He ignored her. ‘I must see Radford, the undertaker. Make sure the poor mite has a decent funeral.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Ah, it’s a bad business, burying a child. Not the proper order of things. Not the proper order at all.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Why should you have anything to do with arranging the funeral, Roger? What’s it got to do with us? Emma Blatch is only our cook and general help, when all’s said and done,’ Doreen said irritably.

  ‘Emma is in my employ and so is her husband – when he chooses to turn up. Therefore, Doreen, it’s my duty to ensure that their daughter has something better than a pauper’s funeral. Surely, even you wouldn’t disagree with that?’ He fixed his eye on his wife. She had caused him quite enough trouble for one day.

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ she murmured, wilting slightly under his gaze. After nearly thirty years of marriage Doreen knew when she was beaten.

  * * *

  Rosalie came in from her morning ride and threw her hat and riding crop down on the settee. Then she sat down and pulled off her boots and left them where they fell.

  Philip was just finishing his breakfast at the table by the window. ‘Did you have a good ride?’ he asked. ‘It’s a beautiful morning for it.’

  ‘Yes, it was exhilarating. Magpie went well, too. He’ll be in good condition for the hunt tomorrow.’ She pushed a pile of papers off the chair and sat down opposite Philip, then lifted the lid of the small food warmer. ‘Ugh. Only scrambled eggs and bacon. Aren’t there any sausages and tomatoes? Or have you eaten them all, greedy pig?’ She grinned at him, good-humoured after her gallop across the fields.

  He didn’t smile back. ‘No, there are no sausage or tomatoes because Maisie is a bit overworked. Mrs Blatch isn’t in today. Her little daughter has just died. And I’m afraid we’ll have to make our own toast, too.’

  ‘Oh, I expect we can manage that.’ Rosalie helped herself, then paused, with the lid of the warmer still in her hand. ‘Oh dear, poor little Ivy,’ she said quietly. ‘She used to love to come with me to give Magpie bits of apple or carrot, and she always insisted on letting him take them from her hand even though she was more than half afraid of him – not that he would ever have hurt her, of course. But he must have seemed enormous to her, she was such a little thing. She always looked as if a puff of wind would blow her away.’ She sat down and began to eat her breakfast thoughtfully. ‘I’ll look and see if I’ve got a black coat I can give Emma. She won’t be able to afford to buy mourning clothes, not on her wages. I might have a hat for her, too. I’ll have a look after breakfast.’

  ‘That’s a nice thought, Rosie, and I’m sure Emma will appreciate it. But first of all,’ Philip reminded her, ‘we need to do the washing-up and tidy the flat.’

  ‘Oh Lord, yes, I suppose we can’t expect Maisie…’

  ‘No, we can’t,’ he said firmly. ‘Maisie will have more than enough to do.’

  ‘Not that you’ll be much help,’ she said, glancing at him.

  ‘Since most of the mess in here is yours, I don’t think I need to feel any guilt over that,’ he replied without rancour, gazing round the room, at the magazines strewn on the floor, where she’d pushed them off the chair, and the empty whisky glass making a ring on the little table beside her armchair. There was also a pile of ironed clothes that had been brought over from the house, which she hadn’t yet put away. He had no idea where she had been last night – these days he didn’t even bother to ask – but the coat she’d been wearing when she came in late was flung carelessly down on the other end of the settee, her handbag beside it, her shoes lying where she had kicked them off.

  ‘I expect your room is quite pristine,’ she said, with her mouth full.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, but I try not to make more work for Henry than I have to.’

  She looked round, noticing the clutter almost for the first time. ‘Do you think Henry might…?’

  ‘No, I do not. He’s a man’s man not a lady’s maid.’ Philip’s tone brooked no argument.

  ‘All right, don’t get your dander up. I only asked.’

  ‘It won’t hurt you to do it yourself, Rosie. You’ve only got to make your bed and tidy up a bit, for goodness’ sake. It won’t kill you.’

  She looked at her watch, frowning. ‘I’m meeting the gang down at the club at eleven.’

