancifully, for the village did indeed have the air of being preserved; captured and held on a day long ago and existing unchanged and out of place in a modern world.
An old gentleman with fiery red face enhanced by a shock of unruly, snow white hair ambled up to the bus stop. He peered at the timetable pasted on a telegraph pole, checked the watch taken from a waistcoat pocket, then shook his white head angrily.
“Missed the dang thing again,” he barked in Lucy's direction. but not necessarily addressing her. “Banged buses.”
“Is there a taxi?” Lucy asked.
“Taxi? Not at this hour, there ain't. Does be old Joe's dinner-time. And the pub don't shut 'til three.” He chuckled and started to shuffle off.
“How do I get to Valley House?” Lucy called after him.
“You be young enough to walk, I reckon,” the man answered without turning. “The road is straight ahead.”
She passed along a street of shops and houses with low doorways and narrow windows, looking as though they had been Squeezed and compressed by the weight