THE PRISONER'S SISTER

Wairarapa Times-Age, 3 August 1938, Page 10

THE PRISONER'S SISTER

PUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT COPYRIGHT

BY

PEARL BELLAIRS

(Author of “Velvet and Steel”)

CHAPTER V.—Continued. “Very well,” said Julie, and thinking of Mrs Bolton she asked: “And, Mi Rand, will you want a cook or an assistant cook in the hotel? I know of a woman who cooks wonderfully, and I think she would like the job. She worked for six years at Barklett’s Hotel.” “Bring her along.” “When do I start?” “Soon after Christmas. I’ll send someone down to Lime Cove to look round first. The first of January would do.” “Start on the first of January?” “Yes.” Julie’s heart sank like lead. They had to live until then! “I’ll get my secretary to drop you a line after Christmas, and advance you your fare down to the place.” Julie wanted to ask if they might go down on the morrow. But her pride was a gag in her mouth. She could ask for Mrs Bolton, but not for herself. “Very well, Mr Rand. Thank you.” In the world of affairs when anyone came to terms with Rand they asked for what they wanted. As Julie asked for nothing he assumed that she needed nothing. “So that’s that, then?” he said. “Yes.” “Very w s ell, then. Goodbye!” He rang off. So' that was done. Rand was to be her employer. Like Mr Craddock, who said he couldn’t afford to be a Christian, Julie couldn’t afford to pick and choose. The flag was hauled down. There was some peace, after all, in defeat. But they still had to get through Christmas. x She knocked on the door of the kitchen when she got back. Mrs Craddock came to it with a hardening face. “I’ve got a job,” said Julie. “As quick as that?” said Mrs Craddock suspiciously. “It starts on the first of January," said Julie. “If you’ll let me stay here until then, I’ll pay you all my back rent out of my earnings.” “I don’t care about my back rent! What I want to know is have you got enough money to buy food for over Christmas —otherwise out you go.” “Yes, I have!” “You show it me!” said Mrs Craddock. Julie looked at her in silent defiance. But she knew she had only ninepence to show. She walked upstairs, and found that Mrs Bolton had gone up there to take refuge from Craddock. Julie told her about the job. Mrs Bolton was incredulous, then impressed. “’Oo do you say the gentleman is? Mr Rand? Well I never! Lives in Dover Street? Your brother’s employer! Well! And I’m to be cook. Well, I don’t know! In the country, you say? It sounds a bit of all right to me! And do you think it’s all right? I mean —you so young and all? I wouldn’t like any harm to come —! Is ’e an old gentleman?” “He doesn’t mean any harm,” said Julie. “And what’ll you do over Christmas —that’s what I want to know?” asked Mrs Bolton, her plump face clouding over. “I ’ad to give that Craddock some money tonight! The twister, ’e is! I ’aven’t one and sixpence to me name, or I’d help you out!” “I must try and get some tomorrow,” said Julie. “You’re fair wore out!” said Mrs Bolton. “You ain’t fit to be trapesing round the streets looking for work!” CHAPTER VI. That Christmas Eve was quite the worst day of Julie’s life. She thought that some of them recently had been pretty bad, but this was worse. A bitter wind blew. Her quest for ■ work seemed utterly useless. People were more sympathetic that day. Once she was given a cup of hot coffee, and once a cup of tea. It warmed her body and her heart, but it didn’t alter the fact that unless she got something the children would be hungry tonight and tomorrow she would have only the parish to beg from. Meanwhile Mrs Bolton, who had even less hope that Julie would find work than Julie had herself, went off down to the telephone box towards three in the afternoon; and after pouring over the book for a while, she rang up Rand's flat. She wasn’t used to the telephone, she couldn’t hear or make herself heard very well, and it was a great ordeal for her. SheTnly got the manservant to let her speak to Rand with difficulty. Then, with many stumbles, and much breathing, she explained to Rand that she was the one he had engaged to cook at Lime Grove. Did he know, that Miss Moffatt hadn’t a penny to tide her over Christmas, and the children would be in the Workhouse surely, if something wasn’t done? And though she was taking a liberty in asking, Miss Moffatt was such a deserving young lady that it would be a world of help to her if Rand were to make her an advance on her wages. Rand felt he had been inept in dealing with the situation. Women and children were not to be handled in the same way as engineering contracts. He told Mrs Bolton he would send someone down to Kew to look into the matter and rang off. He called his man, Ell. “What is there in that house of mine at Hindhead, Ell?” Ell thought. The effort always made him half close his eyes. It made him look like Alice’s dormouse, just about to go off to sleep, though always in a deferential fashion. “There’s furniture, sir,” said Ell. “Glass and crockery. Kitchenware. Mattresses and blankets. No silver, nor cutlery. No linen, sir. And it's none of it, I may say, the sort of thing that would be fit for you to use, sir. Very out of date, and shabby, sir—very!”

“Well, will you go out and buy enough linen for four beds, and anything else to make the house leadj for use? And enough provisions to last over Christmas. Have it all put in the touring car and tell Kelcher I’ll want him to take it down to the house this evening.” “Very well, sir!” “Buy some toys and crackers and so on that a boy of eight would like.” “Very well, sir.” “Girls of twelve —do they read books?”

