sight.
"Sorry," Fenella said behind him. "I'm all right now."
"What was it? Thinking of your mother?"
She shook her head. "All this." She waved a gloved hand toward Whitehall, toward the ebbing crowds: men in uniform, men on crutches, men with medals, wives, mothers and daughters. "They say we're mourning the unforgotten dead, but of course they're forgotten. All we're mourning is our own beastly misery. We don't give a damn about the people who died."
"I say," Rory said. "Isn't that a bit bleak?"
"Anyway, it's pointless," Fenella went on. "Anyone can see it's all going to happen again, and this time it will probably be much worse."
"Another war?"
"Of course. You heard what Mr. Dawlish was saying at the meeting the other night. The Nazis are just waiting for the right moment. And it's not just them, either."
Rory ground out a cigarette beneath his heel. "You're exaggerating. People will never stand for another war. They remember too well what happened in the last one. It's only sixteen years ago."
"I wish you were right. Who was that woman?"
For a moment he was tempted to say, which woman? "Her name's Mrs. Langstone," he said. "I think I mentioned her the other day. Her father has a flat in the same house as mine, and she's staying with him."
"So she must know Mr. Serridge?"
"Yes. But I'm not sure how well. She struck me as a bit of a dark horse, actually."
"Why?"
"She doesn't really belong in a place like Bleeding Heart Square. I wouldn't be surprised if she and her father have come down in the world."
Fenella laughed, with one of those sudden changes of mood that had always amazed him. "You sound like your grandfather sometimes."
He grinned at her, relieved at the change of tone. "They probably lost their money in the slump or something. The new poor."
But Fenella was no longer smiling. "I think I'll go home now."
"I'll take you."
"No. If you don't mind, I'd rather go by myself." She looked up at him. "I just feel like my own company. It's nothing personal, you know."
"I know," Rory said. "That's rather the problem, isn't it?"
Lydia Langstone hadn't realized that being poor brought with it so many unpredictable humiliations. Being poor meant more than not being able to buy things. It changed the way that people looked at you. It changed how you looked at yourself.
After breakfast on Monday morning she went to the Blue Dahlia, where she ordered a cup of coffee and asked to speak to the manageress. The manageress turned out to be the fat woman behind the counter who took the orders.
"I wondered whether you had any vacancies," Lydia said.
"You what?" demanded the woman.
"A position." Lydia lowered her voice, aware that the other customers were probably listening avidly. "I'm looking for a job, you see."
The woman shook her head. "We ain't got anything going here, love." She leaned on the counter, bringing her face closer to Lydia's, and added in an unexpectedly gentle voice, "Anyway, our sort of job wouldn't suit you, and you wouldn't suit it."
Lydia left the cafe with her ears burning. It wasn't so much the rejection that embarrassed her. It was the way the woman had talked to her at the end, the way she had called her "love." On her way home, she went into the library in Charleston Street. Upstairs in the reference room, the Situations Vacant columns from the daily newspapers were pinned up on boards. She couldn't reach them because there was a crowd of unemployed, both men and women, heaving like a football scrum in front of her.
It was nearly lunchtime by the time she got back to Bleeding Heart Square. There were letters on the hall table--none for her or her father, but one of them was for Mr. Wentwood. She heard a sound behind her and turned to see Mr. Fimberry advancing down the hall, smiling broadly.
"Mrs. Langstone, I thought it must be you! You see--I recognize your footsteps already." He laid his hand on her arm. "I wondered whether this afternoon might be a good time for me to show you
"Sorry," Fenella said behind him. "I'm all right now."
"What was it? Thinking of your mother?"
She shook her head. "All this." She waved a gloved hand toward Whitehall, toward the ebbing crowds: men in uniform, men on crutches, men with medals, wives, mothers and daughters. "They say we're mourning the unforgotten dead, but of course they're forgotten. All we're mourning is our own beastly misery. We don't give a damn about the people who died."
"I say," Rory said. "Isn't that a bit bleak?"
"Anyway, it's pointless," Fenella went on. "Anyone can see it's all going to happen again, and this time it will probably be much worse."
"Another war?"
"Of course. You heard what Mr. Dawlish was saying at the meeting the other night. The Nazis are just waiting for the right moment. And it's not just them, either."
Rory ground out a cigarette beneath his heel. "You're exaggerating. People will never stand for another war. They remember too well what happened in the last one. It's only sixteen years ago."
"I wish you were right. Who was that woman?"
For a moment he was tempted to say, which woman? "Her name's Mrs. Langstone," he said. "I think I mentioned her the other day. Her father has a flat in the same house as mine, and she's staying with him."
"So she must know Mr. Serridge?"
"Yes. But I'm not sure how well. She struck me as a bit of a dark horse, actually."
"Why?"
"She doesn't really belong in a place like Bleeding Heart Square. I wouldn't be surprised if she and her father have come down in the world."
Fenella laughed, with one of those sudden changes of mood that had always amazed him. "You sound like your grandfather sometimes."
He grinned at her, relieved at the change of tone. "They probably lost their money in the slump or something. The new poor."
But Fenella was no longer smiling. "I think I'll go home now."
"I'll take you."
"No. If you don't mind, I'd rather go by myself." She looked up at him. "I just feel like my own company. It's nothing personal, you know."
"I know," Rory said. "That's rather the problem, isn't it?"
Lydia Langstone hadn't realized that being poor brought with it so many unpredictable humiliations. Being poor meant more than not being able to buy things. It changed the way that people looked at you. It changed how you looked at yourself.
After breakfast on Monday morning she went to the Blue Dahlia, where she ordered a cup of coffee and asked to speak to the manageress. The manageress turned out to be the fat woman behind the counter who took the orders.
"I wondered whether you had any vacancies," Lydia said.
"You what?" demanded the woman.
"A position." Lydia lowered her voice, aware that the other customers were probably listening avidly. "I'm looking for a job, you see."
The woman shook her head. "We ain't got anything going here, love." She leaned on the counter, bringing her face closer to Lydia's, and added in an unexpectedly gentle voice, "Anyway, our sort of job wouldn't suit you, and you wouldn't suit it."
Lydia left the cafe with her ears burning. It wasn't so much the rejection that embarrassed her. It was the way the woman had talked to her at the end, the way she had called her "love." On her way home, she went into the library in Charleston Street. Upstairs in the reference room, the Situations Vacant columns from the daily newspapers were pinned up on boards. She couldn't reach them because there was a crowd of unemployed, both men and women, heaving like a football scrum in front of her.
It was nearly lunchtime by the time she got back to Bleeding Heart Square. There were letters on the hall table--none for her or her father, but one of them was for Mr. Wentwood. She heard a sound behind her and turned to see Mr. Fimberry advancing down the hall, smiling broadly.
"Mrs. Langstone, I thought it must be you! You see--I recognize your footsteps already." He laid his hand on her arm. "I wondered whether this afternoon might be a good time for me to show you
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