  He began to struggle to his feet. ‘Then you’d better get your skates on, hadn’t you? Especially if you’re going to look out the things for Emma.’ He hooked one of his sticks round the leg of a chair and half-dragged, half-pushed it across to the sink. ‘If you wash up, I can sit here and dry the things.’ He looked up and saw her thunderous expression. ‘Oh, come on, Rosie, it won’t hurt you for once.’

  She got up irritably from her chair. ‘And don’t call me Rosie!’ was all she said as she poured water from the kettle into the washing-up bowl.

  * * *

  Stella hummed to herself as she flicked a duster round her flat, in the annexe. There was very little to do, in fact, because she took great pride in keeping her rooms clean and tidy, never having had such a pleasant little flat before. And all to herself, too. Sometimes she had to pinch herself to make sure she was not dreaming.

  She sat down in her armchair and gazed thoughtfully out at the uninterrupted view of the garden through the French windows. She hoped she hadn’t been too short with Doreen, she really didn’t want to antagonize her mother-in-law. She appreciated this flat, knowing how lucky she was to have it, especially since she would never have been able to afford anything remotely like it. And it was a privilege to have the opportunity to live in the house where John had been brought up, to walk where he had walked and to see the things he had grown up with. Nevertheless, she was realistic enough to realize that it had only been provided because she was carrying John’s baby – the ‘precious bundle’, as Doreen so irritatingly and possessively called it. Indeed, if she hadn’t been found to be pregnant at such an opportune time she would have been back at the convalescent home by now, at her wits end to know which way to turn, and would probably never have visited Warren’s End again. But fate had intervened, and here she was in this comfortable little flat. And for that she was grateful, and prepared to put up with a few minor inconveniences.

  Not that ‘minor’ was a word that could ever be associated with Doreen.

  And the rather callous way she had received news of the little girl’s death gave Stella pause for thought. The death of any child was sad, and even though she herself had never known the little girl she could well imagine the agony Emma was suffering. But it hadn’t appeared to affect Doreen; her only thought had been how far she might be inconvenienced. Stella found it difficult to comprehend how anybody could be so unfeeling. And it didn’t end there.

  It was just over a week later that Roger said at dinner, ‘It was a sad little funeral today.’ He gave his moustache its ritual dab with his napkin.

  ‘I can’t think why you went to it,’ Doreen said petulantly. ‘After all, you’ll pay the bill. What more do they expect?’

  ‘It wasn’t a matter of what they expected, I felt it my duty to go,’ he replied shortly.

  ‘I would have thought that was well above and beyond the call of duty,’ Doreen persisted. ‘After all…’

  ‘And it was very well done.’ He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Radford followed my instructions to the letter and did a good job.’ He shook his head. ‘Pathetic, though, that little white coffin…’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake…’ Doreen said with a shudder.

  ‘Did Emma attend? Or was it a men only funeral?’ Rosalie asked, picking at a lamb chop.

  ‘Oh, yes, Emma was there. Wild horses wouldn’t have kept her away. I must say she looked very smart in that black coat and hat you gave her, Rosalie. Very dignified, she was, too, although she was obviously broken-hearted and at one point I thought that she was going to faint. But she didn’t. She held her head high and never shed a tear.’

  ‘I don’t suppose the poor woman had any tears left,’ Stella said, thinking of her own grieving.

  ‘It was more than could be said of Arthur, poor devil.’ Roger shook his head sadly. ‘He looked a bit of a wreck and was shaking like a leaf. Fortunately, Henry was there to keep an eye on him.’

  ‘He is a bit of a wreck,’ Philip said savagely. ‘The damned war wrecked him just as much as if he’d had his legs blown off. And now the poor sod – excuse my language, ladies – not only can’t get back the job he was trained for, he can’t get a proper job at all. It’s not right. He’s like hundreds of others who fought for their country and now get no help to get back on their feet. Worse than that, they’re virtual outcasts. Standing on street corners, propped on crutches trying to sell matches to get enough money to feed their wives and children. It’s an absolute disgrace!’ He lowered his head, embarrassed at his outburst. ‘Sorry. Pass the potatoes, will you please, Rosie.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s altogether fair in Arthur’s case, Philip,’ Roger reproved him mildly. ‘He knows there’s always work here in the garden for him when he chooses to come – which isn’t that often, I’m afraid.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘Mind you, when he does come he works like a dervish. I’ve never seen anyone dig so hard for such a long time. But then, of course, his back plays up and he can’t come for weeks on end, which isn’t very satisfactory from my point of view.’

