'I shall say I'm twenty-nine,' said Miss Timperley recklessly. 'And I shall have my photograph specially taken.'

The slip before her read: 'Mrs Geoffrey Nash, Les Fougeres, Olny-sur-Mer, wants by beginning of next month governess for two children, one eight, one six. Elder child rather backward. Applicants must know French. As personal interview impossible, send photograph. Excellent references essential.' 'Dear Miss Timperley,' said the Knowall Teachers' Agency, in a covering note: 'We think your French and your references may secure this post for you. Please apply direct to Mrs Nash.'

'My references,' said Miss Timperley proudly, 'are certainly what Mrs Nash requires. There is no difficulty about them.'

And, indeed, there was not; masses and masses of grateful letters from parents lay locked away in Miss Timperley's jewel-box. Jane improved so much in your care; Tommy has now quite caught up with other boys of his own age; Mary never has those tempers now; we shall always be grateful for your handling of John -oh, there was no difficulty about references, or about Miss Timperley's ability. It was other things which made difficulties: one other thing, to be exact.

Miss Timperley sighed as she remembered what that other thing was. She had been out of a job for three months now, since her last backward pupil had come triumphantly up to the mark and passed into a large girls' school; her bank balance was getting low, and somehow the outlook did not seem very bright. Usually Miss Timperley passed from one family to another, recommended as the person who had worked wonders with my sister-in-law's youngest, but this, quite by chance, did not happen this time, and Miss Timperley had been obliged to make the round of the agencies.

It was her reception there which had chilled her to the bone, lowered the hitherto dauntless flag of her courage. Her age, asked the agencies?

Ah. Qualifications? Ah. Nobody wanted governesses nowadays, said the agencies, when these preliminaries were over; every-body sent their children  to properly organised schools.

And quite right too, agreed Miss Timperley; oh, they need not think she did not know all the advantages of work and play in common, she recommended school always for normal, healthy children; but there were some children, unluckier than the rest, who, by reason of some illness, perhaps, some misfortune, some accident of heredity or environ-ment, were not suited to the hearty rough and tumble of school life, some children who needed special care. Those were the children, said Miss Timperley proudly, to whom she could be useful. 'M'yes,' said the agencies doubtfully, and made a note. Most people who wanted governessess nowadays, they continued, wanted nursery governesses, bright, jolly young things to nurse the baby and play with the children to keep them quiet And even those, added the agencies, in a desponding tone, were usually specially trained nowadays.

'I am not a nursery governess,' said Miss Timperley, sitting very erect, with two spots of colour on her faded cheeks. 'The profession is an excellent one, no doubt, and has important duties; but it is not mine.'

'No -no,' agreed the agencies, even more doubtfully, and made another note. 'Still, that is the position, Miss Timperley. However,' said the agencies, rising, 'we have your name, Miss Timperley, and will let you know immediately if anything turns up. Are you on the telephone?'

No, Miss Timperley's modest bed-sitting-room was not on the telephone; indeed, there was no telephone in all good Mrs Ladstone's house. But Miss Timperley would call at the agency every morning about eleven, and then, if anything had turned up...

But nothing ever had. And by and by Miss Timperley began to perceive that the agencies thought her rather old for her job. They talked so much about young nursery governesses who, or young qualified school-teachers just out of the training college who, that some of the feeling they were too polite to put into words filtered through into Miss Timperley's by no means dull brain. At first she was indignant: the very idea! Then she began to wonder. She had already noticed how young most of the applicants she saw in the agencies were -really too young for any serious responsibility, she had thought, conscious of superior fitness. But were they really too young, or was she too old? She began to wonder…. And then one day the climax came. Something 'turned up' at one of the agencies, a post which would really suit her, they thought, said the agency with a bright, relieved air. Off went Miss Timperley joyously to an address in the suburbs, and had the door of a smallish house opened to her by a harassed, pretty girl -quite a child, thought Miss Timperley, far too young for so many household cares -with a baby in her arms and two other children clinging to her skirts. This young mother listened to Miss Timperley with a rather perplexed air, and then suddenly exclaimed:

'Oh, I see! You've come after the post. I didn't understand at first. You see, I wanted someone young.'

