Loving Daughters by Olga Masters Page A

rectory he was in a cheerful frame of mind, especially when the stove, left warm by Mrs Watts, burned up obligingly with the wood he selected for it. He was improving, he thought. By jove he’d get the hang of things yet! He went out in the still afternoon to pray in the church, kneeling in a pew like an ordinary parishioner. ‘And make life easier for the Grubb woman,’ he finished up, not quite ready yet to include the husband and the boy.
    Tomorrow, tomorrow, he thought, his head on a clean pillowship. He slept so soundly he did not hear the rain.

15
    Una, on the Honeysuckle verandah next morning, frowned on the rain splashing on the road. Her hands behind her back beat angrily on her rump. Enid was bustling about the living room getting it in order, trying through her noisy movements to get Una to come and do her share. Una’s remote profile seemed to be looking through the rain expecting something to emerge. Enid, smacking cushions and putting them out of reach of Alex’s head (which he had lately taken to liberally smearing with hair cream), felt a lightness of spirits not entirely due to the beneficial rain on her young oleanders. She’s looking out for him but he won’t be coming in this rain!
    â€˜It would be a good day to rearrange Henry’s room,’ she called out.
    â€˜Rearrange Henry’s room,’ Una muttered. She had taken lately to repeating Enid’s sentences in a low voice with her face turned from her. She sat suddenly on the step, drawing her knees up under her skirt and fondling the tips of her shoes.
    â€˜Put your legs down there, someone might go past!’ Enid said.
    â€˜Someone might go past,’ Una muttered with her mouth on her knees.
    â€˜I thought of making a little sewing room and studio of it! Asking Father first, of course!’
    Una laid a cheek on her knees and closed her eyes. ‘Asking Father first, of course,’ she murmured.
    â€˜Well?’ said Enid in the doorway, looking at Una’s curved back. How sad and dejected a back can look! Una’s closed eyes were seeing a studio, but not of Henry’s room. She could feel his hands on her waist, for he stood with her before a painting – of Small Henry! She sprang to her feet and turned with her back to the rail. ‘I’m going to paint Small Henry!’ she said.
    â€˜Well, then have a nice little studio to do it in!’ Enid said.
    She transferred Small Henry’s frog-like shape from the couch where she had last seen it to Una’s canvas. Blast the rain! She could have gone to see him if the day was fine. Una went yesterday!
    Behind her was the disordered living room, vases together emptied of the funeral flowers and waiting to be refilled. She had planned to arrange pieces from her shrubs, as shown in the women’s pages of the Sydney Mail , the editor concerned at the housewife missing the blooms of summer. Massed red and orange berries and green ferns. She intended gathering an armful when the rain eased a little. If it didn’t she would have to put the vases in the pantry until tomorrow.
    Tomorrow! It was too far away! The desolate room silently begged her to restore it to order.
    Oh, blow you! She turned her back on it and went to the kitchen to stoke the stove and take bread from the crock for sandwiches. The men would be in for tea as usual in a few minutes, Jack having found something for them to do in spite of the rain. The bread was getting down and there was only one teacake left. Where did yesterday get to?
    Suddenly she cried ‘Una!’ surprised and frightened at the small scream edging her voice. Una came with a curious face. Enid’s flushed cheeks and cold and red-tipped nose were bowed over her cutting knife. Una took cups from the dresser quietly and with a grace Enid saw and envied. She wanted to sniff and use a handkerchief but avoided both.
    â€˜I can’t do everything on my own!’
    â€˜If I