A Lesson in Secrets_ A Maisie Dobbs Novel - Jacqueline Winspear [10]
“How did the accident happen?”
“Eric was tired, very tired. He said that if he didn’t finish the job on time, then his employer could easily find another bloke to replace him. They were both working hard, him and his boss, Reg Martin.”
“Reg is a good man—diligent and honest. And Eric’s work was first class.”
“Anyway, this customer kept coming in and going on, saying he wanted the motors in double-quick time. I’m not sure of the story, but as far as I know, he’d bought them cheap, about six of them to start with, from posh people not being able to keep up because they’d run short of money—I suppose they sold the motor cars for whatever they could get. So after buying them up and getting them on the road looking nice and shiny, this man was selling them for more money somewhere else—he only wanted enough repairs done so money passed hands with no questions.” She shrugged and wiped her eyes.
Maisie reached out and took Sandra’s hand, allowing the stricken young woman to continue.
“It was all a funny business, really, but I know Reg was glad of the work—you can’t turn anything down these days.”
“What happened to Eric, Sandra?” asked Maisie.
She looked down, her eyes red-rimmed with tears. “They’d lifted the engine out of one of the motors, with a block and tackle, and Eric was leaning in under it. Then suddenly one of the chains went and the whole lot gave way. He didn’t go quick, either. I was coming down the road when I heard the screams, heard Reg shouting out for help. Someone came running and went for the ambulance. I knew there and then that it was Eric, so I ran as fast as I could, and . . . ” She shook her head as if to rid herself of the images in her head. “All I could do was hold his hand. I was just about able to reach in and . . . hold his hand. He bled to death.” She leaned into Maisie’s arms, and as Maisie rocked her until the keening subsided, she knew the image of Sandra’s young husband’s final moments would never leave her.
They sat for some time, before the younger woman sat up and apologized. “I’m sorry, Miss, I shouldn’t—”
“Sandra, you’ve had a terrible shock. And you are grieving.” Maisie thought quickly. She knew Sandra was in a difficult position. The loft accommodation came with Eric’s job, and Sandra had not worked—except for helping Reg with his bookkeeping—since her marriage; there were few opportunities for a married woman to find work.
“What can I do, Sandra? How can I help you?”
Sandra sniffed, and took a final sip of her sherry. “I need a job, Miss, and I wondered if you knew of anyone who needed an office worker.” She paused. “Well, anything really—cleaning, housekeeping. I’ll do anything, but I don’t want to waste the hours I put in at night school. I can do all sorts of secretarial work, you know, but I’ll turn my hand to anything, because—” She paused again to take breath, as if the weight of her problems was pressing the air from her body. “Because I can’t stay in the loft, not anymore. Reg wants another mechanic soon. That, and, well, as he says, it’s not right, a widow living on her own above a garage. He’s a good man, but, you know, I can see his point. He’s said I can stay for another week, and I just . . . I just don’t know what to do. I’ve been to most of the shops up and down Oxford Street and Regent Street, looking for work, and I’ve been applying for jobs, and—”
“Shhhh, it’s all going to be all right, Sandra. Come on, let’s get some hot soup into you, and I’ll tell you what I have in mind.”
Over supper, Maisie asked Sandra if she would like to come to work for her, on a part-time basis to begin with. She explained that over the past few months, the task of keeping good records and filing away reports and invoices had fallen by the wayside. She did not share details of her own change in circumstance,