That Would Be a Fairy Tale - By Amanda Grange Page 0,18

some form of part-time employment. After much thought, she decided she would seek a job as a secretary. She was bright and well organised, and she felt she ought to be able to give satisfaction in that capacity.

Having made her decision she set out on her bicycle for the neighbouring town, in order to see if there were any suitable positions being advertised: Mr Peterson’s office, she knew, dealt with such things. She did not need to earn a huge amount; just enough to be able to hire someone to help Gibson, and perhaps to provide the loyal butler with an annuity when he retired.

On reaching the town of Oakleigh she made directly for Mr Peterson’s office and, propping her bicycle up against the wall, went in.

The office was situated up a flight of stairs, above a baker’s shop. The stairs were narrow and steep. At the top they gave onto a bare waiting room, with six hard chairs pushed up against one wall. A low table with an aspidistra on it was set in front of them. On the walls were posters of young men and women busily at work, all smiling cheerily as they went about their tasks.

At the far side of the room was a desk, and behind it sat a brisk young woman who asked Cicely her business. Fortunately Cicely was not well known in the town, and the woman did not recognize her. On Cicely’s explaining that she was looking for a position the brisk young woman asked her to take a chair before disappearing into the office and, after waiting for what seemed like an interminable time, Cicely was shown in to see Mr Peterson.

‘And what can we do for you?’ asked Mr Peterson, looking at her over the top of his spectacles. He was a dry little man, and was seated behind a large desk that seemed too big for him.

‘I am looking for work as a secretary,’ said Cicely. She perched on the edge of the hard chair he had indicated when she had entered the room.

‘A secretary?’ He looked at her again over the top of his spectacles, as if assessing her suitability for such a position and finding her wanting. ‘Do you have any experience?’ He asked the question perfunctorily, and his expression was not encouraging.

‘Not exactly,’ she admitted. ‘But I helped my father -’

‘I’m afraid our clients want more solid experience than that,’ he said, steepling his fingers and leaning back in his chair.

Cicely felt her backbone stiffen at the patronising note in his voice. He had obviously decided he could dismiss her with a few ungracious words, but he was about to find out that she would not be dismissed so easily.

‘You are in the habit of arranging such matters?’ she asked, raising her eyebrows.

‘I am,’ he admitted, his eyes becoming harder.

‘And you have secretarial positions on your books?’ she enquired politely.

He made her wait, before saying grudgingly, ‘I do.’

‘Then if it is not too much trouble I would like to know what they are.’

He gave a sigh and rang a bell on his desk.

‘Miss Dennis, what secretarial positions do we have on our books?’ he asked as the brisk young woman walked into the office.

‘I’ll get the file, Mr Peterson.’

She returned with it a few minutes later and Mr Peterson opened the file on the desk in front of him. ‘Thank you, Miss Dennis, that will be all.’

Miss Dennis left the room.

Mr Peterson turned over several sheets of paper, shaking his head, then glancing up at Cicely and giving the occasional tut. But then he stopped, a single sheet of paper in his hand. He looked up at Cicely and down at the paper, then said slowly, ‘There is something here that might suit you, Miss . . . ?’

‘Buckworth,’ said Cicely.

She had decided that she would not give her real name. If word of what she was doing got back to any of her friends they would be horrified. Even worse, they would rally round and help her. But much as she loved them, in this matter Cicely did not want their help. For one thing she did not want them to know just how badly off her father’s death had left her, and for another, she felt it was her responsibility to provide for Gibson and no one else’s. That being the case, she wanted to do it herself.

‘Miss Buckworth.’ Mr Peterson accepted the name she gave him. ‘It is a part-time job, for three