I for Isobel by Amy Witting

harm, you know.’
    She must mean, that he meant harm but could do none.
    â€˜Of course I don’t mind.’ She put on a coy look. ‘I had no idea I was so fascinating.’
    Olive looked startled. ‘Well, that’s the way to take it,’ she said, but doubtfully.
    â€˜You’re a sketch, you are,’ Rita said, and yawned. ‘See you tomorrow, girls.’
    Isobel put the German dictionary away in a drawer and gave it a secret affectionate pat. It shed its virtue over the memory of the day.
    There was no reading that evening. She could hardly keep a decent countenance during dinner and went to bed straight after.
    The next day was peaceful. Mr Richard was not there, and the German mail went faster. Only two letters left to translate.
    Betty was not at dinner. The young men were subdued, which was odd, because it was Betty who subdued their excesses. They went out after dinner; Madge disappeared; only Mr Watkin was left in the dining room, doing a crossword puzzle in the daily paper. Isobel brought down her book and spent the evening happily in Barsetshire.
    Next day she finished the German mail in the morning and spent the afternoon in the storeroom checking invoices while Frank, the storeman, unpacked glasses.
    â€˜Six etched Bohemian, stemmed. Azure. 0 dash 234. Six ditto lilac. 0 dash 235. Six ditto clear…’
    Frank was a neat, cheerful little man who radiated some of the virtue of the chance-found German dictionary. He handled the pretty glasses with a secure and gentle touch and called Mr Richard the dickybird.
    â€˜You couldn’t trust the dickybird with this job,’ he said. ‘He’s a disaster.’
    She had suspected he might be.
    â€˜He’s a suffering soul, see, and he takes it out on the glasses. And then, when he breaks one he suffers worse, because it’s money down the drain.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t trust myself with it, either,’ said Isobel, and went on quickly, ‘Aren’t you a suffering soul, then?’
    â€˜Some can wear it, some can’t.’
    He lifted a rose-tinted goblet out of the packing straw, wiped it briskly and delicately with a cloth and held it to the light.
    â€˜Pretty.’
    â€˜Not top quality. Pretty enough. Now, where’s its number?’
    Between the pretty glassware and the plain talk, the easy, sensible employment, that afternoon passed pleasantly and five o’clock came unlooked for.
    Away from Plummer Street, at ease in her own large kitchen, Aunt Noelene made a new impression.
    She sat at the kitchen table; sunlight through the window lit the brilliant silk shirt she wore over narrow black pants, but did not make her ridiculous; one did not think, of her keen bony face, whether or not it was plain. She was scribbling a sum on a notepad.
    â€˜So, when you’ve paid your board, you have twelve and six left for the week. You won’t get far on that. I’ll fix the Business College. I’ll send them a cheque for the term.’
    â€˜But, Aunt Noelene, I don’t need shorthand, and I can type well enough for the German mail.’
    â€˜With two fingers. You keep that up and you’ll never learn to type properly. And suppose this job folds? Where would you be then? You take my advice and get your qualifications while you can.’
    â€˜You do too much for me. I don’t want to be a burden.’
    â€˜Well, that’s…’ Aunt Noelene snapped the remark off cleanly but too late. Isobel was blushing as the past rose round her like a stench of stale urine. In a less boisterous tone Aunt Noelene went on, ‘You can’t be expected to look after yourself at your age. Who else is going to look out for you, for God’s sake?’
    She went back to her sums. ‘You’ll need to eat out, three nights a week. You’ll be paying for meals that you’re not getting, that’s a nuisance. No use asking for special rates at a boarding