The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [120]
Hastily, mumbling that I would let her know, I turned to leave.
Back at the main road I headed away from the other hotel. Idiot. Even at Claypoole, when I had thought of myself as having almost nothing, I had had an address, and, I now recalled, I had offered references when I applied for jobs. I passed an electrical shop and a milk bar. Then a funeral director’s and another church set back from the road. Just beyond the latter was a cul-de-sac of pebble-dashed bungalows: Newholme Avenue. I chose number seven because of the scarlet dahlias in the front garden. We were waiting for a phone. As for a reference, Miss Bryant would serve. Surely post was forwarded from Claypoole.
Fortified by my plan, I walked back to the other hotel I had seen the night before. The stout wooden door announced, as clearly as if it had spoken, that while Mr. Sinclair and his kind were welcome here, small insignificant people were not. I drew back my shoulders and turned the knob. The hall was larger and brighter but once again deserted. A murky picture of a stag at bay occupied one wall; next to it was a door labelled LADIES. Inside I washed my hands, relishing the soap and hot water. In the mirror I put on lipstick and combed my hair.
When I emerged a man in a suit was standing at the counter, thumbing pound notes out of his wallet. My heart jumped. His hands, his wallet, the slope of his shoulders were so much like those of Mr. Sinclair. Then his profile came into view, and the resemblance vanished. From behind the counter rose an unctuous voice. “Always a pleasure to see you, sir. We do hope you enjoyed your stay, sir. Haste ye back.”
Turning from the counter, the man caught sight of me, waiting. “Good morning.” He smiled. “Grand day.”
I smiled back, and he strolled out into his comfortable, prosperous life.
“Yes, miss?” said the man behind the counter, his voice quite different.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “I’m looking for a position as a chambermaid, or a cook’s helper, or a waitress.”
In so far as he could, given the counter between us, he looked me up and down. I must have passed some test, for he produced a clipboard with a form and told me to go and fill it out in the bar. The questions should have been easy—name, address, age, education, experience, references—but each was freighted with complications. In my neatest writing I wrote, “Jean Harvey,” increased my age, claimed to have worked for two years at Claypoole, and listed Miss Bryant and Miss Seftain as references. Under DATE WHEN AVAILABLE I wrote, “Today.”
Back at the counter the man was bent over a sheaf of papers. The only sounds were the scratch of his pen, the sifting of paper against paper. I pretended that I was playing statues with Nell and Vicky. If I stood as still as possible then surely he would offer me a job. Three minutes passed, four, seven. Finally a woman in an apron bustled over.
“Harry, has number six left?” She held out an umbrella. “There’s someone waiting to talk to you.”
“They were on their way right after breakfast,” he said, accepting the umbrella. “Thanks, Sheila. Yes, miss?”
“Miss Harvey. Jean Harvey. Here’s the form. I hope I filled it out correctly.”
He took the clipboard and, without looking at my answers, set it on a shelf and returned to his papers. “Excuse me, sir.” I had not seen another hotel in town. “I was hoping for something starting immediately.”
“We never hire without checking references.” He turned a page.
I said that Miss Bryant of Claypoole School would vouch for me.
“Miss”—he reached for the clipboard—“Harvey, we’re not taking on staff at the moment. We’ll keep your application on file and notify you if we have a suitable position. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
I felt myself shrinking into the carpet. I had been reduced, like Mr. Sinclair, to lying, and my lies had accomplished nothing. Suddenly the man spoke again, quietly and viciously. I caught only the word police. In my despair I had forgotten the bus driver’s suggestion. “Thank you,