stowed away. They repeated, however, that Willis was no trouble.
When Nenna told them that she had urgent business on the other side of London and that she would have to ask whether Martha and Tilda could stay the night, Rochester accepted without protest, and they went over, taking with them their nightdresses, Cliff records, the Cliff photograph and two packets of breakfast cereals, for they did not like the same kind. Tilda, who had been vexed at missing the actual shipwreck, went straight down to Willis’s cabin to ask him if he would draw her a picture of it. Martha confronted her mother.
‘You’re going to see Daddy, aren’t you?’
‘I might be bringing him back with me. Would you like that?’
‘I don’t know.’
8
B ETTER take a cheap all-day ticket, the bus conductor advised, if Nenna really wanted to get from Chelsea to Stoke Newington.
‘Or move house,’ he advised.
Although as she changed from bus to bus she was free at last of the accusing voices, she had time for a number of second thoughts, wishing in particular that she had put on other clothes, and had had her hair cut. She didn’t know if she wanted to look different or the same. Her best coat would perhaps have been better because it would make her look as though she hadn’t let herself go, but on the other hand her frightful old lumber jacket would have suggested, what was true enough, that she was worried enough not to care. But among all these doubts it had not occurred to her that if she got as far as 42b Milvain Street, and rang the bell, Edward would not open the door.
It was the b, perhaps, that was the trouble. b suggested an upstairs flat, and there was only one bell at 42. The yellowish-grey brick houses gave straight on to the street, which she had found only after turning out of another one, and then another. On some doorsteps the milk was still waiting to be taken in. She still missed the rocking of the boat.
He might be in or he might be out. There was a light on in the hall, and apparently on the second floor, though that might be a landing. Nenna struggled against an impulse to rush into the fish and chip shop at the corner, the only shop in the street, and ask them if they had ever seen somebody coming out of number 42b who looked lonely, or indeed if they had ever seen anyone coming out of it at all.
The figure turning the corner and walking heavily down the road could not under any circumstances have been Edward, but at least it relieved her from the suspicion that the street was uninhabited. When the heavily-treading man slowed down at number 42, she couldn’t believe her luck. He had been out and was coming in, although the way he walked suggested that going out had not been a great success, and that not much awaited him at home.
As he stopped and took out two keys tied together, neither of them a car key, Nenna faced him boldy.
‘Excuse me, I should like you to let me in.’
‘May I ask who you are?’
The ‘may I ask’ disconcerted her.
‘I’m Grace . I mean, I’m Nenna.’
‘You don’t seem very sure.’
‘I am Nenna James.’
‘Mrs Edward James?’
‘Yes. Does Edward James live here?’
‘Well, in a way.’ He dangled the keys from hand to hand. ‘You don’t look at all how I expected.’
Nenna felt rebuked.
‘How old are you?’
‘I’m thirty-two.’
‘I should have thought you were twenty-seven or twenty-eight at most.’
He stood ruminating. She tried not to feel impatient.
‘Did Edward say what I looked like, then?’
‘No.’
‘What has he been saying?’
‘As a matter of fact, I very rarely speak to him.’
Nenna looked at him more closely, trying to assess him as an ally. The cuffs of his raincoat had been neatly turned. Somebody must be doing his mending for him, as she was doing Willis’s, and the idea gave her a stab of pain which she couldn’t relate to her other feelings. She stared up at his broad face.
‘We can’t stand here all night on the
When Nenna told them that she had urgent business on the other side of London and that she would have to ask whether Martha and Tilda could stay the night, Rochester accepted without protest, and they went over, taking with them their nightdresses, Cliff records, the Cliff photograph and two packets of breakfast cereals, for they did not like the same kind. Tilda, who had been vexed at missing the actual shipwreck, went straight down to Willis’s cabin to ask him if he would draw her a picture of it. Martha confronted her mother.
‘You’re going to see Daddy, aren’t you?’
‘I might be bringing him back with me. Would you like that?’
‘I don’t know.’
8
B ETTER take a cheap all-day ticket, the bus conductor advised, if Nenna really wanted to get from Chelsea to Stoke Newington.
‘Or move house,’ he advised.
Although as she changed from bus to bus she was free at last of the accusing voices, she had time for a number of second thoughts, wishing in particular that she had put on other clothes, and had had her hair cut. She didn’t know if she wanted to look different or the same. Her best coat would perhaps have been better because it would make her look as though she hadn’t let herself go, but on the other hand her frightful old lumber jacket would have suggested, what was true enough, that she was worried enough not to care. But among all these doubts it had not occurred to her that if she got as far as 42b Milvain Street, and rang the bell, Edward would not open the door.
It was the b, perhaps, that was the trouble. b suggested an upstairs flat, and there was only one bell at 42. The yellowish-grey brick houses gave straight on to the street, which she had found only after turning out of another one, and then another. On some doorsteps the milk was still waiting to be taken in. She still missed the rocking of the boat.
He might be in or he might be out. There was a light on in the hall, and apparently on the second floor, though that might be a landing. Nenna struggled against an impulse to rush into the fish and chip shop at the corner, the only shop in the street, and ask them if they had ever seen somebody coming out of number 42b who looked lonely, or indeed if they had ever seen anyone coming out of it at all.
The figure turning the corner and walking heavily down the road could not under any circumstances have been Edward, but at least it relieved her from the suspicion that the street was uninhabited. When the heavily-treading man slowed down at number 42, she couldn’t believe her luck. He had been out and was coming in, although the way he walked suggested that going out had not been a great success, and that not much awaited him at home.
As he stopped and took out two keys tied together, neither of them a car key, Nenna faced him boldy.
‘Excuse me, I should like you to let me in.’
‘May I ask who you are?’
The ‘may I ask’ disconcerted her.
‘I’m Grace . I mean, I’m Nenna.’
‘You don’t seem very sure.’
‘I am Nenna James.’
‘Mrs Edward James?’
‘Yes. Does Edward James live here?’
‘Well, in a way.’ He dangled the keys from hand to hand. ‘You don’t look at all how I expected.’
Nenna felt rebuked.
‘How old are you?’
‘I’m thirty-two.’
‘I should have thought you were twenty-seven or twenty-eight at most.’
He stood ruminating. She tried not to feel impatient.
‘Did Edward say what I looked like, then?’
‘No.’
‘What has he been saying?’
‘As a matter of fact, I very rarely speak to him.’
Nenna looked at him more closely, trying to assess him as an ally. The cuffs of his raincoat had been neatly turned. Somebody must be doing his mending for him, as she was doing Willis’s, and the idea gave her a stab of pain which she couldn’t relate to her other feelings. She stared up at his broad face.
‘We can’t stand here all night on the
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