  ‘But that’s all part of his problem. Don’t you see…’ Philip began, but Rosalie cut him short.

  ‘Anyway, I’m glad the coat and hat fitted,’ she said brightly, passing Philip the vegetable dish and putting an end to what she considered a disagreeable topic. ‘I thought they would. Emma’s much about my size.’

  ‘It was good of you to give them to her, dear,’ Doreen said, smiling approvingly at her daughter’s largesse. ‘She’d only got that old tweed coat she always wears, so she probably wouldn’t have been able to go to the funeral if you hadn’t provided her with proper mourning.’

  Rosalie shrugged. ‘Well, it’s a long time since I wore them, so they were a bit out of date.’ She turned to Stella. ‘And talking of clothes, that’s a very smart blouse you’re wearing, although I’m surprised to see you in something quite so flowery. Shouldn’t you be sticking to something a bit more subdued? After all, it’s not yet six months since John was killed. Mummy and I haven’t even gone into half-mourning yet.’

  ‘John didn’t approve of mourning,’ Stella said quietly. Rosalie never missed an opportunity for a sly dig, but Stella was getting used to it and refused to rise to the bait. ‘He told me so. He hated black. He liked me in bright colours. And the girl in the shop where I bought this blouse said these colours suited me,’ she couldn’t resist adding with a lift of her chin.

  ‘And so they do, my dear,’ Roger said gallantly. ‘You’re looking very well, if I may say so.’

  ‘They make things very… um… very suitable these days, don’t they?’ Doreen mused, half to herself. ‘Very concealing.’

  ‘Doesn’t look as if she’s got all that much to conceal, yet,’ Rosalie said with her customary rudeness. She put her head on one side. ‘You’re sure…?’

  ‘Rosalie!’ Her mother’s voice was like a whiplash.

  ‘Sorry.’ She had the grace to blush.

  ‘I should think so.’ Doreen turned to Stella. ‘More vegetables, dear? Another chop? Remember, you’re eating for two,’ she added with a touch of coyness. ‘No?’ Her voice hardened as she turned her attention to her daughter. ‘Then would you like to clear the plates, Rosalie? I’ve given Emma the rest of the week off, so it will help Maisie if you put them on the tray ready for her to take back to the kitchen when she brings in the pudding.’

  Rosalie got up with an elaborate sigh and began to collect up the plates and dishes and to pile them on the tray in a rather dangerous-looking heap. ‘I must say I’ll be glad when Emma’s back. I’m beginning to feel like a skivvy, myself,’ she remarked.

  Stella got to her feet. ‘I’ll help. I’m quite used to…’

  Doreen put out her hand. ‘No, dear, sit down and don’t exert yourself. Rosalie is quite capable of managing.’

  Reluctantly, Stella sat down again. She wished Doreen wouldn’t treat her like delicate porcelain all the time. But things would be different once the baby was born, she was quite determined about that.

  The following morning was bright and blustery, typical of early March. After breakfast Stella put on the grey cape her parents had bought her when she began her VAD training. It had been a waste of their money, because she had been provided with the regulation uniform and a cape had been part of it, but she was glad of it now because her blue coat was becoming a little tight round the waist. She studied herself in the long mirror in her bedroom. It was a good-quality cape, her mother had seen to that; and in a funny, almost superstitious way she felt that when she wore it she and the baby were protected, as if enfolded in her mother’s arms. She smiled. It was a silly thought, but comforting, since sadly her parents would never see their grandchild.

  She put on her hat, picked up her handbag and the letter she was taking to post, and went through the house and out through the front door.

  ‘Where are you going, dear?’ Doreen’s tinkly voice reached her from the morning room.

  ‘I’m just going to post a letter to one of my nursing friends,’ she replied, trying very hard to sound cheerful and friendly.

