never opened, because the nutmegs were kept in an old biscuit tin.
Mrs Abinger was glad there were people in the shop to hear Mrs Moore’s admiration. ‘I never had children like this,’ she complained. ‘You are lucky, Mrs Ab., to have such a pretty daughter. You ought to see what the country has done to Tess. She’s covered in freckles and her legs are like young trees, and she insists on going about in boy’s shorts. I shall never get her off.’
‘My Jo’s quite the other way. Almost too vain, you might say, a real little madam.’ Mrs Abinger pretended to deprecate.
Mrs Moore looked happily round the shop. ‘I didn’t like coming back to London,’ she said, ‘but it’s nice to come down here and see everything just the same. Except Jo. I expected her to be still in long clothes, I think. Isn’t it silly how when you go away you expect everything you leave behind to be static until you get back?’
‘And very nice it is, I’m sure, to have you back, Madam,’ saidMrs Abinger, slightly muddled, but nodding and beaming like an old family lodge-keeper. The country had not made Mrs Moore any brisker or browner. Her skin was still like a veined white rose and she still had that way of leaning against everything, as if her spine could not support her height. She had had her hair cropped and shingled, so that her head looked smaller and her neck longer than ever.
She felt warm towards Mrs Abinger for being trusty and solidly old-fashioned. Still making up spices in deft little twists of paper; still weighing out Marie biscuits with as much nicety as if it were the first, instead of the thousandth time in her life.
‘You must let Jo come and play with my family,’ she said.
‘Well, wouldn’t that be lovely!’ cried Mrs Abinger, with as much delighted surprise as if she had not been hoping for this ever since she had heard that the Moores were, coming home. ‘What do you say, Jo? Lost your tongue, have you?’
Jo was thinking out a cunning scheme. ‘Could I come Sunday?’ she asked eagerly. ‘I’d like to come to tea to-morrow, ever so much.’
‘Why not?’ said Mrs Moore. ‘We’re in an awful muddle still, but she could help the children unpack their toys. There might be something she’d like. They’ve got far too many.’
‘The child has plenty of toys of her own,’ put in Mr Abinger, moving down the counter, scenting charity. ‘And I thought you were going to tea with Mrs Loscoe,’ he told his wife. He did not want any patronage, thank you, from such as the Moores, nor did he want Jo going up there to get big ideas and fancy herself too good for the Portobello Road. There was too much of that already.
‘Miss Loscoe won’t mind.’ said Mrs Abinger, winning the struggle against her conscience. ‘Jo would love to come, Madam. I’m sure it’s very kind of you.’ Dot would be furious. She had made the cake and had even talked about buying crackers, but if Jo did not go to Chepstow Villas this time, Mrs Moore might forget to ask her again.
When she had washed up after Sunday dinner, Mrs Abinger dressed Josephine in a muslin confection that was far granderthan anything Tessa Moore had ever been made to wear, and sat her tidily down in a pinafore with a book.
If it had not been for missing Mrs Loscoe’s birthday tea, Jo would not have wanted to go to the Moores. Since yesterday, she had heard so much about how lucky she was to be asked, and how politely she must behave, and not snatch at tea nor say ‘ain’t’, nor presume with toys, that she was bored now with the whole idea. Her mother was in the bedroom repinning her hair, which was always more trouble in hot weather. If Jo could escape, she might find Arthur and Norman down the Lane, and persuade them to let her go digging.
‘Can I go out for a bit, Dad?’ Mr Abinger was fussing round the table, setting chairs and laying out sheets of paper and thinking up what he was going to say about the presentation fund for old Bob
Mrs Abinger was glad there were people in the shop to hear Mrs Moore’s admiration. ‘I never had children like this,’ she complained. ‘You are lucky, Mrs Ab., to have such a pretty daughter. You ought to see what the country has done to Tess. She’s covered in freckles and her legs are like young trees, and she insists on going about in boy’s shorts. I shall never get her off.’
‘My Jo’s quite the other way. Almost too vain, you might say, a real little madam.’ Mrs Abinger pretended to deprecate.
Mrs Moore looked happily round the shop. ‘I didn’t like coming back to London,’ she said, ‘but it’s nice to come down here and see everything just the same. Except Jo. I expected her to be still in long clothes, I think. Isn’t it silly how when you go away you expect everything you leave behind to be static until you get back?’
‘And very nice it is, I’m sure, to have you back, Madam,’ saidMrs Abinger, slightly muddled, but nodding and beaming like an old family lodge-keeper. The country had not made Mrs Moore any brisker or browner. Her skin was still like a veined white rose and she still had that way of leaning against everything, as if her spine could not support her height. She had had her hair cropped and shingled, so that her head looked smaller and her neck longer than ever.
She felt warm towards Mrs Abinger for being trusty and solidly old-fashioned. Still making up spices in deft little twists of paper; still weighing out Marie biscuits with as much nicety as if it were the first, instead of the thousandth time in her life.
‘You must let Jo come and play with my family,’ she said.
‘Well, wouldn’t that be lovely!’ cried Mrs Abinger, with as much delighted surprise as if she had not been hoping for this ever since she had heard that the Moores were, coming home. ‘What do you say, Jo? Lost your tongue, have you?’
Jo was thinking out a cunning scheme. ‘Could I come Sunday?’ she asked eagerly. ‘I’d like to come to tea to-morrow, ever so much.’
‘Why not?’ said Mrs Moore. ‘We’re in an awful muddle still, but she could help the children unpack their toys. There might be something she’d like. They’ve got far too many.’
‘The child has plenty of toys of her own,’ put in Mr Abinger, moving down the counter, scenting charity. ‘And I thought you were going to tea with Mrs Loscoe,’ he told his wife. He did not want any patronage, thank you, from such as the Moores, nor did he want Jo going up there to get big ideas and fancy herself too good for the Portobello Road. There was too much of that already.
‘Miss Loscoe won’t mind.’ said Mrs Abinger, winning the struggle against her conscience. ‘Jo would love to come, Madam. I’m sure it’s very kind of you.’ Dot would be furious. She had made the cake and had even talked about buying crackers, but if Jo did not go to Chepstow Villas this time, Mrs Moore might forget to ask her again.
When she had washed up after Sunday dinner, Mrs Abinger dressed Josephine in a muslin confection that was far granderthan anything Tessa Moore had ever been made to wear, and sat her tidily down in a pinafore with a book.
If it had not been for missing Mrs Loscoe’s birthday tea, Jo would not have wanted to go to the Moores. Since yesterday, she had heard so much about how lucky she was to be asked, and how politely she must behave, and not snatch at tea nor say ‘ain’t’, nor presume with toys, that she was bored now with the whole idea. Her mother was in the bedroom repinning her hair, which was always more trouble in hot weather. If Jo could escape, she might find Arthur and Norman down the Lane, and persuade them to let her go digging.
‘Can I go out for a bit, Dad?’ Mr Abinger was fussing round the table, setting chairs and laying out sheets of paper and thinking up what he was going to say about the presentation fund for old Bob
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