A Nanny For Christmas. Sara Craven
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to the kitchen.
‘Rather too much,’ Phoebe returned. ‘Her mother’s dead, her father’s never there and someone called Cindy fills in when she feels like it.’
‘Cindy,’ mused Lynn. ‘Someone called Cindy was at Night Birds the other Saturday. People were saying they hadn’t seen her around before.’
‘What was she like?’
Lynn shrugged. ‘Australian, tall, blonde, endless legs, a bit loud and altogether too keen on other girls’ blokes. Not that I noticed her much, you understand.’
Phoebe grinned. ‘Naturally. But she doesn’t sound the ideal person to be looking after Tara,’ she added thoughtfully.
Lynn put her hands on her hips. ‘For heaven’s sake, Phoebe, lighten up. Haven’t you got enough problems of your own?’
‘More than enough,’ Phoebe agreed ruefully. ‘But that doesn’t make me indifferent to what’s going on in other people’s lives.’
‘Then maybe it should for once.’ Lynn shook her head. ‘Listen, the kid is well fed, and extremely well dressed. All her clothes come from Smarty Pants, the boutique in Market Street where my sister works. She has a fiver a day to spend, which is about one hundred per cent more than I ever did at the same age. I’d say she’s doing all right.’
‘And that’s all there is to it?’ Phoebe’s tone was wry.
‘Whether it is or not, there’s no reason for you to be involved,’ Lynn said sternly. ‘Start thinking about yourself instead. Any moment now Debbie will be coming back to work, and you’ll be out of a job.’
Phoebe sighed. ‘I don’t need reminding about that. But I knew when I took it on that it would only be temporary, while Debbie got over her appendicitis.’
Lynn snorted. ‘Lazy little cow. If Mrs Preston knew what she was really like, she wouldn’t have her back, niece or not.’ She paused. ‘How’s the landlord from hell? Still giving you hassle?’
Phoebe grimaced. ‘As ever. He still hasn’t done anything about the tile that blew down last month, and now there’s a big damp patch on the bedroom ceiling.’
‘Does he still snoop around when you’re out?’
‘I’m sure he does, but I can’t prove it,’ Phoebe said with exasperation. ‘And if I caught him he’d quote his rotten lease at me, saying he has “right of inspection” at any time.’
Lynn shook her head. ‘Surely you can find somewhere else?’
‘Not until I find a real job as well to go with it. And the problem is there just aren’t as many library posts any more, because of all the cutbacks.’ Phoebe sighed again. ‘I apply for everything, and so far I’ve made three shortlists and one unsuccessful interview. Maybe I should train for something else.’
‘You could always be a teacher,’ Lynn suggested. ‘You must be good with children. People are always asking you to babysit.’
‘That doesn’t necessarily mean a thing,’ Phoebe said drily. ‘All the same, it’s an idea. It’s just—not what I had planned when I went to university.’
Lynn rolled her eyes expressively round the kitchen. ‘And this is?’ she mocked. ‘By the way, I think your customer’s ready to leave.’
It wasn’t simply curiosity that made Phoebe follow the child out into the gathering gloom of the November afternoon. It was wrong for Tara to be out on her own at that age, and especially at that time of year. It was growing misty, and the dank chill caught in Phoebe’s throat as she watched the small figure scamper up the street.
With a sudden roar, a motorcycle erupted round the corner into High Street and braked violently. Phoebe, shocked and with all her worst forebodings apparently justified, was about to run forward when she saw a tall figure uncoil herself slowly from the pillion seat, giving the child a casual wave. As she took off the helmet she was wearing and handed it back to the driver blonde hair gleamed under the street light.
Cindy, I suppose, thought Phoebe with relief but no particular pleasure. So this is what she does while her charge is roaming free.
The other girl stood talking to the motorcyclist for a moment or two, then blew him a kiss and turned away. Almost at once she and Tara had rounded the corner and disappeared from view.
Oh, well, Phoebe told herself. That’s all right, then. And wished she could feel more convinced.
The little house felt cold and damp when she let herself in a couple of hours later. As she switched on the light in the sitting room it flickered, nearly went out, then recovered.
Good, thought Phoebe. Because I don’t think I’ve got a spare bulb.
Unless of course it was the wiring, which would mean another unpleasant interview with her landlord.
I’ll worry about that tomorrow, Phoebe decided tiredly.
It wasn’t a very comfortable room. It needed decorating, and the square of cheap carpet didn’t match the hard two-seater settee with its spindly wooden legs. But she’d laid a fire in the narrow Victorian grate before she’d left for work that morning, and, once it was lit and the curtains drawn, there was a semblance of cosiness.
Not for the first time, Phoebe imagined having some of the things from home there. The rosewood corner cabinet, she remembered sadly, and the Pembroke table and the big winged chair from her father’s study. But, like the house itself, they’d gone, sold to pay unexpected and crushing debts.
‘I can’t believe you could be such a fool, Howard.’ She could hear her aunt Lorna’s bitter voice now. ‘The stock market indeed. Whatever possessed you?’
And her father, sounding quiet and sad. ‘I expect I was greedy, like a great many other people, my dear. None of us ever thought it would go wrong.’
‘Well, I hope you don’t expect Geoffrey and I to help you out of this mess. The recession has hit us too, you know. The most we can do is find you somewhere else to live while you get back on your feet. It will have to be modest, of course, but Geoffrey is prepared to pay a year’s rent in advance, and at least it will be a roof over your head. I’m sure one of his business contacts will be able to suggest something suitable.’
‘Modest’, Phoebe reflected drily, was not the word. Hawthorn Cottage, property of Mr Arthur Hanson, was positively retiring—and singularly lacking in hawthorns or, indeed, any kind of flower or shrub in its miserable strip of concreted-over garden.
‘Dad, we can’t live here,’ she’d whispered as Mr Hanson had grudgingly left them alone ‘to get the feel of the place’, as he’d put it. ‘It’s awful.’
‘To quote your aunt Lorna, “It’s a roof”, and it will do while we look round for something better.’ He’d hugged her.
Phoebe had been half-heartedly celebrating the end of her finals when her tutor had sent for her. He’d been very kind, very sympathetic, but there had been no way to soften the blow.
Her father had been taken suddenly ill while waiting his turn at the local DSS office. An ambulance had been called, everyone had done what they could, but he’d been dead on his arrival at hospital.
Phoebe, grieving and bewildered, had learned she could stay at the house until the lease was up—but only, she suspected, because Uncle Geoffrey had been unable to retrieve the rent from Hanson the Hateful, as her father had christened him.
She hadn’t wanted to stay there—or in Westcombe at all, for that matter—because that part of the country held few happy memories for her. But she’d realised she needed a breathing space. What she had not taken into account was the difficulty of finding work.
She knew how to operate a computer, so she’d managed to keep herself solvent with temping jobs