The Paying Guests by Sarah Waters

faux-silk frocks, open-work stockings, high-heeled shoes, wristlets and anklets; nor did her careful accent much resemble theirs. She was moving away from the circle of chairs now. The little boy, her nephew, had approached her with some whispered request; she caught hold of his hand to lead him across the littered carpet, and began gathering titbits for him from the remains of a tea of buns and biscuits that lay scattered on the table on the other side of the room. The boy took the plate she offered and carefully held it to his chest; when its contents began to slip she tucked her skirt behind her thighs and lowered herself at his side to steady it. She did it in one smooth, supple motion, her heels rising out of her slippers, her calves showing, pale and rounded, through the sheen of her stockings. The little boy bit into a biscuit, scattering crumbs into the crochet at her bosom.
    She didn’t notice the crumbs. She made her plump lips plumper, to plant an idle sort of kiss on the child’s fair head. Just as the kiss was finished she looked up, saw Frances watching, and dropped her gaze, self-conscious. But when Frances, smiling, continued to watch, she raised her eyes again and smiled uncertainly back.
    But now the boy’s cousin, the little girl, had realised that there were treats to be had. She picked her way over and asked for a biscuit of her own. That made Mrs Viney wonder if there mightn’t be biscuits enough for everybody… Frances looked at her mother, and her mother gave the slightest of nods: they rose and began to say their farewells. Detaching themselves from the fibres of Mrs Viney’s goodwill took several more minutes, but finally they made it out to the landing.
    Mrs Barber made a point of going with them. And when Frances’s mother had started on her way downstairs, she beckoned Frances back and spoke quietly.
    ‘I’m so sorry about the chair, Miss Wray. I know you noticed it. Please tell your mother how sorry I am. I’d hate you to think we’d gone helping ourselves to your things. Only, my mother needs a hard armchair, because her back and her legs are bad, and Len and I haven’t got one.’
    ‘That’s all right,’ said Frances.
    ‘It isn’t, but you’re kind to say so. It was nice of you to come in. My family’s such a noisy one. They won’t stay much longer. They only came for an hour, but then it started raining. And I think —’ She nodded to Frances’s sober costume. ‘I’m afraid you must have been somewhere solemn today, you and your mother?’
    Frances explained about the visit to her father’s grave.
    Mrs Barber looked appalled. ‘Oh, and for you to have come home and found all these people here!’
    She put a hand to her head, disarranging the curls of her hair. She still had crumbs in the panel of her gown: Frances felt a housewifely urge – a housespinsterly urge, she supposed it ought to be called, in her case – to brush them free. Instead, she moved towards the stairs.
    ‘Your family must stay as long as they like, Mrs Barber. They shan’t disturb us. Truly.’
    Downstairs, however, it was possible to hear quite clearly the women’s laughter, the drum of the children’s feet. As Frances closed the drawing-room door the joists above it creaked, then creaked again – even the walls seemed to creak – as if a giant had the house in his hands and was squeezing and jiggling it just as Netta had squeezed and jiggled her chortling child.
    Her mother had planted herself in her chair by the French windows with an air of exhaustion.
    ‘Well!’ she said. ‘What a very surprising family for Mrs Barber to have produced! Or what a surprising family to have produced Mrs Barber, is what I suppose I mean. I was under the impression that her father managed a business of some kind. Didn’t she tell us that? And that she had a brother in the Navy?’
    Frances leaned on the back of the sofa. ‘A brother in the —? Oh, Mother, don’t be so elderly. That was all my fancy,