more. And could manage with much less. But Rosa’s pleasure in life infected her, and left her pensive.
Chapter Eight
Home Truths
The nights were drawing in; the shortest day loomed. Hetty and Doris sat in the latter’s kitchen comforted by a pot of tea. In the garden of The Swallows a few hellebore flowers peeped out under the sodden bushes, pale heads nodding like forlorn refugees. Out of the window, Hetty saw Thomas sniff the pathetic clumps with lordly indifference.
‘Doris, what do people do round here for Christmas?’
The old lady considered. ‘Carol concert and Midnight Mass, if you’re religious. I go to St Veronica’s. It’s that trendy vicar – Father Roger, that’s him. Barrel of laughs. The jokes he tells from the pulpit – he’s on telly, did you know?’
‘Father Roger? Yes, he’s on our programme.’ Hetty explained the connection.
Doris gaped, suddenly respectful, then wily. ‘D’you ever get spare tickets for the audience?’
‘You can come every week, if you like. We’re having awful trouble getting enough bottoms to fill seats. These days, appearing on television doesn’t quite compete with staying at home to watch it, apparently.’
‘Ooh, yes! I’d love to. Can I bring Thomas?’
‘No!’
Doris poured another cup of tea. Her hand slid to the pocket of her apron. ‘I could tell your future in the tarot cards, if you like,’ she offered. She put the pack on the table.
A chill touched Hetty around the nape of her neck. ‘Have you second sight, Doris?’
‘Maybe,’ the old woman said. She began slowly, deliberately to shuffle the cards, their colours vibrant under her thick fingers. ‘My grandmother was supposed to have Romany blood. But, then, they said that of everyone in the East End when I was a kid.’
‘The answer to that one’s no, too, Doris,’ said Hetty reluctantly. ‘I wouldn’t feel comfortable. If our future were set in the stars, or in the cards, there’d be no point in us trying to do better, would there? Anyhow, I’m not sure I’m ready to know what Fate has in store for me.’
‘Not sure I believe it either,’ Doris answered, her eyes lowered. ‘But when you hear some people’s misfortunes, however much they’ve tried, you do wonder.’
Her voice had such a hollow note that Hetty stared at her. But the moment had gone, and the cards had been returned to their hiding-place.
It was acutely embarrassing, particularly when the guest was a distinguished, smartly dressed man, who sat, bemused but patient, as Bob the floor manager ran his ragged troops through their paces.
The four rostrum cameras were trained on the rows of seats. Most were empty.
Instead of serried ranks of enthusiastic supporters, only about thirty people had turned up, mainly a minibus-load of pensioners from a Darby and Joan club. Most of those seemed too far gone to follow a single word. Several shoppers had been dragged from the street with the plea that they need only stay for half an hour to rest their feet, then have a cup of tea – after the recording, not before. Three drunks had slouched in from the local pub. A trio ofgiggling gum-chewing schoolboys in multi-coloured windcheaters three sizes too large and huge trainers, unlaced and loose, were the sole occupants at the back. The entire ‘audience’ was bunched together in the middle of the rows to make it appear to the cameras that the studio was packed.
Bob was squinting upwards at a screen. ‘No,’ he squawked. ‘ Don’t stare at the monitors – look at Johnnie there.’
The presenter waved a languid hand. Every eye swivelled naturally to Bob, the speaker, except those already shut. The shrunken crone in the front row was dozing and threatening to slide off her chair. Bob prodded her tentatively with his foot; she revived with a snort. He leaped sideways at the boys. ‘And no waving your arms or pulling faces, either.’ He scowled. ‘Why aren’t you at school, anyway?’
‘Baker day,’ the
Chapter Eight
Home Truths
The nights were drawing in; the shortest day loomed. Hetty and Doris sat in the latter’s kitchen comforted by a pot of tea. In the garden of The Swallows a few hellebore flowers peeped out under the sodden bushes, pale heads nodding like forlorn refugees. Out of the window, Hetty saw Thomas sniff the pathetic clumps with lordly indifference.
‘Doris, what do people do round here for Christmas?’
The old lady considered. ‘Carol concert and Midnight Mass, if you’re religious. I go to St Veronica’s. It’s that trendy vicar – Father Roger, that’s him. Barrel of laughs. The jokes he tells from the pulpit – he’s on telly, did you know?’
‘Father Roger? Yes, he’s on our programme.’ Hetty explained the connection.
Doris gaped, suddenly respectful, then wily. ‘D’you ever get spare tickets for the audience?’
‘You can come every week, if you like. We’re having awful trouble getting enough bottoms to fill seats. These days, appearing on television doesn’t quite compete with staying at home to watch it, apparently.’
‘Ooh, yes! I’d love to. Can I bring Thomas?’
‘No!’
Doris poured another cup of tea. Her hand slid to the pocket of her apron. ‘I could tell your future in the tarot cards, if you like,’ she offered. She put the pack on the table.
A chill touched Hetty around the nape of her neck. ‘Have you second sight, Doris?’
‘Maybe,’ the old woman said. She began slowly, deliberately to shuffle the cards, their colours vibrant under her thick fingers. ‘My grandmother was supposed to have Romany blood. But, then, they said that of everyone in the East End when I was a kid.’
‘The answer to that one’s no, too, Doris,’ said Hetty reluctantly. ‘I wouldn’t feel comfortable. If our future were set in the stars, or in the cards, there’d be no point in us trying to do better, would there? Anyhow, I’m not sure I’m ready to know what Fate has in store for me.’
‘Not sure I believe it either,’ Doris answered, her eyes lowered. ‘But when you hear some people’s misfortunes, however much they’ve tried, you do wonder.’
Her voice had such a hollow note that Hetty stared at her. But the moment had gone, and the cards had been returned to their hiding-place.
It was acutely embarrassing, particularly when the guest was a distinguished, smartly dressed man, who sat, bemused but patient, as Bob the floor manager ran his ragged troops through their paces.
The four rostrum cameras were trained on the rows of seats. Most were empty.
Instead of serried ranks of enthusiastic supporters, only about thirty people had turned up, mainly a minibus-load of pensioners from a Darby and Joan club. Most of those seemed too far gone to follow a single word. Several shoppers had been dragged from the street with the plea that they need only stay for half an hour to rest their feet, then have a cup of tea – after the recording, not before. Three drunks had slouched in from the local pub. A trio ofgiggling gum-chewing schoolboys in multi-coloured windcheaters three sizes too large and huge trainers, unlaced and loose, were the sole occupants at the back. The entire ‘audience’ was bunched together in the middle of the rows to make it appear to the cameras that the studio was packed.
Bob was squinting upwards at a screen. ‘No,’ he squawked. ‘ Don’t stare at the monitors – look at Johnnie there.’
The presenter waved a languid hand. Every eye swivelled naturally to Bob, the speaker, except those already shut. The shrunken crone in the front row was dozing and threatening to slide off her chair. Bob prodded her tentatively with his foot; she revived with a snort. He leaped sideways at the boys. ‘And no waving your arms or pulling faces, either.’ He scowled. ‘Why aren’t you at school, anyway?’
‘Baker day,’ the
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