Tilly True by Dilly Court

present circumstances, and I’m in need of a job and a place to stay. I’m a hard worker, Mr Palgrave.’
    â€˜Come into my office and we’ll talk about it. Bootle will fetch us a tray of tea and some of Mrs Bootle’s ginger snaps.’ Nodding his head in Bootle’s direction, Barney ushered Tilly into his office and held out a chair.
    Feeling like a proper lady, Tilly sat down and folded her hands on her lap.
    Making a space by shoving a pile of documents onto the floor, Barney perched on the edge of his desk. ‘Well now, Tilly, I’m afraid I’m not in a position to take on a housemaid. I live in bachelor rooms and my landlord’s wife does the cleaning, after a fashion.’
    The thought of a night huddled in a doorway, freezing to death in the snow, made any lie seem justified. Tilly looked Barney in the eye. ‘I see you got one of them new fangled typewriting machines. I could be a lady type-writer and do all your business letters. At school I was top of me class in spelling.’
    â€˜You can use a typewriting machine? I’m impressed.’
    â€˜Oh yes,’ lied Tilly, the untruths tripping off her tongue. ‘My previous employer, Mr Stanley Blessed of Blessed’s second-hand furniture emporium, Wharf Road, Islington, he could vouch for me. I typed all his business letters for him.’
    â€˜You did? And I suppose he would give you a glowing reference?’
    â€˜Yes, sir. Mr Blessed and me were like that.’ Tilly held up her crossed fingers, hoping that she would not be struck down for such an out-and-out lie. She waited for a thunderbolt to strike, but nothing happened. Perhaps God was in a forgiving mood, or maybe he just didn’t intend her to spend a night out in the cold. Cocking her head on one side, she assumed what she hoped was an innocent expression.
    There was a clatter of teacups and a tap on the door from very low down, suggesting that Bootle was using the toe of his highly polished shoe. Barney raised himself to open the door. ‘Bootle, Miss True has a proposition for us.’
    â€˜Has she indeed, sir?’ Bootle carried the tea tray to the desk and set it down, beaming at Tilly. ‘And what would that be, miss?’
    â€˜Miss True says she is a type-writer. She is offering to use the infernal machine to do our correspondence. What do you think, Bootle?’
    He poured tea into a china cup and handed it to Tilly. ‘Milk and sugar, miss?’
    Tilly nodded, holding her breath and waiting for his answer while he added milk and sugar to her tea.
    â€˜It sounds ideal, Mr Barney. I take it you want me to make the suggestion to Himself?’
    â€˜If you would, Bootle. Himself is more likely to take the suggestion kindly from you.’
    â€˜Exactly so, Mr Barney.’ Winking at Tilly, Bootle rolled out of the office, closing the door behind him.
    Remembering Ma’s lessons in manners Tilly curbed a desire to tip the hot tea into the saucer, crooked her little finger and sipped from the cup, eyeing Barney over the rim. She was dying to ask who Himself was and why Barney had sent Bootle to do the necessary, but she didn’t trust herself to speak.
    Seeming to sense her curiosity, Barney ran his hand through his thick black hair and grinned. ‘Mr Jardine is the senior partner, the very senior partner. It would be easier to get an audience with God than with Mr Jardine. Only Bootle or Bragg can get through the door into the hallowed ground of Mr Jardine’s office; your fate hangs in the balance, my dear Miss True. Do have a ginger snap. They are utterly scrumptious.’
    Nibbling in a ladylike fashion, Tilly realised that Barney had not exaggerated; Mrs Bootle’s ginger snaps were very tasty, so tasty that before she knew it Tilly had demolished the whole plateful. She realised that Barney was watching her with some amusement.
    â€˜I was hungry,’ she said, dabbing her lips with a linen