Wishing Water (9 page)

Lissa shrugged. ‘So what? Meg trusts me, though no doubt she’d come over and check it all out.’ She rolled her eyes in exaggerated style as if saying, Parents, how fussy they are.

Jan still looked anxious. ‘Dad might not care for me going. He likes me at home, expects me to help with the cooking and cleaning since Renee works long hours at the hotel.’
 

Lissa laughed. ‘Hang that for a life. Let the wonderful Renee look after him for a change. She took him on, didn’t she? For better, for worse, for washing and for cooking.’ Lissa held up the long pink corset, suspenders dangling. ‘She’ll be needing one of these if she doesn’t get out of that chair soon and start to do a bit more work. That would really please your dad.’
 

Then they were both giggling so much they didn’t hear Miss Stevens come in, eyes slightly glazed from the small comforter she had been enjoying in the stock room. Her stentorian voice, however, had benefited from the stiff gin and soon put a stop to their hilarity.
 

Suitably chastened, but desperately trying to avoid each other’s eyes in case they set off a second attack of giggles, they got back to unpacking corsets.

Philip Brandon stared through the glass panel of his office door, peering beneath the gold letters that read BRANDON AND BRANDON, SOLICITORS AND COMMISSIONERS FOR OATHS, and frowned. He could plainly see his young clerk, playing the fool, no doubt in pursuit of Christine, the new typist, when he had been specifically instructed to sort the morning post and stamp it with the date received. Worse, Miss Henshaw, Philip’s personal secretary, sat smiling upon both of them, as if there were nothing untoward in such horse play during office hours.

He got up from behind his wide mahogany desk, tugged at his waistcoat, then took off his spectacles and polished them furiously. The glass in them was quite plain but they were useful as they gave dignity and an air of authority to his somewhat boyish face. He replaced them carefully, hooking the wire frames around each ear as he again peered through the gold lettering.

Christine was squealing, dropping papers all over the place as she put up her hands in weak defence, her breasts bouncing beneath her white blouse in delightful unison. Philip contemplated how they would feel pressed up against him. His hand twitched convulsively as if testing their softness in his hand. Perhaps as a pillow for his head. For a moment he envied Derry then felt guilt wash over him like a hot tide.

Blinking furiously, he straightened, stiffening his spine to a more proper posture. What was he thinking of? He thrust open the door and stepped into the outer office.

‘Have you finished with the morning post, Colwith?’ he asked in his quiet voice, and the occupants of the room froze, as if captured on camera.

Derry was the first to recover. ‘Won’t be a jiff.’
 

Philip winced. ‘Can we use the English language within the precincts of the office? Bring them through when you are done. Five minutes, if you please.’
 

‘Yes, sir,’ said Derry, adopting a suitably sober expression. Christine had fled to her big black typewriter in the corner and was already pounding heavily upon it, bent on proving how hard she was really working.

Miss Henshaw was looking flustered as if it had been she who had been running about and squealing so outrageously. Philip glowered at her before returning to his desk, to let her know that he did hold her largely responsible. She flushed a dark red and bent her sensible, neatly cropped grey head more arduously to the conveyance she was laboriously typing. When the telephone shrilled at her elbow she almost snatched it up.

‘Brandon Solicitors. Can I help you?’ she trilled in her bright telephone voice, pencil. poised over her pad. ‘Of course. One moment, please.’ Miss Henshaw flicked switches and pulled plugs on the ancient switch board. ‘Mr McArthur.’
 

‘Thank you,’ said Philip, in a tone meant to show she was not forgiven. Miss Henshaw took the point and got back to her typing. ‘Behave, you two. You’ll get us all the sack.’

Derry only had to look at her with that butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth smile and she was putty in his hands. It made her day just to watch him strut up and down the office. He certainly gave her a giggle and something to think about in her cold lonely bed at night. Vera Henshaw rather liked young men. She’d used to dream about Philip at one time, about what might have been between them had things been different and he not a man of affairs and she his simple secretary. Foolish even to have considered the possibility. Didn’t every secretary fall in love with their boss? And Vera knew she wasn’t really his type. He preferred smart, attractive young women, not tired ones in floppy cardigans with the first signs of varicose veins.

Vera Henshaw sighed. It could have been so perfect, she a mere thirty-nine, or thereabouts, and he a mature thirty. But of course he would never marry, not now Felicity, his fiancée, had died. How that poor girl had suffered! But Philip had remained loyal. He’d not so much as glanced at another woman in all the three years since, the dear man. It was as if he was afraid to. As if by doing so, he would in some way blight her sweet memory. Though in Vera’s considered opinion he sorely needed a good woman to shake him out of his mourning. Unfortunately, she was not that woman.

She mopped up a tear and on finding herself the object of scrutiny from her fellow workers, threw them a sour look. She put back her spectacles which hung from a cord about her neck and took out her frustration on the keys, her fingers hammering the words while her mind continued its deliberations.

There was a moody, brooding quality to his dark good looks, a sadness about him. The ears flat to the finely shaped head, full lips, and dark, unfathomable eyes that gave away none of their secrets. A real charmer he could be when he put his mind to it. No doubt about it, plenty would be glad to be the wife of Mr Philip Brandon.

Miss Henshaw sighed again. Realised she’d got her fingers accidentally on to all the wrong keys and had typed several lines of nonsense. She ripped out the paper with an exasperated click of her tongue. Really, she was becoming as irresponsible as the two youngsters.

‘Have you finished that post, Derry?’ she barked, venting her wrath on his hapless ears. ‘Well, get it along to Mr Brandon or you’ll find yourself at the labour exchange next week. And poke that fire. My feet are frozen.’
 

