Bernard sat back and allowed a feeling of deep satisfaction to run from the top of his head to the tips of his tiny lead shoes.

His short, slight stature and sloppily applied features had, in the past, lead people to underestimate him. But, he had steadfastly refused to be pigeonholed and, with hard work and determination, here he sat, a character of standing in Grecondale. With his feet under the table, no one would ever guess he wasn’t an Oxford chap.

Not only had he become a highly successful and well-regarded barrister, but he was also husband to the most attractive and kindhearted of ladies and father to a gaggle of small children who seemed to multiply with alarming regularity.

Only last week, a third toddler had appeared in the nursery and no one could rightly remember who she was nor where she had come from. They had, of course, taken her under their wing and would give her a loving home until such time as someone remembered where she came from, if they ever did.

And now he’d been made a partner and the firm had generously installed a telephone in Y Bwythn Bach so that he could work from home for at least part of the week.

This, he felt, would suit him down to the ground. “What man wouldn’t want to spend more time in the bosom of his family?” he thought to himself. “What man wouldn’t want to be the master of his own time?” In fact, he decided, “I think I’ll take a break and give those smelly spaniels a bath.”

Knitwon and Purltoo were dozing quietly behind the sofa, blissfully unaware that Eu de Reynard was not a highly-prized scent outside of the canine world.

As Bernard busied himself in the bathroom, he thought of how his new-found status and wealth had benefited his family.

Firstly, they had been able to employ their very capable nursemaid Anne-Louise to look after the little ones who had adored her from day one. 

The girls – still no sign of a boy, which was perhaps Bernard’s only regret – had come to love her almost as much as they did their mother.

And little Meggy, who had shown great musical flair on the xylophone, was now receiving personal tuition each week from Miss Maddison – a retired classical pianist of some note.

Bernard recalled hearing a rumour that poor Miss Maddison’s once celebrated career had been cruelly cut short by the war. Apparently she had been the only member of her household to survive a direct hit to their home during the Blitz. Though her hands were unharmed, persistent flashbacks rendered her unable to perform and in any case, her piano had been blown to smithereens in the blast.

All of which did at least account for the slightly traumatised expression she generally wore.

Preferring not to dwell too long on the horrors of the war himself, Bernard’s thoughts turned quickly to the latest member of the household staff to arrive, namely Vivien the maid.

Though Vivien hadn’t yet been with them long, Bernard thought she seemed to be a hardworking and pretty young girl – she was in actual fact  a siren of a beauty but since Bernard had only ever had eyes for Rita, he was of course completely oblivious to this.

She also appeared to be contented with her lot, which was always a good thing in Bernard’s book since so many households in Grecondom appeared to have troublesome maids who became embroiled in all sorts of shenanigans.

But Bernard was wrong in his assumption about Vivien – she was not content (this is a Grecon tale after all).

And in fact, at that very moment, Vivien was to be found next door in the bedroom, frozen in the act of changing the bed, and staring off into space.

As was wont to happen, she’d been caught off guard by a memory. Initially, her lips turned up slightly at the edges as the pleasure of the moment she recalled came to her, but then a sudden constriction of her heart brought her back down to earth with a bump as she remembered everything that had taken place since that day.

But Vivien’s trance was broken by Mrs East-Hill entering the bedroom. With a tremendous effort, she swallowed back her sorrow and resumed plumping the pillow which she realised she’d been clutching as if it it were…

“Oh Vivien,” said Rita with dismay, “you must let me know when you’re making the beds, it’s so much easier when there are two of us to do it.”

Rita was feeling very much like a spare part since the recent arrival of this army of domestic help and was beginning to wonder if her family would even notice if she wasn’t there.

But Rita’s thought’s were interrupted as the bedroom door suddenly flew open and two very wet dogs raced through it, followed closely by a rather flustered-looking Bernard.

Pandemonium reigned as the dogs jumped onto the newly made-up bed and sprang around on it excitedly.

Later that evening, as Vivien loaded the washing machine again – at least there was a washing machine, she’d already heard tales about the very primitive washing equipment some of the other Grecondale maids had to wrestle with – she briefly considered what a funny old world it was. There was Mrs E who had money coming out of her ears and all’s she wanted to do was housework and here was she with barely a pot to…

But Vivien let her bitter thoughts go. She was no philosopher anyway, but she was also dog tired and, truth be told, feeling a bit down in the dumps. Her next day off wasn’t for five days, but what would she do with it anyway? All days were the same to her now and in many ways it was better to be hard at work with less time to think.

Meanwhile, in the dining room, Bernard (only recently forgiven for allowing the wet dogs to rampage through the house) and Rita were enjoying the meal that Rita had insisted on cooking since Vivien had had the bedding to wash all over again.

Rita, who came from humble beginnings, held no truck with fancy food and and had rustled up a hearty plate of bangers ‘n’ mash for them both.

In fact, preparing the meal had been the highlight of her week. “How sad that seems,” she thought to herself, as the germ of an idea took root in her mind.

TO BE CONTINUED…

© 2020, Zoe. All rights reserved.