Read 1972 - Just a Matter of Time for Free Online

tomorrow morning, Mrs. Morely-Johnson. Is there anything I can bring you?’
    ‘That reminds me. I was going to ask.’ A long pause, then she went on, ‘Will you please bring me five thousand dollars in cash?’
    Patterson could scarcely believe what she was saying. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his desk, his fingers tightly gripping the receiver.
    ‘Did you say five thousand, Mrs. Morely-Johnson?’
    ‘Yes, please. I think I should have more cash here. I don’t always like paying by cheque.’
    ‘I will happily bring it.’
    He listened to more of Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s yak and when she finally hung up, he stared thoughtfully at his blotter. He didn’t like this new development. He felt he had been, suddenly and unexpectedly, deprived of some of his power. Had Sheila, in some clever way, persuaded the old lady to pay her and not to be paid by the bank? Maybe he was imagining this whereas the old lady had thought this up for herself. She is out buying clothes. Had this really been the old lady’s idea or had Sheila suggested it? He pressed his forefinger against his dimple as he thought. And now the old lady was asking for five thousand dollars in cash! This again made him feel uneasy. She had never asked for cash before. Thinking about the past, he realized how complete his control had been over her during the past four years. He had paid her tax, invested her money; every item she bought he had paid for: her hotel bills, her chauffeur’s wages, the car repairs, her gifts to charities and up to now, her companion’s wages and expenses had passed through his hands.
    I’ve decided to pay her myself. I won’t worry you with her affairs .
    He didn’t like this sudden change. He wondered if the old lady had been persuaded.
    He lit a cigarette as he thought. He saw the calm, expressionless face, the smoky blue eyes, the firm mouth. Then he heard her quiet voice as she said: I pay my debts. He began to relax. He told himself that he was imagining something that didn’t exist. The old lady was a little eccentric. What did it matter if she paid Sheila herself? What was he worrying about? The important thing now was, sooner or later, Sheila would pay her debt.
    Vera put her head around his door.
    ‘Mr. Lessing is waiting.’
    Patterson stubbed out his cigarette.
    ‘Send him in, Vera,’ he said and with an effort he switched his mind off his immediate problems and reached for a scratchpad and his gold pencil.
     
    * * *
     
    Jack Bromhead had been Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s chauffeur for the past five years. Although Mrs. Morely-Johnson was in awe of him, she was very proud to have such a man as her chauffeur. Aged fifty-five, Bromhead was tall, lean and dignified and his thick hair was the colour of burnished silver. Once, when sightseeing in Canterbury, England, Mrs. Morely-Johnson had seen a Bishop walking along the main street. His benign expression, his dignity, his snow white hair had made an impression on her. She had the same impression when Bromhead had come to her from an Agency to apply for the vacancy caused by the death of her previous chauffeur who had been far from dignified, too familiar and who thought a Cadillac the only car in the world.
    Bromhead had impeccable references. He had only recently arrived in America, being British born. He had told her he had been chauffeur to the Duke of Sussex. His quiet, dignified manners, his references from the Duke, his appearance made him irresistible to Mrs. Morely-Johnson.
    He told her in his quiet, beautifully modulated voice that he was used to driving only a Rolls-Royce. If Mrs. Morely-Johnson preferred the Cadillac, and here he paused, lifting his silver grey eyebrows, then he would regretfully have to look elsewhere.
    Looking at this tall, stately man, Mrs. Morely-Johnson thought how her friends would envy her having such a personality working for her. She had never thought of buying a Rolls-
    Royce. All her friends had either Cadillacs or