of Merlot. He was exhibiting a distressing tendency to want to pat her bottom, not that she minded really, it made him feel young and handsome, and didn’t bother her. As she bent to pick up a glass she felt someone’s eyes on her and looked up to meet Christiane Marchant’s gaze. The French woman smiled at her and, looking round, spotted the matron, nodded significantly at Gemma and wheeled herself over towards Pauline Winslow.
Gemma gripped the back of a convenient chair, her legssuddenly cotton wool. I hate her, she wailed inwardly. I
hate
her.
To Christiane Marchant’s satisfaction she spotted that Tim Armstrong and Ellen Ransom were both watching her approach with apprehension written clearly on their faces. Hemmed in as they were by a throng of residents and guests beside the makeshift bar, there was no escape for either of them.
‘Very festive, isn’t it?’ came the merry greeting as Christine rolled up in front of them. ‘I like those old songs, don’t you, Ellen? Reminds me of the time, just at the end of the War, when I came over here: those were the days and no mistake. I had a lovely time. I was something a bit different, you see,’ she explained to Tim who looked both fascinated and terrified. ‘What with being French and pretty. I was smart, and clever with it, soon had all the fellows round me.’
She looked at Ellen with a conspiratorial air. ‘Good gracious, but we all had a time of it, didn’t we, dear? My word, if some of the men who were still in the Far East could have known what their wives were up to! Sometimes you heard of girls who’d got themselves in a fix taking desperate steps to get themselves out of trouble, none of this abortion on tap like there is nowadays, eh? No, you had to take matters into your own hands if you were desperate then.’
Ellen lost colour and Christiane, satisfied with her efforts, turned her sights on Tim, changing tack. ‘Of course, lots of people get desperate, don’t they, Mr Armstrong? Not just in wartime either. Sometimes they have to move house to avoid the shame of what they’ve done, or the shame of what some member of their family might have done. Still, however carefully you cover your tracks, there’s always somebody who finds out about these things, isn’t there, Mr Armstrong? Such a shame.’
‘I do beg your pardon.’ A pleasant voice broke in abruptly and a tall man with silver hair loomed over the trio. ‘I’m Sam Hathaway, Mr Armstrong, Harriet Quigley’s cousin. I think we’ve met once or twice on committees and so forth?’
‘Excuse me.’ Matron had materialized and spoke at the same moment but she smiled and nodded to Sam to continue. He shook his head and she went on: ‘Oh, thank you, Canon Hathaway. I’m so sorry, but I shall have to ask you to move, Mrs Marchant. I’m afraid your wheelchair marks the parquet so I’ve put down a special mat for you. I do apologize but the floor in the hall here is rather special, so we are obliged to preserve it.’
She took a firm hold of Christiane Marchant’s chair and wheeled her away to a spot in the corner just in front of the minstrel’s gallery and well away from the rest of the seating. ‘There we are,’ she said heartily, parking the seething woman on the small rug. ‘That’s much better. I’m afraid you won’t get much of a view of the band from here, not that you can see much in this dim light, but at least you’re right next to the table with the mince pies. Help yourself if you feel peckish, won’t you.’
Sam silently applauded Pauline Winslow’s masterly strategy, having watched her become aware that Ellen and Tim were under attack from their tormentor. Giving her a mental three cheers he stooped to give Tim a hand and went on, without waiting for a reply. ‘Come and join Harriet and me, she’s put her coat on a table over there to save it, and gone off to grab us a drink.’
Under cover of his gentle flow of talk Sam hoisted the older man out of his
Gemma gripped the back of a convenient chair, her legssuddenly cotton wool. I hate her, she wailed inwardly. I
hate
her.
To Christiane Marchant’s satisfaction she spotted that Tim Armstrong and Ellen Ransom were both watching her approach with apprehension written clearly on their faces. Hemmed in as they were by a throng of residents and guests beside the makeshift bar, there was no escape for either of them.
‘Very festive, isn’t it?’ came the merry greeting as Christine rolled up in front of them. ‘I like those old songs, don’t you, Ellen? Reminds me of the time, just at the end of the War, when I came over here: those were the days and no mistake. I had a lovely time. I was something a bit different, you see,’ she explained to Tim who looked both fascinated and terrified. ‘What with being French and pretty. I was smart, and clever with it, soon had all the fellows round me.’
She looked at Ellen with a conspiratorial air. ‘Good gracious, but we all had a time of it, didn’t we, dear? My word, if some of the men who were still in the Far East could have known what their wives were up to! Sometimes you heard of girls who’d got themselves in a fix taking desperate steps to get themselves out of trouble, none of this abortion on tap like there is nowadays, eh? No, you had to take matters into your own hands if you were desperate then.’
Ellen lost colour and Christiane, satisfied with her efforts, turned her sights on Tim, changing tack. ‘Of course, lots of people get desperate, don’t they, Mr Armstrong? Not just in wartime either. Sometimes they have to move house to avoid the shame of what they’ve done, or the shame of what some member of their family might have done. Still, however carefully you cover your tracks, there’s always somebody who finds out about these things, isn’t there, Mr Armstrong? Such a shame.’
‘I do beg your pardon.’ A pleasant voice broke in abruptly and a tall man with silver hair loomed over the trio. ‘I’m Sam Hathaway, Mr Armstrong, Harriet Quigley’s cousin. I think we’ve met once or twice on committees and so forth?’
‘Excuse me.’ Matron had materialized and spoke at the same moment but she smiled and nodded to Sam to continue. He shook his head and she went on: ‘Oh, thank you, Canon Hathaway. I’m so sorry, but I shall have to ask you to move, Mrs Marchant. I’m afraid your wheelchair marks the parquet so I’ve put down a special mat for you. I do apologize but the floor in the hall here is rather special, so we are obliged to preserve it.’
She took a firm hold of Christiane Marchant’s chair and wheeled her away to a spot in the corner just in front of the minstrel’s gallery and well away from the rest of the seating. ‘There we are,’ she said heartily, parking the seething woman on the small rug. ‘That’s much better. I’m afraid you won’t get much of a view of the band from here, not that you can see much in this dim light, but at least you’re right next to the table with the mince pies. Help yourself if you feel peckish, won’t you.’
Sam silently applauded Pauline Winslow’s masterly strategy, having watched her become aware that Ellen and Tim were under attack from their tormentor. Giving her a mental three cheers he stooped to give Tim a hand and went on, without waiting for a reply. ‘Come and join Harriet and me, she’s put her coat on a table over there to save it, and gone off to grab us a drink.’
Under cover of his gentle flow of talk Sam hoisted the older man out of his
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