hand-written. For the next five hours I was hammer and tongs at the typewriter, hardly aware of my surroundings.
I was so absorbed that I almost jumped out of my chair when the door from the corridor opened.
‘It’s all right,’ Ashford Aid in his shirt sleeves held up a large freckled hand. ‘It’s only me.’ He came across and sat on the edge of my desk. ‘Mind this?’ He waved his pipe, then leaned over and picked up the last letter I’d typed. ‘Not bad. In fact, very good . . .’
Something in the way he left the sentence suspended made me ask, ‘But not as good as Eve’s?’
‘Not quite like Eve’s,’ he said slowly. ‘There is about Eve’s typing some special something. Somehow you always know Eve’s done it. There’s no need for her to sign e.t . so modestly in small letters after the dash and the H.E. in capitals. It’s her handiwork all right.’
As he was talking Mr. Green came in and now added, ‘Eve’s stamp. Her mark on everything she does.’
‘No doubt so will Madeleine,’ Ashford said kindly. ‘And now how about a bite of lunch with us two? Safety in numbers. And Bill here is married anyway.'
‘Thank you,’ I replied, ‘but I really can’t.’ Out of my bag I picked up the packet of sandwiches I had asked Chico at the Residence to make up for me, and put them On the table. ‘I’ve got a lot still to do.’
‘You’re not actually chained to your desk, you know,' pointed out Ashford gently. ‘Come on!’
‘Even the incomparable Eve stopped for lunch,’ Mr. Green said.
I smiled and shook my head. ‘No, really . . . thanks a lot, but I’d rather catch up.’
‘Tomorrow then,’ said Ashford. ‘No heel-tapping tomorrow. Don’t work too hard. They won’t pay you any more.’
When they had gone I looked round the office. At least now I felt I had made a start. I read through some of the files, which were not very different from the ones I had worked with at the Foreign Office, and when a tiny carillon of bells from a church clock chimed two, I pushed back the desk and relaxed.
The one window looked out on to the street. Just below were spread red and white ponchos for sale like washing on a line and the' Indians in their grey trilby hats leaning on the wall, calling to passers-by in Mateza. The sunshine blazed on red-flowered flame trees by the Embassy gate and the hibiscus and poinsettias in the forecourt of the luxury American-type hotel on the other side of the road, while ancient taxis and brightly coloured buses, emitting dense clouds of black smoke, dodged each other at speed in between.
I ate my sandwiches. They were of freshly baked bread, filled with sliced chicken in a spicy, peppery garnish. It was odd, I thought, sitting here in another girl’s domain. The famous pot plants, all bright yellow blossoms bursting through very green foliage, stood on the white-painted windowsill. Three lithographs on the wall of half-timbered houses in English villages, and a calendar with the dates neatly scored through until eight days ago, the Sunday she had her accident. Though I was beginning to build up my own picture of Eve, there was little here to help me except an immaculate neatness and clearly a precise and efficient mind.
By four o’clock I had finished the typing and had read through twenty-six of the files. By the amount of correspondence I could gauge the daily workload. I considered that with a bit of luck and not too many interruptions, I could cope with it. I had now gained a working knowledge—sketchy perhaps, but at least I would know what people were talking about—of the Embassy daily routine. I had learned something about the social conditions and economics of Charaguay, read about British trade, and the prospects of mutual advantage in imports and exports, found out a little about the British Aid projects which were Mr. Ashford’s pigeon—help with banana cultivation, the seismograph and warning devices for the earthquake station at
I was so absorbed that I almost jumped out of my chair when the door from the corridor opened.
‘It’s all right,’ Ashford Aid in his shirt sleeves held up a large freckled hand. ‘It’s only me.’ He came across and sat on the edge of my desk. ‘Mind this?’ He waved his pipe, then leaned over and picked up the last letter I’d typed. ‘Not bad. In fact, very good . . .’
Something in the way he left the sentence suspended made me ask, ‘But not as good as Eve’s?’
‘Not quite like Eve’s,’ he said slowly. ‘There is about Eve’s typing some special something. Somehow you always know Eve’s done it. There’s no need for her to sign e.t . so modestly in small letters after the dash and the H.E. in capitals. It’s her handiwork all right.’
As he was talking Mr. Green came in and now added, ‘Eve’s stamp. Her mark on everything she does.’
‘No doubt so will Madeleine,’ Ashford said kindly. ‘And now how about a bite of lunch with us two? Safety in numbers. And Bill here is married anyway.'
‘Thank you,’ I replied, ‘but I really can’t.’ Out of my bag I picked up the packet of sandwiches I had asked Chico at the Residence to make up for me, and put them On the table. ‘I’ve got a lot still to do.’
‘You’re not actually chained to your desk, you know,' pointed out Ashford gently. ‘Come on!’
‘Even the incomparable Eve stopped for lunch,’ Mr. Green said.
I smiled and shook my head. ‘No, really . . . thanks a lot, but I’d rather catch up.’
‘Tomorrow then,’ said Ashford. ‘No heel-tapping tomorrow. Don’t work too hard. They won’t pay you any more.’
When they had gone I looked round the office. At least now I felt I had made a start. I read through some of the files, which were not very different from the ones I had worked with at the Foreign Office, and when a tiny carillon of bells from a church clock chimed two, I pushed back the desk and relaxed.
The one window looked out on to the street. Just below were spread red and white ponchos for sale like washing on a line and the' Indians in their grey trilby hats leaning on the wall, calling to passers-by in Mateza. The sunshine blazed on red-flowered flame trees by the Embassy gate and the hibiscus and poinsettias in the forecourt of the luxury American-type hotel on the other side of the road, while ancient taxis and brightly coloured buses, emitting dense clouds of black smoke, dodged each other at speed in between.
I ate my sandwiches. They were of freshly baked bread, filled with sliced chicken in a spicy, peppery garnish. It was odd, I thought, sitting here in another girl’s domain. The famous pot plants, all bright yellow blossoms bursting through very green foliage, stood on the white-painted windowsill. Three lithographs on the wall of half-timbered houses in English villages, and a calendar with the dates neatly scored through until eight days ago, the Sunday she had her accident. Though I was beginning to build up my own picture of Eve, there was little here to help me except an immaculate neatness and clearly a precise and efficient mind.
By four o’clock I had finished the typing and had read through twenty-six of the files. By the amount of correspondence I could gauge the daily workload. I considered that with a bit of luck and not too many interruptions, I could cope with it. I had now gained a working knowledge—sketchy perhaps, but at least I would know what people were talking about—of the Embassy daily routine. I had learned something about the social conditions and economics of Charaguay, read about British trade, and the prospects of mutual advantage in imports and exports, found out a little about the British Aid projects which were Mr. Ashford’s pigeon—help with banana cultivation, the seismograph and warning devices for the earthquake station at
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