upset her. Yet what had she said? Only that if Mrs Cledwen was to leave him, Mr Geraint could marry or get another housekeeper. Perhaps it had been a bit tactless, but not unkind surely?
‘Dadadada,’ Helen burbled, reaching for the woolly bobble which Hester had painstakingly made and hung on the front of the pram. ‘Dadadada!’
‘Oh, you!’ Hester said, leaning forward across the handle of the pram and kissing Hester’s small button nose. ‘You don’t care for anything or anyone, do you? You’ll never invent a couple of grandmothers and a whole interesting childhood, not if it were ever so. But then you won’t need to, my honey-pot darling.’
And Helen, beaming and chattering in baby-talk, seemed to agree that she most certainly would not.
3
IT WAS A beautiful spring day with a breeze coming off the distant sea and golden sunshine pouring down on the lodge and its struggling garden while the birds sang their hearts out and flirted and courted around Hester’s cherished vegetable patch. It was the sort of day when seaside holidays and other excitements come to mind and though Hester, fastening Helen into her pram, was only going to work, she felt a glow of vicarious pleasure because today Mrs Cledwen was going off to stay with her family for a week or so, leaving Hester, if not in charge, at least to her own devices so far as cleaning went.
‘No pram, no pram,’ Helen shouted as her mother lifted her up. She wriggled impatiently. ‘Nell walk!’
‘No, love, it’s too far. Just sit in the pram for a bit, then when we reach the lamb field you may walk.’
‘Wanna walk,’ Helen whined as Hester tied her securely into the pram. ‘Nell wanna walk.’
Helen had been too much of a mouthful for a small child so the baby had christened herself Nell and although Hester had been sad, at first, to lose the name she had chosen so carefully, Nell was a lot easier to shout – and now that the baby was toddling Hester found herself shouting a good deal.
‘Well, you shall walk, sweetheart. When we get to the lamb field.’
‘Nell wanna walk now,’ Helen insisted, trying to wriggle out of the piece of washing line which Hester had secured under her arms. ‘I’s big girl … wanna walk !’
‘We’ll pick some dandelion leaves for the lambs,’ Hester said, beginning to push the heavy old pram round the side of the lodge and out on to the drive. Experience hadtaught her that arguing with Helen, young though she was, seldom resulted in victory and usually meant frayed tempers all round. I don’t know where she gets her pigheadedness from but it isn’t me, and I don’t really think it comes from Matthew either, Hester thought as Helen continued to try to escape from her bonds. I suppose it’s from way back. Perhaps my father was obstinate and my mother weak-willed, and the strain was mixed in me but came through truer in Helen. Or perhaps old Mr Coburn was a tartar, or Mrs Coburn …
‘Feed lambs?’
Helen, who had earlier seemed to brush aside her mother’s remark, now repeated it thoughtfully, a smile spreading across her small triangular face. She was not a pretty child in the accepted sense of the word, but she was a fascinating little creature. At her age, most children had baby hair, soft and fluffy, but Helen’s black and silky crop had grown until Hester had been forced to cut it into a fringe. This made the child look like a Dutch doll, especially so today because she was wearing a white cotton bonnet which she had tugged rakishly over one eye. Hester straightened it and kissed her daughter’s small nose.
I don’t know where she got those eyebrows from either, Hester thought, pushing the pram into the drive. They were strongly marked for a baby, winging above the slanting, amber-coloured eyes which were the only feature, Hester concluded wryly, that she had passed on to her daughter.
‘Mummy, Nell feed lambs?’
The shrill little voice showed no signs of developing temper now; she
‘Dadadada,’ Helen burbled, reaching for the woolly bobble which Hester had painstakingly made and hung on the front of the pram. ‘Dadadada!’
‘Oh, you!’ Hester said, leaning forward across the handle of the pram and kissing Hester’s small button nose. ‘You don’t care for anything or anyone, do you? You’ll never invent a couple of grandmothers and a whole interesting childhood, not if it were ever so. But then you won’t need to, my honey-pot darling.’
And Helen, beaming and chattering in baby-talk, seemed to agree that she most certainly would not.
3
IT WAS A beautiful spring day with a breeze coming off the distant sea and golden sunshine pouring down on the lodge and its struggling garden while the birds sang their hearts out and flirted and courted around Hester’s cherished vegetable patch. It was the sort of day when seaside holidays and other excitements come to mind and though Hester, fastening Helen into her pram, was only going to work, she felt a glow of vicarious pleasure because today Mrs Cledwen was going off to stay with her family for a week or so, leaving Hester, if not in charge, at least to her own devices so far as cleaning went.
‘No pram, no pram,’ Helen shouted as her mother lifted her up. She wriggled impatiently. ‘Nell walk!’
‘No, love, it’s too far. Just sit in the pram for a bit, then when we reach the lamb field you may walk.’
‘Wanna walk,’ Helen whined as Hester tied her securely into the pram. ‘Nell wanna walk.’
Helen had been too much of a mouthful for a small child so the baby had christened herself Nell and although Hester had been sad, at first, to lose the name she had chosen so carefully, Nell was a lot easier to shout – and now that the baby was toddling Hester found herself shouting a good deal.
‘Well, you shall walk, sweetheart. When we get to the lamb field.’
‘Nell wanna walk now,’ Helen insisted, trying to wriggle out of the piece of washing line which Hester had secured under her arms. ‘I’s big girl … wanna walk !’
‘We’ll pick some dandelion leaves for the lambs,’ Hester said, beginning to push the heavy old pram round the side of the lodge and out on to the drive. Experience hadtaught her that arguing with Helen, young though she was, seldom resulted in victory and usually meant frayed tempers all round. I don’t know where she gets her pigheadedness from but it isn’t me, and I don’t really think it comes from Matthew either, Hester thought as Helen continued to try to escape from her bonds. I suppose it’s from way back. Perhaps my father was obstinate and my mother weak-willed, and the strain was mixed in me but came through truer in Helen. Or perhaps old Mr Coburn was a tartar, or Mrs Coburn …
‘Feed lambs?’
Helen, who had earlier seemed to brush aside her mother’s remark, now repeated it thoughtfully, a smile spreading across her small triangular face. She was not a pretty child in the accepted sense of the word, but she was a fascinating little creature. At her age, most children had baby hair, soft and fluffy, but Helen’s black and silky crop had grown until Hester had been forced to cut it into a fringe. This made the child look like a Dutch doll, especially so today because she was wearing a white cotton bonnet which she had tugged rakishly over one eye. Hester straightened it and kissed her daughter’s small nose.
I don’t know where she got those eyebrows from either, Hester thought, pushing the pram into the drive. They were strongly marked for a baby, winging above the slanting, amber-coloured eyes which were the only feature, Hester concluded wryly, that she had passed on to her daughter.
‘Mummy, Nell feed lambs?’
The shrill little voice showed no signs of developing temper now; she
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