sense of betrayal,
no despising Barry for his treachery, no fury against the pathetic Bertha. Instead, a curious, benign understanding lapped within her. Of course she could see why things had come about between
Barry and his housekeeper. And she didn’t care. Married life could carry on, materially provided for. She and Bertha could continue in their mutual ignoring. It was up to Barry whether he
continued to pleasure the housekeeper from time old time, ugly old cow, and once she, Prue, was pregnant, sex could be whittled down till it was almost non-existent.
Loveless marriage, with extravagant compensations, was not so bad. Prue had never supposed she would be blessed with the kind of loving union had by Mr and Mrs Lawrence. She had done nothing to
deserve that. But she was lucky to be married at all, she thought. There were thousands of young women whose boyfriends had been killed, thousands of young widows. So given that she was married
and, now, free, she would avail herself of everything she could get: the security of Barry, the freedom to look around. Somewhere behind these nebulous thoughts lurked a faint melancholy, though
she guessed it was nothing to do with tonight’s revelations. It was more a kind of disappointment: she was disappointed in herself. When she was a working land girl, she remembered, when a
field of straight furrows was finished or the whole herd of Friesians milked single-handed, she had sometimes experienced a sense of satisfaction that never came to her now. Stella and Ag, she was
sure, would have good advice, but it was still some months till their next London reunion, and both lived too far away for a spontaneous visit. Petrol coupons would have to be saved.
Her longing for a reunion with the others was fulfilled surprisingly quickly, well before the annual meeting. Ag sent a telegram to say Mrs Lawrence had died of a sudden heart-attack, and Mr
Lawrence very much hoped the girls would be able to get to Yorkshire for the funeral in three days’ time. They could stay in the farmhouse. Prue looked up cross-country trains, and asked
Barry’s permission to leave for a few days. He seemed relieved to give it to her. It occurred to Prue that in his fleeting visits to the kitchen he was being berated by the livid Bertha, who
now managed to avoid addressing any word at all to her. Since Confession Day, as Prue called it, Barry had had the air of a man deflated: relieved to have confessed his guilt, but caught up in the
aspic of confusion as to how, now, he should play his part. Up to him, thought Prue. She didn’t really care.
Barry drove her to the station, gave her money for a first-class ticket. A porter carried her Louis Vuitton case – a birthday present – to an empty carriage and touched his cap when
she gave him a shilling. Despite the sad reason for this journey, there was something exciting about setting off on her own, leaving the stifling house. She sat by the window, head against the
spotless antimacassar, the back of her knees brushed gently by the fuzzy stuff of the seat. A sepia photograph of a Dorset village not far from Hinton Half Moon hung opposite.
By the time the train had left the station tears ran jerkily from her eyes. She sniffed, imagining the mess scrawled across her cheeks. But she couldn’t help it. The evocative photograph
had brought it all back: most of all Mrs Lawrence, who had become a kind of surrogate mother, with all the strength and wisdom and dignity that her own mother lacked. Prue shut her eyes,
remembered. Mrs Lawrence . . . her kindly face, hard of bone but soft round the edges when she smiled: voice either hard and cracked with fatigue or disapproval, or gentle as a mourning dove when
she had time to feel her happiness. Mrs Lawrence: her stringy arms, honed from a lifetime of kneading bread, rolling pastry, milking cows, smoothing her men’s shirts with an iron that weighed
a ton. Her food, so good it was hard ever to imagine
no despising Barry for his treachery, no fury against the pathetic Bertha. Instead, a curious, benign understanding lapped within her. Of course she could see why things had come about between
Barry and his housekeeper. And she didn’t care. Married life could carry on, materially provided for. She and Bertha could continue in their mutual ignoring. It was up to Barry whether he
continued to pleasure the housekeeper from time old time, ugly old cow, and once she, Prue, was pregnant, sex could be whittled down till it was almost non-existent.
Loveless marriage, with extravagant compensations, was not so bad. Prue had never supposed she would be blessed with the kind of loving union had by Mr and Mrs Lawrence. She had done nothing to
deserve that. But she was lucky to be married at all, she thought. There were thousands of young women whose boyfriends had been killed, thousands of young widows. So given that she was married
and, now, free, she would avail herself of everything she could get: the security of Barry, the freedom to look around. Somewhere behind these nebulous thoughts lurked a faint melancholy, though
she guessed it was nothing to do with tonight’s revelations. It was more a kind of disappointment: she was disappointed in herself. When she was a working land girl, she remembered, when a
field of straight furrows was finished or the whole herd of Friesians milked single-handed, she had sometimes experienced a sense of satisfaction that never came to her now. Stella and Ag, she was
sure, would have good advice, but it was still some months till their next London reunion, and both lived too far away for a spontaneous visit. Petrol coupons would have to be saved.
Her longing for a reunion with the others was fulfilled surprisingly quickly, well before the annual meeting. Ag sent a telegram to say Mrs Lawrence had died of a sudden heart-attack, and Mr
Lawrence very much hoped the girls would be able to get to Yorkshire for the funeral in three days’ time. They could stay in the farmhouse. Prue looked up cross-country trains, and asked
Barry’s permission to leave for a few days. He seemed relieved to give it to her. It occurred to Prue that in his fleeting visits to the kitchen he was being berated by the livid Bertha, who
now managed to avoid addressing any word at all to her. Since Confession Day, as Prue called it, Barry had had the air of a man deflated: relieved to have confessed his guilt, but caught up in the
aspic of confusion as to how, now, he should play his part. Up to him, thought Prue. She didn’t really care.
Barry drove her to the station, gave her money for a first-class ticket. A porter carried her Louis Vuitton case – a birthday present – to an empty carriage and touched his cap when
she gave him a shilling. Despite the sad reason for this journey, there was something exciting about setting off on her own, leaving the stifling house. She sat by the window, head against the
spotless antimacassar, the back of her knees brushed gently by the fuzzy stuff of the seat. A sepia photograph of a Dorset village not far from Hinton Half Moon hung opposite.
By the time the train had left the station tears ran jerkily from her eyes. She sniffed, imagining the mess scrawled across her cheeks. But she couldn’t help it. The evocative photograph
had brought it all back: most of all Mrs Lawrence, who had become a kind of surrogate mother, with all the strength and wisdom and dignity that her own mother lacked. Prue shut her eyes,
remembered. Mrs Lawrence . . . her kindly face, hard of bone but soft round the edges when she smiled: voice either hard and cracked with fatigue or disapproval, or gentle as a mourning dove when
she had time to feel her happiness. Mrs Lawrence: her stringy arms, honed from a lifetime of kneading bread, rolling pastry, milking cows, smoothing her men’s shirts with an iron that weighed
a ton. Her food, so good it was hard ever to imagine
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