The shock was rather severe. After a moment Miss Timperley managed to writhe her lips into a trembling smile; she stooped and caressed the eldest child's cheek with one finger and murmured: 'I see. A mistake, of course. I see.' The girl must have been struck by the expression on her face, for she added, hastily:  'I need someone who will help me in the house as well. It's not at all the kind of post the agency should have offered you,' she said, with a great deal of scorn for the agency and compliment to Miss Timperley. She also said: 'Would you care to come in for a moment, and rest?' But Miss Timperley declined; she was not at all tired, she said. (And she wanted to be alone.) After that she wondered no longer. She knew. And she did not go every day to the agencies.

And now, all of a sudden, this beautiful, this glorious chance! (Just in time, too. Of course, Mrs Ladstone would readily permit one to fall into arrears for a week or two, Mrs Ladstone was so good and kind, and particularly devoted to Miss Timperley because she came from her native Yorkshire; but then, that was just why one did not want to ask her.) Yes, here was this utterly delightful opportunity. Miss Timperley was sure she was just the woman for the situation at Olny-sur-Mer, the very one. Her French. Her references. The backward child. Yes! the post must be hers. But Miss Timperley thought she knew why the agency sounded so doubtful. Well! She would say she was twenty-nine, and she would have a new, modern, young, almost coquettish -Miss Timperley smiled and bridled at the word -photograph taken. She could not afford it of course; but the thing had to be done. She put on her clothes with quite a rakish air, and betook herself to an expensive West End photographer.

At first everything was very disheartening. The beautiful young woman who received Miss Timperley in a room hung with blue velvet assured her that it was an unheard-of thing for Mr Angelo to take anybody's photograph without appoint-ment. People made appoint-ments weeks ahead. It was most improbable that he would even see her that morning. Young Mr Arnold Angelo perhaps might. . .

No, Miss Timperley did not want young Mr Arnold Angelo, or anybody else except the head of the firm. It was important, she insisted, most urgent and important. She was so very emphatic and determined about this -for was not Olny-sur-Mer at stake ? -that the beautiful reception clerk relented, and conceded that Miss Timperley might wait
for a few minutes while she, the clerk, saw what she could do. She left the room on this errand, and Miss Timperley wandered about, admiring the glossy visages displayed in elaborate show-cases and on the walls. None of them, she noticed, seemed to wear a frown.

'Does Mr. Angelo re-touch a good deal?' she demanded of a younger (and not quite so beautiful,  though very nearly) assistant clerk who was addressing envelopes at a resplendent desk.

'A certain amount of re-touching is always necessary, madam,' replied the young thing haughtily.

'Ah!' said Miss Timperley in a superior tone, as if shocked by this practice. (But somehow she felt relieved.)

After ten minutes' agonising suspense Miss Timperley learned that she had had a great, an enormous, a quite colossal slice of luck. The reception clerk, her beautiful eyes quite beaming, came back to say that Lady-Something-or-other had telephoned to cancel her appointment, so that if Miss Timperley cared to wait a few minutes, Mr Angelo would be free, and would take her at once. Miss Timperley was delighted by this condescension on Mr Angelo's part; here was a piece of luck indeed! It showed that the stars were on her side; Olny grew perceptibly nearer.

'While you are waiting, madam, perhaps you would care to choose a style?' said the beauty, flipping over the pages of a large album.

'I don't like those green ones,' said Miss Timperley boldly. 'Nor the mauve.'

'No, madam,' acquiesced the beauty. 'Madam prefers sepia, perhaps?'

'Yes -yes,' said Miss Timperley doubtfully, not quite sure what sepia was. 'Oh! Yes! Sepia,' she decided. 'Like that.'

'What size would madam prefer?' inquired the beauty.

'What are the prices?' demanded Miss Timpery timidly.

The prices were enormous.

'I require only quite a small one,' ventured Miss Timperley timidly. 'Quite a small one, you understand.'

'Certainly, madam,' replied the beauty -so that Miss Timperley felt quite drawn to the girl. How wrong it was to think people unkind and cold because they were not very gushing just at first!  This girl was charming. 

'Like this, perhaps?' suggested charming girl.

