Dearest Mary Jane. Бетти Нилс
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OCTOBER, sliding towards November, had turned wet and chilly and customers were sparse. Mary Jane turned out cupboards, washed and polished and cut down on the baking. There were still customers glad of a cup of tea, home from shopping expeditions—or motorists on their way to Cheltenham or Oxford stopped for coffee. More prosperous tea-rooms closed down during the winter months and their owners went to Barbados or California to spend their summer’s profits, but Mary Jane’s profits weren’t large enough for that. Besides, since she lived over the tea-room she might just as well keep it open and get what custom there was.
On this particular morning, since it was raining hard and moreover was a Monday, she was pleased to hear the doorbell tinkle as she set the percolator on the stove. It wasn’t a customer, though. Oliver stood there, just inside the door.
She wasn’t particularly pleased to see him but she wished him a cheerful good morning.
‘I’m just back from the States,’ declared Oliver pompously. ‘Margaret tells me that you have behaved most unkindly towards her. I should have thought that you could at least have stayed with her and made sure that she was quite comfortable.’
‘But she is not ill—Sir Thomas Latimer said so. He said that she should take more exercise and not lie around.’
Oliver’s eyes bulged with annoyance. ‘I consider you to be a heartless girl, Mary Jane. I shall think twice before asking you to do any small favour...’
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