Across the Lagoon

Roumelia Lane

Never having been abroad in her life before, Carol was thrilled to land the job of looking after Gray Barrett's teen-age niece for the summer in Venice.
Stephanie, however, turned out to be rather a handful. But still Carol found her easier to deal with than her grim but attractive uncle!

H
ORSESHOE
C
OMMON
derived its name from the circular road lined with stately houses which enclosed it. Set on a slope, its manicured green lawns and winding paths cascaded down in undulating neatness to the busy shopping parade which ran across the bottom.

In the spring, slender flowering trees were clothed in delicate pink blossom. In the summer and autumn, majestic cedars cast their shade, and luxuriant beeches turned to gold. In the winter the tall pines, high on the slopes, swayed and moaned in the wind.

Carol strolled past the flower-scented enclosure which had been set aside for the blind. She knew every inch of the Common. She had scootered madly down its paths when she was small, and fished for newts and frogs with her brothers and sisters in its silent tree-enshrouded pond. Throughout her nineteen years she had watched it mature into a place of beauty withstanding all attempts by the traffic moguls to obliterate it in favour of roads. For the past three years she had walked through it on her way to work at the big store in town.

But she wasn't going to work today.

She really didn't know quite what had happened to her. She had always thought that she would be content to be a sales assistant for as long as she needed to work. Admittedly it hadn't exactly been a job of her own choosing.
At
sixteen she had had no idea what she wanted to do. At a loss, her mother had taken her along for an interview with the careers advice officer at school.

Carol had mentioned timidly that she liked painting. The school officer, a severe woman with a chilly manner, had examined her art work and told her that though it had merit she would undoubtedly have difficulty in competing with others who excelled in that field.

Carol had grasped at sewing as a second choice. She « had always considered herself handy with a needle. However, after a critical study of the garments she had made the careers officer was of the opinion that her talents were not outstanding enough to suggest a vocation in the fashion world.

Gradually Carol had become stuck for ideas on what interested her. It seemed that though she was passably good at everything, she shone with no particular brilliance at anything. At the end of the half-hour interview the careers officer's only optimistic suggestion was to take a job selling lampshades in a local store.

Because there seemed little else she could do, Carol had accepted her advice. She had been selling lampshades ever since; tall ones, short ones, flowered ones, plain ones. On rainy days and sunny days she had greeted the customers with a smile and wandered with them while they pondered over bright puce fringes, figured parchment and tinkling chandeliers.

Then just a week ago, for no reason that she could think of, she suddenly decided that she hated the sight of lampshades. Before she could give herself time to ponder about it she had gone and given her notice. She had spent all week quivering over this monumental step she had taken. But on the last day she had walked out of the store without looking back.

Now on this June afternoon she strolled, soaking up a little guiltily this strange sense of freedom.

Of course it was bound to be short-lived. She couldn't afford to be out of work for long. As a matter of fact she was on her way right now to the newsagents at the bottom of the Common to see what the afternoon paper had to offer in the way of jobs.

Clad casually in cotton skirt and blouse, she moved with a. swing, the light of eager expectation in her blue eyes. There was something exciting about looking for a new job, especially when you were searching for something out of the ordinary. All sorts of things were possible, and at the moment she had the whole world at her feet.

She passed picnickers on the green slopes, and mothers giving their babies an airing along the paths. Everything had a special sparkle about it today. She had never had time to notice before how melodiously the birds sang.

Down at the opening on to the roadside everything was lost in a barrage of sound. Bournemouth, being a sizeable town, had its share of thundering traffic. Cars were swerving by now on the curving route uphill from the centre of town.

Carol crossed by the traffic lights and went into the paper shop displaying all the latest magazines. It was only a little after two o'clock. In her eagerness she realised she had arrived too early. However, while she was hanging about, a yellow newspaper van jerked to a stop outside and the afternoon editions were brought in and dropped with a thud on the counter.

She had to wait until the elderly man next to her was served with a plug of tobacco, a bundle of pipe cleaners and a box of matches. Then the string tied round the wad of newspapers had to be cut. At last she paid her money and was handed the first one off the pile. She told herself that she would wait until she got back home before scanning the
Situations Vacant
columns. But the suspense was too much. Once she had crossed back into the Common she found a seat and quickly opened the paper.

The hope shining in her eyes began to fade as she flicked down the columns. Gradually it disappeared altogether. At the end of the page it had been replaced by disillusionment. There were any amount of jobs to be had if she wanted to be a cook, a kitchenmaid, a dishwasher or a waitress. There was also someone needed to walk a pair of Afghan hounds daily, someone to baby-sit with a Siamese cat, and endless openings for sales assistants, presumably in some cases for the purpose of selling lampshades.

Wryly Carol folded the paper. She had no idea what she was looking for. She knew only that there was nothing in the columns of print to excite her fancy.

Oh well, it was only Monday. There wasn't all that much rush. She could afford to spend a whole week making up her mind. Tomorrow the
Situations Vacant
advertisements might have brightened up considerably.

With a feeling of anti-climax she rose and made her way back up the path through the Common and out of the gate at the top.

Newberry Avenue, one of the roads that led off from Horseshoe Common, was lined with big old-fashioned houses, mainly Victorian in design. All of them ugly, with unnecessary towers, gables and ornamentation, they stood in sizeable gardens, their gaunt angles and huge glass conservatories softened by the surrounding trees.