The price was still very large, but what could one do? Think of Olny! This detail being settled, the beauty suggested that Miss Timperley should repair to one of the dressing-rooms and make herself ready to be photo-graphed. Miss Timperley, disconcerted, looked questioningly at the girl.

'If madam wishes to change her dress?' suggested the beauty. 'Or tidy her hair?' she pursued, reading Miss Timperley's horrified denial of dress-changing in her eyes. Miss Timperley agreed to tidy her hair, and the girl led her up stairs and along corridors to a small room, very elegantly equipped and full of mirrors. 

'This is very different from the practice in my young days,' thought Miss Timperley, glancing round. 'How wonderfully arranged everything is now! Don't go!' she cried in a sudden panic to the clerk. The girl waited with an expectant air. 'Tell me,' said Miss
Timperley, in a voice which shyness muffled. 'Would you advise me to keep my hat on, or no?'

The girl's calm eyes took in Miss Timperley's hat.'Without it would be best, I think, madam," she said quietly. 'Madam's hair is so charming.'

Miss Timperley, soothed and flattered, turned to the glass; when she turned to the clerk again she was gone. Miss Timperley bolted the door with a little bolt she found and began to re-arrange her hair. She combed it this way, she combed it that, she looked at it from the right, she looked at it from the left; finally she powdered her nose. Then, feeling quite ready to face Mr Angelo, she sat down on the luxurious settee and picked up a copy of the Prattler. She read it through from end to end,  then she combed her hair again, then she read the Prattler.... Had they forgotten her altogether? Timidly Miss Timperley drew back the bolt and opened the door; she peered along the passage, but there was no one there. With a sigh, she bolted the door again and read the Prattler. Suddenly there came a loud thundering knock; Miss Timperley, terrified, fumbled hurriedly with the bolt; in half a minute, trembling like a fawn, she found herself in the presence of Mr Angelo.

He was an elderly man with white hair and a kind face; he asked Miss Timperley to sit down, and looked at her shrewdly. She for her part was busy gazing at the studio and its paraphernalia; such a high-up room, my dear, with a sloping glass roof, an enormous camera like a clothes-horse shrouded in black, and all sorts of the oddest wheeled screens -some white, some black, some possibly sepia.

Miss Timperly heard herself explaining the urgency of the photograph, and how important it was that it should be a good one. 'I should like it,' she said, 'to look' -somehow she could not bring herself to say 'young' -'I should like it to look rather lively.' The photographer bowed his head in understanding and posed Miss Timperley, seated coyly upon an antique stool. An assistant -another beautiful girl -now appeared abruptly, stuck her head beneath the black cloth, and murmured something to Mr Angelo. He, too, put his head beneath the cloth, then stood up and gazed with an uncomplimentary air at Miss Timperley.

'I hope I'm not a bad subject,' said she, uncomfortable.

'Oh, not at all, not at all,' said Mr. Angelo without conviction. He advanced to her with mincing footsteps, delicately moved her head sideways about a millimetre, and stepped back to look at the result. Then he took a little rubber bulb in one hand, and was just about to fire, as Miss Timperley mentally  expressed it, when there came another murmur from beneath the cloth.

'Ah, yes! Just so!' said Mr Angelo. He snatched a large green curtain from a table and spread it on the floor before Miss Timperley. ('Quite Sir Walter Raleigh-ish' thought Miss Timperley.) 'To prevent the reflection from the floor,' explained Mr. Angelo kindly.

Well! He took her like that, he took her like this, he brought up a purple light which sizzled, and placed it on a level with Miss Timperley's ear; he tilted the head, he adjusted the shoulders, he crossed and uncrossed the hands, he moved the stool about, he pushed the screens vigorously up and down the room -this part reminded Miss Timperley of a cricket match she had witnessed with her last employers. He was very competent indeed, reflected Miss Timperley gratefully, no one could have taken more trouble, really. Of course, that was the difference between these really good photographers and the poor ones; and the photographs -for he took several -  were sure to be splendid. Miss Timperley, harassed at the beginning of the sitting, felt tired to death before the end, but she continued to simper valiantly; it was so important, and the photographs were sure to be superb. As a special favour, a very special favour, Mr Angelo promised she should have the proofs the next day but one; and then, flushed and exhausted but triumphant, Miss Timperley found herself in the street.