Ell considered for a moment. “They should do, sir.” “Then buy some books that girls of twelve read.” “Very well, sir.” “On second thought, buy enough linen for six beds.” “Sir, six?” “Yes, six.” “Very well, sir.” Ell was suffering. The horrid thought had come to him that his master intended to spend Christmas in the house at Hindhead. In Ell’s opinion nothing could be more of a disaster, if it were true. The place wasn’t civilised. There wasn’t any electric power for the iron even. “Will that be all, sir?” said Ell, in a melancholy tone. “Yes. let me know when you have got the things, and I’ll give you an address in Kew to call at on your way to Hindhead. I want you to take some people down to the house and get them settled there.” “Where shall I find you, sir?” “Here at five o’clock. And see that you get the sort of things that children like to have at Christmas.” “I ’ope my choice will give satisfaction, sir!” Rand sometimes thought that he would like to kick the humility out of Ell. But Ell had been brought up to hold himself humbly, and the sky would fall sooner than Ell would alter. His veins ran with oil, but he had a heart and nerves like other men. Rand though he was apt to be irritated by the affections that tied him to other people, had an affection for Ell. Ell hurried out to order linen, cutlery, and silver, etc., and to send Kelcher, the second chauffeur, with a car to pick them up. He put on his sober hat and went out to buy the books and toys and provisions himself. Rand went off to an emergency board meeting, aware that he wasn’t giving as much attention to it as he ought. He was glad to be able to do anything he could for the Moffat children, but he wasn’t getting much satisfaction from playing the benefactor. Perhaps it was Julie Moffat who had given him the feel that he couldn’t square himself that way. As he went out into the murk of the London afternoon he thought of Tom Moffatt in a prison cell—which was not the best place in which to be, even when one got used to it. CHAPTER VII. It was late when Julie got home. There was no light in the upstairs window of the house, and she hurried up the stairs, thinking that the children were alone up there in the dark with no shilling to put in the electric meter. It was dark and silent. She switched on the light. The children were not there. She looked into the bedrooms, and suddenly she saw that things were gone—Will’s cherished tops—his big wooden engine. The boxes into whicli she had put their clothes after the furniture had been sold was empty! Julie dashed down the stairs. Her heart was thumping with fear. “Mrs Craddock!” she burst in to the kitchen. “Where are the children?” Mrs Craddock came from the scullery where she was ironing. “Ow, there you are!” she said. “The children aren’t there!” “A man come and took ’em.” “A man? What man?” Julie was trembling all over. ' “ ’Ow do I know ’oo ’e was? I never seen ’im before.” “Was he from the Welfare?” “ ’Ow do I know? All I know is ’e come in a car, an elderly, respectable man, ’e was, in a black suit. And Auntie’s gone along with them. ‘Goodbye, all!’ she says. ‘l’m off. I’ll send for the rest of me things!’ ‘Well, we’re not sorry!’ I says, sharp like. The old fool!” “Then —he wasn't from the Welfare?” “ ’E looked more like an undertaker to me!” said Mr Craddock, putting down the evening paper in which he had been burying himself. “Mrs Bolton left you a note upstairs, so she said. Didn’t yer find it?” Julie ran up the stairs again. She found the note lying on her bed. “Dear Miss Julie,” it ran. “Mr Rand sent for the children so I thought it was best for them to go. Mr Rand’s Mr Ell came in a car for them to go to Hindhead, so we are off. Mr Ell says to tell you another car will come to take you to Hindhead at six p.m„ so please wait. Hope you will excuse the liberty, 'but there was no fire for the children tonight. I had them in the kitchen and Craddocks went on about it awful. So was glad when Mr Ell come to take them. Yours truly, Ida Bolton.” Julie sat on the bed feeling sick with relief. The clock in the chemist’s shop round the corner had said ten minutes to six when she passed it. The car to take her to Hindhead might come at any moment. She sat staring at her shoes, too tired, too worn out with worry and walking to move. Her shoes were covered with mud. There was a hole in the back of one of her stockings. Her hands were grey with London grime. She got up slowly and went and washed her hands. The water was terribly cold, but she washed her hands and face with a scrap of soap, which

was all that there was. She combed her hair, and put everything that she had into the suitcase in the corner. .She was looking round the room to see if anything worth taking was left, when there was a sudden click from the electric metei' and all the lights went out. That was that. “Don't bother about anything else here,” the sudden darkness seemed to say. “This is the end.” Julie groped for her hat and her suitcase, and dragged herself down the stairs. She went along to the kitchen to see Mrs Craddock and say she was going and tell her she would send her back rent which was owing as soon as she could save it. Mrs Craddock, seeing that she had her flat empty again, which was all she wanted, seemed to feel that she could afford to be amiable particularly when Julie said she would leave the beds for Mrs Craddock to sell.

“I’ve just made some tea. You’d better have a cup,” said Mrs Craddock. “My word!” she said, as Julie was drinking it, “you have changed these last weeks! Thin! You’re a scarecrow, that’s all you are! Ow well, it’s the same way the ’ole world over —misfortune comes to all of us.” Then there was a knock on the front door, and Mr Craddock went to if. He came back. “Fer you!” he said to Julie. Julie went out. There was a chauffeur at the door, who took her bag, and a long, low closed car at the kerb. The chauffeur helped her into the back of the car, which was empty. Someone else was sitting in the front seat beside the chauffeur. He glanced round at her—it was Rand. He raised his hat, merely, and went on reading some papers he had in his hand. (To be Continued).