Carol lived in the fourth house along, number fifteen. Her mother had been born there and could remember the time when servants had bustled about the rooms and gardeners had worked in the grounds. Now with a growing family of her own she found that things had changed. Though she had children enough to fill the rooms of the big house she and Carol's father had been compelled to let some of them off, mainly on the upper floors, to keep up with the high cost of living.

Carol had never had any complaints. She had romped about the ugly old house with her younger brothers and sisters, hiding in the turret rooms and sliding down the curving banister. In summer the garden was always a delight. They climbed every tree in sight and helped with the work amongst the lanes of growing things. There were ripe strawberries to be picked, green gooseberries, blackcurrants, raspberries and shiny golden apples. Here, secure in the midst of a boisterous family, she had known only happy days. That was why it seemed odd that during the last few weeks she had experienced this peculiar restless feeling.

She turned in at the short curve of drive now and cast her gaze over the house. It was difficult to put her finger on what the trouble was. All she knew was that her present way of life seemed no longer enough. She wanted something more—but what, she couldn't have told anyone. The only answer seemed to be to look for something different in the way of work.

She opened the front door which was part of the glass conservatory. From here a small hall, where the stairs curved upwards, led to a longer one at right angles. At one end was the family apartment.

She went into the large front room, with its mixture of old and modern furnishings, and flopped down into an armchair. She had the place to herself. Her mother, not too happy about her giving up her job, had taken the week's wash to the launderette. The rest of the family were either at work or at school. No one stirred in the rented rooms.

Carol gave a sigh and stared around at nothing in particular. It was quite warm outside. She supposed she could take a deck chair and sit in the garden, only she didn't feel like it. She didn't feel like doing anything. This was her first day off work and already she was at a loose end.

She shot a baleful look at the rolled-up newspaper which she had tossed on to the small table beside her, blaming it completely for her frustrations. She had pinned all her hopes on it to get her out of a rut. Instead it was having the opposite effect. What if she was stuck with the same choice of mundane jobs all week?

She was about to drag her depressed glance away when something caught her eye. She hadn't bothered to rearrange the paper after she had read the job advertisements. She had simply made a baton of it in her hand. Now as it lay on the table a short column headed
Personal
was turned uppermost. It had never occurred to her to look here for her requirements. She wouldn't have done so now, but a block in heavy type, with the - words
Venetian Riviera
clearly discernible, danced before her eyes, boldly, tantalisingly, as though asking to be read.

Curiously she drew the paper towards her. Her heart began to beat a little faster as she took in the whole of the printed request.

Wanted, responsible person to supervise fifteen-year-old schoolgirl on Venetian Riviera for duration of summer vacation. Ring Lyndhurst 34044.

Pulses thumping, Carol swallowed uncertainly. She had wanted a job out of the ordinary. Now that one stared her in the face she didn't know whether she dared apply for it or not. She had never been out of England in her life.

But that wasn't to say she wouldn't have gone if she had been given the opportunity. Nervously she rose, excitement mounting within her. Wasn't this her chance to do something different? And what was the point of throwing up her job if she was going to turn coward when it came to the crunch? She might just as well go back to the store in the morning. And anyway, a phone call wouldn't hurt.

Bolstering her timidity with the thought that she could always change her mind if she wanted to, yet at the same time spurred on by dazzling visions of foreign places, she picked up the paper and went out.

In a little alcove at the far end of the hall the phone box was practically indistinguishable amongst a clutter of coats, caps, school scarves and general outdoor garments piled on the hooks. Carol had to move softly. Mrs Ritz who lived in the end room didn't like disturbances around her door.

She fumbled for a coin in her skirt pocket and referring to the newspaper beside her she dialled the number carefully. She listened to the purring tones signalling that she was through, the blood pounding in her head. Then suddenly the receiver was lifted with a click and a woman's voice came on to the line.

Carol, her nerves tuned for the sound, blurted out all at once her reason for ringing, too tensed up to stop for breath. Before she could finish the woman's voice interrupted with, 'One moment, please.' Carol gulped at the abrupt silence that followed. She couldn't stand the agony of waiting. Panicking, she was wondering wildly whether to slam the phone back on the hook when a crisp voice, its thread of steel acting like the flick of a whip on her crumbling confidence, sounded in the earpiece. 'Good afternoon. My name is Gray Barrett.'

Feeling incredibly cool now that she had to match her tones with his, Carol said levelly, 'Good afternoon, Mr Barrett. I'm calling concerning your advertisement for--'

'Yes, yes, my housekeeper told me,' he cut across her conversation testily and added briskly, 'First of all we'd better have your phone number, Miss ..

'Miss Lindley,' Carol replied promptly. She gave him the number from the phone box and heard him repeat it as he wrote it down. This done, he wasted no time in getting down to business. His attitude sounded to be one of impatience as he told her, 'I've only a few hours to spare for this matter. Briefly the problem is this. My niece's school closes down for the summer at the end of this week. Her parents are in the Middle East and can't do with her out there at the moment, and I've been unable to find anyone locally who can. I'm leaving for Venice next week, so I've had to book a hotel near by on the coast for Stephanie. But obviously she can't stay there on her own.'

'I see,' Carol said with a capable air, though she wasn't at all sure that she did.

'I shall be in the city for the rest of the week,' the voice continued somewhat imperiously, 'so we've got to get this thing sorted out now. You'd better come - along this afternoon. The address is Rowan House just outside the village of Lyndhurst in the New Forest. Do you know it?'