The next day would have been rather dreary if Miss Timperley had not had the resource of telling Mrs Ladstone all about Messrs Angelo. But Mrs Ladstone's marvel at the wonders of the studio satisfied even Miss Timperley's longing for appreciation, and the day soon passed, and the morrow came, and the second post came, and the proofs came -Mrs. Ladstone brought them up specially, though she was busy making a pie when they arrived, panting up the four flights of stairs with cheerful zeal. Miss Timperley, excited, tore open the and took out the four reddish-looking proofs.

Oh God!  Was she really like that? Was it she, that haggard, old, worn woman who looked out at her? Had she really that timid, nervous, incompetent air? Did her hair really look so thin? Her mouth so fallen? Her eyes so weak? Oh, no! Oh, no! The photographs were bad, bad, bad! Yet Messrs Angelo …No, they were bad! Yet Mr Angelo had taken such pains….

No, they were bad!

'They're not a bit like me!' cried Miss Timperley, in a high anguished tone.  'Not a bit!'

'Nay, lovey,' expostulated Mrs. Ladstone cheerfully: 'They're as like as life. Just your pleasant  look, they have. They're right down good. It just shows,' said Mrs. Ladstone: 'I've allus said it paid to get the best, and it just shows.'

When she had gone, lumbering cheerfully down the stairs to resume the pie, Miss Timperley looked at the photographs again. Then she looked in the mirror, bending forward, scrutinising every feature, every line of her face, with merciless keenness. Yes! The photographs were good ones. The agency was right. The young mother was right. Miss Timperley was old.

'I shan't send the photograph,' panted Miss Timperley:  'I shall say I'm in the early thirties. I shan't send the photograph. I shan't.'

But suddenly Miss Timperley seized upon pen and paper, sat down at the table, selected the least repulsive of the four proofs. Her expression was not weak now, but high and resolved; for Miss Timperley had taken a decision. Was she, she, Captain Timperley's daughter, to tell a lie, suppress the photographic truth? Was she to gain a position by deception? Was she so far beaten by life as that?  No! A thousand times no! She might lose the post, she might never get a post again, she might starve, she might (which Miss Timperley thought worse) become a burden to her relations; but better that than a lie, a deception; better to starve than to cheat. 'Let us accept what life brings us and face it out,' said Miss Timperley, taking up her pen:

'Let us at any rate go down with our flag flying.' And in her beautiful, clear, upright hand, she wrote:

'Dear Madam, I  wish to apply for the post of governess to your two children. I must tell you frankly that I am fifty-eight years of age.... I enclose an unfinished photograph.... As regards French... With backward children I have had considerable experience...my references...' Yours sincerely, Letitia Timperley.

And suddenly she wept, pressing her thin fingers against her anguished face.

A week later Mrs Ladstone again panted up the staircase, a letter between her floury fingers. 'It's from France, lovey,' she said. Miss Timperley winced. There was no hope from France, she knew. She opened it wretchedly, and unfolded the sheet with spiritless fingers. 'Dear Miss Timperly (she read),  I think I had better explain my needs a little further. I am obliged to go to Marseilles at the end of July to meet my husband, who is returning from India on sick leave. He will have to stay at Marseilles some time to rest after the journey. You will understand that, though the children's bonne is good, I do not care to leave them alone in a seaside resort with her. I must have someone English, someone who speaks French well, and someone I can trust, to leave in charge of the whole household while I am away. In the circumstances I could not employ anyone young, and I think you are just the woman I require. Your references are excellent... your French... Doreen, born in India, a little backward... probably remain with me after my husband's return, as I shall be much occupied with him…four months at least... tickets... passports... boat…train…salary…'

The salary was enormous.

Miss Timperley flung herself on Mrs Ladstone's neck. 'It was the photograph,' she babbled between her happy tears, 'the photograph which did it! I should never have got the place but for the photograph!'

'I always said it were a good one' said Mrs Ladstone with conviction.

From Phyllis Bentley The Whole of the Story 1935 © The Estate of Phyllis Bentley

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