friend and four’s a good number. Gracecouldn’t let Mary down now. Still, all day Grace has been thinking of the countryside and Joseph’s farm in Somerset. Well, his da’s farm, and then it’ll be his brother’s, that’s why Joseph’s in service, to make a better life, he’d told her. But Grace can’t think of much better than a farm, all fresh grass and milk, golden-brown cows and a whitewashed square of a farmhouse, smoke coming out of the chimney, smell of fresh roast ham, too, from the door. But where’s she to use her shorthand there? Grace pushes the thought out of her mind, and goes on dreaming, for that’s as close as she’ll get. Another letter from Ma and she’ll be popped like a string drawn too tight.
Mary found Grace a dress from a friend. You can’t go out in those, she’d said as she turned through Grace’s drawer of the office clothes Grace and Ma had stitched; looks like you’re going to church. Grace couldn’t go near a church in the dress she’s been pulled into. She’s not worn a showy colour like this before. It’s a shade of dark pink, not that there’s much of it at the front; she wants to cover her chest with her hands. Mary’s wearing rouge too. Come on, Grace, don’t you want to look your best? Paint my face! Grace is shocked at the thought of it. Not that she needs to paint her face to shock herself this evening. When she looks in the mirror she sees another person. Let’s be out of here before Joseph sees, she thinks. The night out won’t cost you a penny, Mary tells her, real gents, they are. But Grace has Ma’s words in her head, Never go anywhere you can’t get home. Grace turns to her drawer and reaches into her purse for a bus fare. She stills, then takes a deep breath and lifts out all she hasn’t yet sent home, just in case.
It’s Mrs Wainwright that calls her in as she and Mary are leaving. Oh, Grace, moans Mary, can’t it wait? Not up to me, thinks Grace.
Mrs Wainwright is all honey and sweet and tells Grace to sit down so that Grace thinks there’s some terrible news coming and it runs through her head, from Michael to Ma. Only address they have is here, or rather the mews at the back, but it’s all the same.
‘Grace,’ says Mrs Wainwright. Maybe, thinks Grace, maybe it’s just the dress I’m wearing, and her cheeks feel as though they are pinkening to match the colour of it.
‘Grace, we all, from time to time, have feelings.’ Here Mrs Wainwright pauses, and Grace looks over her shoulder at a photograph she’s not seen down here before. A handsome man, not young, Grace’d have him at near forty, but military. You can imagine the buttons shining, even just from looking at the picture. ‘But,’ Mrs Wainwright continues, ‘you’re a heady young girl, and these feelings may somehow overcome you.’ My word, what does Mrs W. think Grace and Mary are up to tonight, and why isn’t Mary in here too? ‘However, it is not always,’ Mrs Wainwright hesitates again, ‘appropriate to show them.’
Mrs Wainwright’s hands move down to her desk. Grace follows them. There’s a card, there, a Valentine’s card. So Mrs W. has an admirer, too. She’s picking up the card, taking a breath to speak again. ‘Mr Bellows,’ she continues, ‘is a widower. He is old enough to be your …’ And Grace tries to shut out what’s coming, it’s ever so much worse than a scolding and she can feel shivers of embarrassment as though she’s stuck in this dress till Kingdom Come. Grace has had her card in her apron pocket all day, touching it from time to time like a lucky charm, but right now, she never wants to think about a Valentine again.
‘And there’s the question of the order of things down here. I don’t imagine it’s a joke, Grace; that would not be particularly pleasant.’ Either Mr Bellows thinks she loves him, or he thinks she’s making fun of him. Oh, Grace Campbell, oh. If Susan can do this when Grace has done nought to her, then the
Mary found Grace a dress from a friend. You can’t go out in those, she’d said as she turned through Grace’s drawer of the office clothes Grace and Ma had stitched; looks like you’re going to church. Grace couldn’t go near a church in the dress she’s been pulled into. She’s not worn a showy colour like this before. It’s a shade of dark pink, not that there’s much of it at the front; she wants to cover her chest with her hands. Mary’s wearing rouge too. Come on, Grace, don’t you want to look your best? Paint my face! Grace is shocked at the thought of it. Not that she needs to paint her face to shock herself this evening. When she looks in the mirror she sees another person. Let’s be out of here before Joseph sees, she thinks. The night out won’t cost you a penny, Mary tells her, real gents, they are. But Grace has Ma’s words in her head, Never go anywhere you can’t get home. Grace turns to her drawer and reaches into her purse for a bus fare. She stills, then takes a deep breath and lifts out all she hasn’t yet sent home, just in case.
It’s Mrs Wainwright that calls her in as she and Mary are leaving. Oh, Grace, moans Mary, can’t it wait? Not up to me, thinks Grace.
Mrs Wainwright is all honey and sweet and tells Grace to sit down so that Grace thinks there’s some terrible news coming and it runs through her head, from Michael to Ma. Only address they have is here, or rather the mews at the back, but it’s all the same.
‘Grace,’ says Mrs Wainwright. Maybe, thinks Grace, maybe it’s just the dress I’m wearing, and her cheeks feel as though they are pinkening to match the colour of it.
‘Grace, we all, from time to time, have feelings.’ Here Mrs Wainwright pauses, and Grace looks over her shoulder at a photograph she’s not seen down here before. A handsome man, not young, Grace’d have him at near forty, but military. You can imagine the buttons shining, even just from looking at the picture. ‘But,’ Mrs Wainwright continues, ‘you’re a heady young girl, and these feelings may somehow overcome you.’ My word, what does Mrs W. think Grace and Mary are up to tonight, and why isn’t Mary in here too? ‘However, it is not always,’ Mrs Wainwright hesitates again, ‘appropriate to show them.’
Mrs Wainwright’s hands move down to her desk. Grace follows them. There’s a card, there, a Valentine’s card. So Mrs W. has an admirer, too. She’s picking up the card, taking a breath to speak again. ‘Mr Bellows,’ she continues, ‘is a widower. He is old enough to be your …’ And Grace tries to shut out what’s coming, it’s ever so much worse than a scolding and she can feel shivers of embarrassment as though she’s stuck in this dress till Kingdom Come. Grace has had her card in her apron pocket all day, touching it from time to time like a lucky charm, but right now, she never wants to think about a Valentine again.
‘And there’s the question of the order of things down here. I don’t imagine it’s a joke, Grace; that would not be particularly pleasant.’ Either Mr Bellows thinks she loves him, or he thinks she’s making fun of him. Oh, Grace Campbell, oh. If Susan can do this when Grace has done nought to her, then the
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