  ‘Oh, then perhaps you’d put this in the post for me?’ Doreen came to the door, still licking the envelope. ‘It’s a request for Gamages’ catalogue. You know, Gamages? The big London firm?’ She raised her eyebrows questioningly.

  ‘No, I’ve never shopped there,’ Stella said.

  ‘Oh, goodness me. Well, they sell practically everything you can think of. I’ll let you see the catalogue when it arrives.’ She smiled. ‘Have a good walk, dear. It’s a nice bright morning.’

  ‘Thank you. I will.’

  Doreen could be quite charming when she chose. Stella went off, her mind made up to always try and think the best of her mother-in-law.

  She turned left at the end of the drive, in the direction of the town, past the field that separated Warren’s End from the lane where Emma lived. On impulse she took the lane, it was quite a bit further to walk to the postbox, but she was glad to be out of the house and in the fresh air. She passed the pair of cottages where Emma and Henry lived. There was no sign of life anywhere, but it was quite obvious which one was Henry’s: it was neatly dug and planted, mostly with vegetables, although there was a border of violets and primroses and a rose rambled round the door. In contrast, Emma’s garden was little more than a dirt patch, although a half-hearted attempt at digging it had been begun and left. The spade was still stuck in the ground.

  She walked on until she reached the postbox, then walked home slowly, guiltily glad to be away from Doreen’s eagle eye. As she walked she tried to imagine that John was by her side, pointing out the places he’d known and the things he’d done. But it was all in her imagination, and she realized with something of a shock just how little she had known about her husband.

  Eight

  Emma put the finishing touches to the apple pie and looked round the kitchen. The vegetables were all prepared and the soup was on the stove. There were a few bits of ironing still waiting to be done, but they could wait till the morning.

  ‘I’ll be off now, Maisie,’ she said, rousing Maisie, who was having a quiet five minutes in the chair by the stove before preparing afternoon tea. ‘The pie’s ready to put in the oven and I’ve done all the veg.’ She took her coat and hat off the hook behind the door and put them on.

  Maisie yawned. ‘Oh, I must have dropped off,’ she said, blinking in surprise – as if she didn’t drop off every afternoon at about this time. She watched Emma straighten her hat in the mirror over the sink. ‘I’m surprised you wear that nice coat and hat Miss Rosalie gave you every day, Emma,’ she remarked with only the merest hint of envy ‘I’d have thought you’d keep them for best.’

  Her hat skewered satisfactorily with its jet-tipped hatpin, Emma turned with a worried frown. ‘Tell you the truth, I did wonder if it was the right thing to do, Maisie,’ she said seriously. ‘I thought p’raps I oughta wear my old tweed for everyday, but that seemed somehow disrespectful to my little Ivy, because mournin’s mournin’ when all’s said an’ done; it’s all the time, not just for special occasions. Not that there ever is any special occasion in our house,’ she added. She picked an imaginary speck off the lapel of the coat. She had never had such a nice coat before; the material was lovely and soft and it was quite stylish. She really enjoyed wearing it, it cheered her up; and, goodness knows, she could do with cheering up now Ivy was gone.

  ‘Are you going to the grave again today?’ Maisie got up from her chair and pulled the kettle forward on the hob.

  ‘Yes.’ Maisie knew she always took a detour on the way home to visit Ivy’s grave. Emma couldn’t understand why she always had to ask.

  ‘If you see Henry on your way out, tell him I’ve got the kettle on so there’ll be a cup of tea in five minutes if he wants one.’ She said it casually, but Emma knew she would be disappointed if he didn’t turn up.

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  She went round the side of the house to pick up her bike. Henry was there, he’d just finished pumping up her back tyre.

  ‘Did you know it was flat?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘I asked Arthur to look and see if there was a puncture. I expect he forgot.’ She always made excuses for her husband.

  ‘I’ll have a look at it for you tonight when I get home,’ he said straightening up. ‘Are you going…?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said quickly, before he could finish. ‘I go every day. You know that.’

  ‘Well, I found a few primroses under the hedge at the bottom of the garden so I picked them for you to take. Look, they’re in your bike basket.’

 

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