Her poor circulation was not helped by the hours she spent at this desk, she told herself morosely. A martyr to her work she was. Life had been so much easier when she was a junior with old Mr Brandon and they’d had all those clerks with scratchy pens for the paperwork. Miss Henshaw tucked her feet into a small knitted blanket she kept for the purpose and frowned at him so that he could see she meant what she said.

He blew her a kiss, wicked mischief on his grinning face.

‘Impudent monkey. Get along with you.’ But Miss Henshaw was smiling. Derry Colwith brought a bit of much needed sunshine into this gloomy office.

Derry sat most of each day at an old high sloping desk where he could gaze out of the window dreaming of fame and riches. And one day, he was sure, he would find it. Letting out a wistful sigh at the thought, he winked at Vera and, swaggering to the inner office door, tapped on the glass with one knuckle and marched right in to lay the stack of letters on the blotter before his employer.

‘Thank you, Mr McArthur. I’m glad we are agreed. I think you will find it to be the wisest course. One moment, my clerk has entered.’ Philip covered the mouthpiece with his hand while he pushed a pile of bank books across the desk to Derry. ‘The McArthur probate. Take these books to the bank and inform the manager of Miss Amelia McArthur’s death. Her nephew is the main beneficiary.’
 

‘Right,’ said Derry, picking them up and turning at once to the door. This was the part of the job he liked best, wandering about town on some errand or other. If the bank didn’t take too long about it he could nip in to see Jan and Lissa, maybe have a quick coffee with them. He brightened at the prospect. He was getting nowhere with Lissa so far, but he still fancied his chances.

‘Did you hear me?’ Philip barked, with unusual impatience.

‘Sir?’
 

‘I said to call at the building society first, ask them to close the account and have the money transferred into the office account.’
 

‘The office account?’
 

‘Yes, you fool. In preparation for probate.’

‘Right you are.’
 

When Derry had gone, whistling happily and slamming the door too hard so that the ancient glass shook perilously, Philip removed his hand from the mouthpiece, carefully gathered his strained patience and continued with his conversation. He almost purred into the phone.

‘Sorry to have kept you, Mr McArthur. Where were we? Ah, yes, death duties. No indeed, no one should be obliged to pay more than is absolutely necessary. Certainly your aunt would not have wished her money to go to the government.’
 

A pause while the caller on the end of the wire expressed his thanks and Philip Brandon’s dark eyes took on a gleam as hard as the polished wood of his own desk.

‘Such a gesture would of course be entirely at your own discretion. I shall be in touch.’
 

He rested the receiver back in its cradle and allowed himself a rare smile. Everything was progressing most satisfactorily, most satisfactorily indeed.

Happiness did not come easily to him. Life had been harder than he had bargained for since leaving Oxford. He’d been lucky, he supposed, missing the worst of the war and young enough to make something of his life afterwards. But Philip had resented the way he’d had to pinch and scrape, the way austerity had gone on for so long. As a member of the professional classes it didn’t seem quite fair that he should suffer at all.

The initial pleasure he’d felt at finding himself in sole charge of the practice on the death of his father had soon dissipated when he’d learned the true state of its finances. It had given every appearance of a bustling, one-man practice, dealing with conveyancing, probate and estate work, inventories and valuations. Only a small amount of court work came his way, for which he was thankful. Litigation was rarely profitable and it gave a poor impression for a high class practice to be too involved with the nefarious goings on of the criminal classes.

He should have been a happy man. He loved his work, spent as many hours in his office as he possibly could, only reluctantly leaving it to return home in the evening to a plain meal served by his housekeeper. But he was not happy. Not at all.

The problem was that people were so lackadaisical about settling their legal accounts. Were everyone to pay him what they owed tomorrow, he would be a rich man, comfortable at least. But they did not. It had to be said that his father, John Crawshaw Brandon, had been somewhat dilatory on the work front. He’d been far more interested in catching char and pike from the lake than sitting at his desk. Fascinated by points of law he may have been, yet he had shown little head for business, certainly none for turnover. In consequence, matters had suffered interminable delays, clients had grown restless and ultimately taken their business elsewhere.

It had all been most unsatisfactory.

It had fallen to him, Philip, to build the practice up again. Not an easy task. Sometimes he was so busy he was fortunate if he had time to prepare any bills at all, let alone reminders. Even when he put Miss Henshaw on the task of ringing people up it brought a poor response. They were happy enough for him to solve their problems, their disputes with neighbours, convey their house or dispose of their dearly departed, but balked when it came to paying the bill.

So he had taken the matter into his own capable hands. Here and there, not too much and only where there was no risk of it being noted, he managed to keep his pockets fat and his own bank account healthy.

It was while serving in the army that he had learned there were short cuts to everything. One did not have to tread the twisting and thorny path when there might be a smoother, more advantageous route. Great care of course, must always be taken.

The McArthur estate had been unusually easy since the nephew was as flexible in his code of conduct as Philip himself.

McArthur had no more wish than his solicitor to declare the true extent of his aunt’s estate. A sum had been agreed upon which would satisfy the Inland Revenue and leave the nephew nicely in pocket. Should the beneficiary of this good fortune choose to show his appreciation by way of a small gratuity, was that any fault of Philip Brandon? No indeed. It was no more than common business practice, after all.

Even were the client not amenable, he usually found a way to benefit, without ever stepping too far outside the grey fringes of the law. Thanks to the two wars there was no shortage of widows and probate always proved delightfully lucrative.

Certainly more so than divorce, which he disliked as it was messy and troublesome. Philip hated disagreement of any kind, and rarely recommended such a course of action for his clients. Divorce was bad for society. A woman’s duty was to her husband. Yet there was something about a vulnerable woman that appealed to him, and he was always happy to counsel and advise.