Mrs Finch, Caroline’s daily, had appeared towards the end of the match and called uncompromisingly from the top of the path, ‘Mrs Chance, I’m here.’‘Oh hello, Mrs Finch,’ shouted Caroline, turning towards her and causing Cressida to lose concentration and hit her first serve in the net. ‘Can you dole out the lunch? You know where it all is. And then perhaps tidy up a bit.’ Cressida was waiting patiently to serve. ‘Sorry about this,’ called Caroline cheerfully. ‘All right, Mrs Finch?’‘Yes, Mrs Chance.’So this was Mrs Finch, thought Annie, glancing up from the court. Not the apple-cheeked retainer that Annie had imagined whenever Caroline had referred to her, but a thin, determined-looking woman in her mid-thirties, with dyed-red, curly hair. She had the local accent, but her voice was sharp and strident; she and Caroline had obviously failed to get a cosy employer-employee relationship going.Annie watched Mrs Finch survey with disapproval the dishevelled scene of tennis racquets, bottles, ashtrays and glasses, then pick up her shopping bag and disappear up the path.
