That Man Simon by Anne Weale Page A

I had imagined. And so easy to run, Mrs. Rose says. The little girl showed me her room before she went to bed. What a dear little soul she is. Such nice manners. Oh, and the view from the sitting-room, Jenny! When the garden is all laid out properly, it will be lovely.’ Mrs. Shannon was so filled with enthusiasm that she would have gone on talking half the night if her husband had not come in from locking up and said it was high time they were in bed.
    At breakfast next morning, she was still full of the many novel features and labour-saving devices at Flint House.
    ‘How I wish there had been all these things when I was a young wife,’ she said wistfully.
    ‘What did Mr. Gilchrist say when you told him I couldn’t come?’ Jenny asked.
    ‘He quite understood, dear. I explained that James had an evening surgery twice a week, and that he didn’t like to leave his mother alone too often, so you couldn’t get out together as much as you’d like.’
    ‘You didn’t—’ Jenny stopped short.
    She had been about to say You didn’t tell him that James and I are practically engaged, did you?
    ‘Didn’t what, dear?’
    ‘Oh ... nothing.’
    Mrs. Shannon studied her for a moment. ‘It’s a good thing the term ends next week. You’ve looked rather run down lately, dear. You need a rest,’ she said.
    Two days before the school broke up for the long summer holidays, Jenny and Polly were walking home from the bus stop when they saw Mrs. Shannon coming to meet them.
    ‘Jenny, Mrs. Rose has had to go into the city. Someone rang up for her early this afternoon. It seems her daughter’s baby has arrived three weeks early, and there’s no one to look after the rest of the family. Poor Mrs. Rose was very worried because Mr. Gilchrist is in London today. But I told her Polly could have tea with us, and then you could put her to bed and stay in the house until her uncle gets back.’
    ‘Yes, of course,’ Jenny agreed. ‘Come on, Polly: come and see our house.’
    After tea, Jenny got out the box of ivory spillikins which had belonged to the Rector as a small boy, and taught Polly how to play the game. Soon it was time for the child to go to bed and they walked round to the next door house. As she unlocked the armour-glass front door with the key Mrs.
    Rose had left with her grandmother, Jenny felt a queer thrust of excitement.
    Polly insisted on showing her all over the house, except for Mrs. Rose’s bed-sitting-room which, she explained solemnly, was private.
    ‘This is where Uncle Simon sleeps,’ she said, opening the door of a room overlooking the garden.
    Jenny glimpsed a wide double bed with a tailored cover of dark green linen, a crimson leather armchair and - by the picture window - a sloping drawing table with some specification sheets on it.
    ‘I think this is private, too, Polly,’ she said, after one brief glance.
    She supervised the child’s bath in the luxurious black marble bathroom, and then heard her prayers and tucked her into bed.
    ‘Did your uncle go to London by train? Did he say what time he expected to be back, Polly?’
    ‘No, he went in the car. I don’t think he’ll be back for a long time. He told Mrs. Rose not to wait up for him, and she doesn’t go to bed till ever so late. She has a television in her room and watches it till it stops.’
    ‘Well, it doesn’t really matter how late he is. There are plenty of books for me to read in the sitting-room. Good night, pet. Sleep tight.’ Jenny gave the child a light kiss.
    Rather to her surprise, Polly slid her arms round her neck and gave her a quick shy hug.
    As Jenny left the room, the telephone rang. It was Mrs.
    Rose, anxious to know if everything was all right.
    ‘Yes, of course, Mrs. Rose. Don’t worry, I’m sure Mr.
    Gilchrist will understand. How is your daughter?’
    Already a grandmother of four girls, the housekeeper now had a grandson who weighed nine pounds in spite of his early arrival.
    After they had rung off, Jenny