She nodded and took the tape, and the two of them worked in companionable silence for the next couple of hours, Poppy rattling away on the keyboard of the fairly new electric typewriter, and Dr Browne scribbling furiously.
When she presented him with the finished copy, he looked up with an expression of mild surprise on his face.
‘That was quick,’ he remarked.
Quick! She’d gone as fast as she could, but she knew she was slower than a lot of experienced secretaries. He really must have had some dud typists if he thought she was quick!
She glanced at her watch. It was almost half-past eleven.
‘Excuse me, Dr Browne,’ she began.
He looked up from the paper he was studying, the grey eyes focusing on her face as if she’d woken him from a trance.
‘Yes? What is it?’
Poppy wished he wouldn’t bark at her like that. ‘I’m going to get myself a cup of coffee. Would you like one?’
‘What? Oh, a coffee—yes, please.’ He started reading again.
‘Er—how do you like your coffee, Dr Browne?’
‘What? Oh—black, no sugar.’
‘And tea?’
He gave a click of annoyance. ‘What is this—the Spanish Inquisition? Milk, no sugar in tea.’
‘Thank you,’ she said in an exaggeratedly patient voice. ‘Now I know, and I shan’t have to ask you again. Just one thing more, Dr Browne. . .’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! What is it now?’
‘To fetch us a cup of coffee I have to walk all the way over to the canteen, which is a waste of time, and by the time I get it back here it will probably be cold. So I was wondering if I could bring a kettle in?’
He frowned. ‘I don’t see why not. Have you got a kettle to bring?’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Poppy conversationally. ‘When we got our new jug kettle to match the kitchen——’ She stopped hastily when she saw the expression on his face, and remembered what he had said about not liking chit-chat. Miserable beast!
He was looking at her curiously. ‘Are you always quite so outspoken and persistent?’ he enquired.
It didn’t sound like an insult, she thought cautiously, as she considered his question.
‘I haven’t been, up until now,’ she explained. ‘My last job didn’t exactly encourage it.’
‘Your last job being. . .?’ he probed.
She was half inclined to tell him that he was now indulging in idle gossip, but on second thoughts. . .!
‘I worked at Maxwells,’ she told him.
‘Maxwells? The department store in town?’ He sounded surprised.
‘The very same!’
‘But not as a shop assistant, surely?’
She laughed. ‘A glorified shop assistant. My official title was “beautician”.’
‘Beautician?’ He had obviously never heard the word before. ‘And what does a beautician do, pray?’
‘She gets women to spend far too much money on make-up, that’s what!’
A shaft of sunlight speared through a dispersing storm cloud, giving his eyes the appearance of the silvery mercury she’d once played with in a long-distant science lesson.
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