we'll get them too. We won't come back here until we've got every single thing. We'll take the car. You'll have to be very brave and drive us, we couldn't possibly bring it all home in the train.’
Molly looked, instantly, a little less woebegone. It seemed that just making one decision
for
her rendered her more cheerful. She said, ‘All right.’ She thought about it. ‘We'll leave Jess with Phyllis, she'd never last the day. And have a bit of an outing, just the two of us. And we'll have lunch at The Mitre, for a treat. We'll deserve it by then.’
‘And as well,’ said Judith, with much firmness, ‘we'll drive to St Ursula's, and I can have a look at the place. I can't go to a school I've never even seen…’
‘But it's holiday time. There won't be anybody there.’
‘All the better. We'll prowl and peer through windows. Now, that's all fixed, so cheer up. Are you feeling better now? Do you want a bath? Do you want to go to bed, and have Phyllis bring your supper up on a tray?’
But Molly shook her head. ‘No. No, none of those lovely things. I'm all right now. I'll have my bath later.’
‘In that case, I'll go and tell Phyllis that we'll eat her boiled fowl when she's ready for us.’
‘In a moment. Give me another moment or two. I don't want Phyllis to know I've been crying. Do I look as though I have been?’
‘No. Just a bit red in the face from the fire.’
Her mother leaned forward and kissed her. ‘Thank you. You've made me feel quite different. So sweet of you.’
‘That's all right.’ She tried to think of something reassuring to say. ‘You were just in a state.’
Molly opened her eyes and faced the new day. It was scarcely light, and not yet time to rise, so she lay warm, and lapped in linen sheets, and was filled with gratitude because she had slept, without dreams, all through the night, sleeping as soon as her head touched the pillow, without interruption, and undisturbed by Jess. This in itself was a small miracle, for Jess was a demanding child. If she did not wake during the small hours and scream for her mother, then she was on the go hideously early, and clambering into Molly's bed.
But she, it seemed, had been as tired as her mother, and at half past seven, there was neither sight nor sound of her. Perhaps, thought Molly, it was the whisky. Perhaps I should drink whisky every night, and then I should always sleep. Or perhaps it was the fact that the overwhelming anxieties and apprehensions of the previous evening had been sublimated by her own physical exhaustion. Whatever. It had worked. She had slept. She felt refreshed, renewed, ready for whatever the day had to bring.
Which was shopping for the school uniform. She got out of bed and pulled on her dressing-gown and went to close the window, and draw back the curtains. She saw a pale and misty morning, not yet fully light, and very still. Below her window the sloping terraced garden lay quiet and damp, and from the shore beyond the railway line the curlews called. But the sky was clear, and it occurred to Molly that perhaps the morning would turn into one of those days that spring steals from a Cornish winter, so that all is imbued with the sense of things growing, pushing up through the soft dark earth; buds beginning to swell, and returning birds to sing. She would keep it whole, separate, an entity on its own, a single day spent with her elder daughter, set aside. Remembered, it would be sharp-edged and vivid, like a photograph neatly framed, with no intrusion to blur the image.
She turned from the window, sat at her dressing-table, and took from one of the drawers the bulky manila envelope which contained the St Ursula's clothes list, and a positive plethora of instructions for parents:
The Easter term commences on the fifteenth of January. Boarders are asked to arrive no later than 2:30 P.M on the afternoon of that day. Please make certain that your daughter's Health Certificate has been signed. Miss Catto's
Molly looked, instantly, a little less woebegone. It seemed that just making one decision
for
her rendered her more cheerful. She said, ‘All right.’ She thought about it. ‘We'll leave Jess with Phyllis, she'd never last the day. And have a bit of an outing, just the two of us. And we'll have lunch at The Mitre, for a treat. We'll deserve it by then.’
‘And as well,’ said Judith, with much firmness, ‘we'll drive to St Ursula's, and I can have a look at the place. I can't go to a school I've never even seen…’
‘But it's holiday time. There won't be anybody there.’
‘All the better. We'll prowl and peer through windows. Now, that's all fixed, so cheer up. Are you feeling better now? Do you want a bath? Do you want to go to bed, and have Phyllis bring your supper up on a tray?’
But Molly shook her head. ‘No. No, none of those lovely things. I'm all right now. I'll have my bath later.’
‘In that case, I'll go and tell Phyllis that we'll eat her boiled fowl when she's ready for us.’
‘In a moment. Give me another moment or two. I don't want Phyllis to know I've been crying. Do I look as though I have been?’
‘No. Just a bit red in the face from the fire.’
Her mother leaned forward and kissed her. ‘Thank you. You've made me feel quite different. So sweet of you.’
‘That's all right.’ She tried to think of something reassuring to say. ‘You were just in a state.’
Molly opened her eyes and faced the new day. It was scarcely light, and not yet time to rise, so she lay warm, and lapped in linen sheets, and was filled with gratitude because she had slept, without dreams, all through the night, sleeping as soon as her head touched the pillow, without interruption, and undisturbed by Jess. This in itself was a small miracle, for Jess was a demanding child. If she did not wake during the small hours and scream for her mother, then she was on the go hideously early, and clambering into Molly's bed.
But she, it seemed, had been as tired as her mother, and at half past seven, there was neither sight nor sound of her. Perhaps, thought Molly, it was the whisky. Perhaps I should drink whisky every night, and then I should always sleep. Or perhaps it was the fact that the overwhelming anxieties and apprehensions of the previous evening had been sublimated by her own physical exhaustion. Whatever. It had worked. She had slept. She felt refreshed, renewed, ready for whatever the day had to bring.
Which was shopping for the school uniform. She got out of bed and pulled on her dressing-gown and went to close the window, and draw back the curtains. She saw a pale and misty morning, not yet fully light, and very still. Below her window the sloping terraced garden lay quiet and damp, and from the shore beyond the railway line the curlews called. But the sky was clear, and it occurred to Molly that perhaps the morning would turn into one of those days that spring steals from a Cornish winter, so that all is imbued with the sense of things growing, pushing up through the soft dark earth; buds beginning to swell, and returning birds to sing. She would keep it whole, separate, an entity on its own, a single day spent with her elder daughter, set aside. Remembered, it would be sharp-edged and vivid, like a photograph neatly framed, with no intrusion to blur the image.
She turned from the window, sat at her dressing-table, and took from one of the drawers the bulky manila envelope which contained the St Ursula's clothes list, and a positive plethora of instructions for parents:
The Easter term commences on the fifteenth of January. Boarders are asked to arrive no later than 2:30 P.M on the afternoon of that day. Please make certain that your daughter's Health Certificate has been signed. Miss Catto's
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