Henrietta Sees It Through by Joyce Dennys Page B

crossly. ‘I went to try on my new coat.’
    After turning round and asking Mrs Whinebite for a detailed account of her experiences at the dentist’s, I felt that honour was satisfied, and settled down to enjoy the drive home. But the savour had gone out of it somehow. I felt every day of my forty-you-know-what years. I had rheumatism in my arm, and my face, reflected in the glass of the bus window, looked lined, anxious and thin. When we reached home the bus conductor assisted me onto the pavement as though I were a very, very old lady, and told me to mind the kerb. There was a cold east wind blowing down the Street, and as I hurried along, with shoulders hunched to my ears, I asked myself What I had Done with My Life, and what there was to look forward to but old age, decay and decrepitude.
    It was getting dark now, and in spite of the bus conductor’s warning, I forgot the kerb and fell down. A passing soldier said, ‘Hold up, Mother,’ and pulled me to my feet. I thought of my home, dark, cold, with the black-out not done, and the dinner uncooked. I stumbled up the steps and groped my way to the drawing-room door.
    Inside it was a blaze of light. A cheerful fire was burning, and beside it sat Lady B with her knitting.
    â€˜My dear Henrietta, what is the matter?’
    â€˜Oh, Lady B! I feel so old!’
    â€˜You mean you feel so cold. Come and sit down by the fire; your face is quite blue.’
    â€˜Oh, Lady B! How sweet you are!’
    â€˜Nonsense. Evensong’s back. She’s in the kitchen now, and I’m staying to supper. Why do you feel old? I’m seventy-six and I haven’t begun to feel old yet.’
    â€˜You never will be old.’
    â€˜It’s all in the Mind,’ said Lady B.
    I took off one shoe and held a cold foot to the fire. ‘Of course, what makes Registering so awful is that one is simply longing to go off and do something exciting,’ I said.
    Lady B laid down her knitting. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I often make up a story in my head that I’m forming a Women’s Airborne Army.’
    â€˜How lovely!’
    â€˜But you ought not to grumble. You are at least looking after Charles. I’m just living in my little flat with my knife, fork and spoon and looking after myself. It makes me feel a very selfish old woman.’
    â€˜How can you say that when you’ve knitted ninety-five jerseys for sailors?’
    â€˜But I enjoy doing that,’ said Lady B. Then Charles came in. ‘Hullo, Charles,’ said Lady B. ‘Here’s Henrietta feeling old.’
    â€˜Well, we’re all getting up-along,’ said Charles. ‘But there’s still a little gin left in the bottle.’
    Always your affectionate Childhood’s Friend,
    H ENRIETTA

 
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    December 15, 1943
    M Y D EAR R OBERT
    We have got a kitten. It is called General James Barton, after Brother James. We had to get it because of the mice, which had taken to scampering over our faces at night, but we felt rather apologetic to Perry, because his breed holds the Ratting Championship of the World, though the gift, somehow, seems to have passed him by. He did catch a mouse once, but only after Charles had hit it with a telephone directory. Perry was frightfully pleased with himself after this, his first kill, and carried the mouse, with low growls, to his basket, where he lay for the rest of the evening with one paw covering the corpse, and his head very erect, like the Monarch of the Glen.
    The kitten is an entrancing creature with short grey fur and yellow eyes. When it arrived in its little hamper it began purring before we had got the lid open, and as soon as we lifted it out it made it perfectly plain that it liked us, and was pleased to come and live in our house.
    â€˜Isn’t it adorable Charles?’ I said, as the kitten rubbed its little face against my cheek.
    â€˜Not bad,’ said Charles, who pretends he