The Lotus House by Katharine Moore

now.
    “Oh, it’s nothing. I get rather tired sometimes, that’s all. I haven’t any help at present.” Miss Budgeon looked thoughtful.
    Three days later a smart slim car deposited an equallysmart slim passenger at the Lotus House who rang Letty’s bell. She was heavily made-up and wore a black silk blouse, tight scarlet trousers and matching scarlet stilletto heeled shoes.
    “Mrs Sanderson?” enquired this vision crisply. “I’m Dian — she said at the shop you needed help, dear, and I think I can fit you in Tuesdays.”
    Letty gazed at her in astonishment. How could Miss Budgeon have possibly thought this black and scarlet dragonfly suitable for cleaning floors and scrubbing woodwork? Still, there she stood waiting.
    “Thank you very much,” murmured Letty, “but you’d better have a look round first, I think.”
    The look round, however, did not apparently disconcert Dian.
    “Righty ho, then,” she said when it was finished. “I’ll be here Tuesday next, ten sharp.” The car drove off.
    “ She won’t last long,” commented Letty to herself, “if she ever turns up at all.”
    Tuesday morning however, brought Dian all right, and in the self-same clothes, the only concession she made to her morning’s work was to change her stilettos into a pair of equally smart sandals tied on with velvet ribbon, and to envelop herself in an overall of shocking pink.
    It did not take long however for Letty to discover that Miss Budgeon had provided her with a treasure. Never had floorboards shone so, never had rugs and carpets looked so trim, never had tiles and taps twinkled so brightly. Dian was both quick and thorough — floors were her passion. She seldom seemed to look above the skirting-board in the sitting-room and bedrooms, but as the dusting was Letty’s business, this did not really matter. Objects didn’t interest Dian but after her floors had been attended to, she had plenty of observation for the people who walked on them.
    “That Mrs Royce — she’s a peach, she is. I wouldn’tmuch want my Luke to set eyes on her.”
    “Your basement, she’s a shy one — puts me in mind of a goldfish we’ve got, slips away behind his waterweed at a shadow.”
    “Who does for your third-floor then? Doesn’t often do to let men do for themselves, dearie — regular messers, most of ’em.”
    There might be something in this, Letty thought, and after a word with Aubrey Stacey, who seemed grateful, it was arranged that Dian should see to his floor too. “And quite time I should say, thick with dust you could write yer name on, but that vacuum of his came out of the Ark, I shouldn’t wonder.” Letty had a pleasant momentary vision of Mrs Noah busily at work.
    Doing for Aubrey meant that Dian brought her lunch now and stayed on for an extra hour afterwards. Letty and she had the meal together. Dian obviously had never entertained any other idea for a moment but she refused to share Letty’s food.
    “Must keep to me diet, dearie — it don’t matter for you but my Luke likes me sheer.” Letty felt uncomfortable consuming her quite substantial lunch, while Dian pecked at two slices of Ryvita spread with a non-fat cream cheese, and nibbled at an apple. She hoped Luke persuaded her to cook for two in the evenings. Luke was another shock when she met him. He was a huge coal-black Jamaican, a junior partner, so Dian proudly boasted, in a garage in Deptford — hence, Letty supposed, the succession of cars that brought Dian every Tuesday morning.
    “I don’t have to oblige.” said Dian, “my Luke brings in good money, but staying at home all day gives me the creeps.” Luke and Dian lived on the estate but though so near, Dian never walked if she could avoid it. Sometimes, even, Luke would call again for her and take her back home. He had other uses too.
    The delivery of Miss Cook’s post was a constant source of annoyance to her. The postman insisted on ignoring her prized separate entrance and delivered