Paid Servant Read Online Free PDF

demobilization he had qualified as a dentist and now had a thriving practice. In the R.A.F. he had been a fine cricketer, tall and athletic, but now he had filled out considerably, and looked what he was, well-fed and prosperous.
    Audrey, his wife, was, when I first knew her, short and buxom. A qualified teacher, she had come to England to do an extension course in education soon after the end of the war, but met and married Don instead. She had had three separate attempts at raising her own family­, but each had ended in miscarriage, and these failures had somewhat dimmed the sparkle and verve which had been so very much a part of her. She was always well-groomed and healthy-looking, but there was now a droop to her mouth even at her gayest, and she was easily prone to periods of irritability and depression. Neither she nor Don mixed much socially, except with a few doctors or dentists, all of them West Indian, preferring to ‘keep themselves to themselves’.
    I felt sure that after one look at Roddy they’d be ready to eat out of his hand; he’d certainly set that quiet, refined household ablaze, so to speak. They won’t be able to resist him, I thought. I had the feeling that this case would soon be settled and everybody happy; maybe Miss Coney was right after all—a coloured family seemed to be the answer.
    Just before noon I went downstairs to make an inquiry in one of the ground-floor offices. As I passed the telephone operator’s cubicle she called to me, “Someone’s been trying to reach you all morning, Mr Braithwaite. A lady.”
    I retraced my steps and went over to her; she never missed, not once. Sometimes I’d deliberately try to alter my stride, or even walk on tip-toes, but just as I thought I’d made it, that low, clear voice would reach out to me: “Hello, Mr Braithwaite.”
    Now I rested a shoulder against the side of her booth and watched the way in which her slim, beautifully-kept fingers moved delicately among the criss-cross of cords or manipulated the switch-keys, unerringly controlling the intricate system. Her head, with its mass of brown, wavy hair was tilted slightly to one side, as if attuned to other sounds besides the unending stream of calls. Her face was plain, with no specially distinguishing feature, except her mouth, which seemed always on the edge of laughter.
    â€œDid the caller leave any message, Miss Felden?”
    She felt for the narrow ribbon of paper which hung from the little Braille typewriter on a small table beside her; her fingers quickly traversed the impressed surface and she replied: “No, she’ll call again.” On her face was a half-mischievous smile, as if she thoroughly enjoyed the short demonstration of the closed mystery between her fingers and the strip of paper.
    â€œOkay, I’ll be in my office if she calls again. Got held up at Mile End this morning.”
    â€œGosh, that’s awful. Never mind, you’re here.” The sweetness of smiles was always in her voice, and somehow I could never quite become accustomed to her blindness, or the suggestion of helplessness which the word invoked. Her general air of assurance and independence was so natural that, whenever in conversation with her, I had the feeling that she had just closed her eyes the better to concentrate on some elusive point, or to listen to some faint sound, and that presently she’d open them again, wide.
    â€œSee you later.”
    I went back to my office. About half an hour later the call came through.
    â€œMr Braithwaite?”
    â€œYes, Braithwaite speaking.”
    â€œOh, thank Heaven.” There was relief in the voice, relief and a certain husky, lilting inflexion which is distinctly characteristic of the speech of persons from the English-speaking Caribbean territories.
    â€œYou don’t know me, my name is Bentham, Mrs Bentham. I got your name and telephone number from a friend, and I would very