garden itself.
‘Paul Pry,’ said Frances’s mother, from the rear of the long room.
Frances answered without turning. ‘I don’t care. I want to be certain that no one’s been left behind. One, two, three, four, five, six – seven, if you include the baby. Can that be right? I’m sure there weren’t so many an hour ago.’
‘Perhaps they’ve bred another in the meantime.’
‘Poor Mrs Viney. Her ankles! They look like the kind one keeps umbrellas in.’
‘Perhaps one of us ought to go out to the kitchen and count the spoons.’
‘Mother! As if they’d be interested in our old spoons. They’re more likely to have left us a couple of shillings on the hall table. Just quietly, you know, so as not to embarrass us —’
She turned away from the glass as another thump came from the floor above.
Her mother was wincing at last. ‘Oh, this really is too bad. What on earth is Mrs Barber doing now?’
The sound came again, from the landing this time, and soon the staircase began to creak, there was a bumping of wood against the banisters…
Frances started forward. ‘She’s bringing down the chair. She’ll have the paper off the walls! – Everything all right, Mrs Barber?’ she called, going out into the hall and closing the drawing-room door behind her.
‘Yes, quite all right!’ came the breathless reply. But Frances went up and found her struggling. The chair was heavy, and its legs were caught: between them they freed it, manoeuvred it around the bend of the staircase, then carried it safely down to the hall.
Frances fitted it precisely back into its spot and gave it a pat. ‘There, you charlatan. A little adventure for you. I don’t believe anyone’s ever actually sat on it before, you know.’
Mrs Barber, still embarrassed, said, ‘I really oughtn’t to have taken it. My sisters talked me into it. They boss me; they always have. I’m afraid it’s awfully old, too.’
‘Well, my father certainly thought so. No, your sisters were quite right. I’m glad you found a use for it.’
‘Well, you’ve been kind about it. Thank you.’
She was moving back towards the stairs already. How different she was from her husband! He would have lingered, got in the way. Frances, if anything, was sorry to see her go. She remembered how curiously appealing she had looked as she’d squatted at her nephew’s side, with her green-stockinged heels rising out of her embroidered slippers. She had shaken the crumbs from her gown at last, but the curls of her hair were still disordered, and again Frances had the housewifely impulse to pat her back into shape.
Instead she said, ‘You look weary, Mrs Barber.’
Mrs Barber’s hand went to her cheek. ‘Do I?’
‘Why not sit down with me for a moment? Not on this monster, I mean, but’ – she gestured over her shoulder – ‘out in the kitchen? Just for a minute?’
Mrs Barber looked uncertain. ‘Well, I don’t want to keep you.’
‘You won’t be keeping me from anything except perhaps thinking about my next chore. And I can do that any old time… Do say yes. I’ve meant to ask you before. Here we are, sharing a house, and we’ve barely spoken. It seems a pity, don’t you think?’
Her tone was a sincere one, and Mrs Barber’s expression changed. She said, with a smile, ‘It does rather, doesn’t it? Yes, all right.’
They went the short distance into the kitchen. Frances offered a chair.
‘May I make you some tea?’ she asked, as Mrs Barber sat.
‘Oh, no. I’ve been drinking tea all afternoon.’
‘A slice of cake, then?’
‘I’ve been eating cake, too! You have something, though, will you?’
Frances was thinking it over. She said, ‘To tell the truth, what I really want right now —’ Going across to the open doorway, she put her head out into the passage, listening for sounds of activity in the drawing-room. Hearing none, she moved back, noiselessly closed the door, and reached into the pocket of the apron that was
‘Paul Pry,’ said Frances’s mother, from the rear of the long room.
Frances answered without turning. ‘I don’t care. I want to be certain that no one’s been left behind. One, two, three, four, five, six – seven, if you include the baby. Can that be right? I’m sure there weren’t so many an hour ago.’
‘Perhaps they’ve bred another in the meantime.’
‘Poor Mrs Viney. Her ankles! They look like the kind one keeps umbrellas in.’
‘Perhaps one of us ought to go out to the kitchen and count the spoons.’
‘Mother! As if they’d be interested in our old spoons. They’re more likely to have left us a couple of shillings on the hall table. Just quietly, you know, so as not to embarrass us —’
She turned away from the glass as another thump came from the floor above.
Her mother was wincing at last. ‘Oh, this really is too bad. What on earth is Mrs Barber doing now?’
The sound came again, from the landing this time, and soon the staircase began to creak, there was a bumping of wood against the banisters…
Frances started forward. ‘She’s bringing down the chair. She’ll have the paper off the walls! – Everything all right, Mrs Barber?’ she called, going out into the hall and closing the drawing-room door behind her.
‘Yes, quite all right!’ came the breathless reply. But Frances went up and found her struggling. The chair was heavy, and its legs were caught: between them they freed it, manoeuvred it around the bend of the staircase, then carried it safely down to the hall.
Frances fitted it precisely back into its spot and gave it a pat. ‘There, you charlatan. A little adventure for you. I don’t believe anyone’s ever actually sat on it before, you know.’
Mrs Barber, still embarrassed, said, ‘I really oughtn’t to have taken it. My sisters talked me into it. They boss me; they always have. I’m afraid it’s awfully old, too.’
‘Well, my father certainly thought so. No, your sisters were quite right. I’m glad you found a use for it.’
‘Well, you’ve been kind about it. Thank you.’
She was moving back towards the stairs already. How different she was from her husband! He would have lingered, got in the way. Frances, if anything, was sorry to see her go. She remembered how curiously appealing she had looked as she’d squatted at her nephew’s side, with her green-stockinged heels rising out of her embroidered slippers. She had shaken the crumbs from her gown at last, but the curls of her hair were still disordered, and again Frances had the housewifely impulse to pat her back into shape.
Instead she said, ‘You look weary, Mrs Barber.’
Mrs Barber’s hand went to her cheek. ‘Do I?’
‘Why not sit down with me for a moment? Not on this monster, I mean, but’ – she gestured over her shoulder – ‘out in the kitchen? Just for a minute?’
Mrs Barber looked uncertain. ‘Well, I don’t want to keep you.’
‘You won’t be keeping me from anything except perhaps thinking about my next chore. And I can do that any old time… Do say yes. I’ve meant to ask you before. Here we are, sharing a house, and we’ve barely spoken. It seems a pity, don’t you think?’
Her tone was a sincere one, and Mrs Barber’s expression changed. She said, with a smile, ‘It does rather, doesn’t it? Yes, all right.’
They went the short distance into the kitchen. Frances offered a chair.
‘May I make you some tea?’ she asked, as Mrs Barber sat.
‘Oh, no. I’ve been drinking tea all afternoon.’
‘A slice of cake, then?’
‘I’ve been eating cake, too! You have something, though, will you?’
Frances was thinking it over. She said, ‘To tell the truth, what I really want right now —’ Going across to the open doorway, she put her head out into the passage, listening for sounds of activity in the drawing-room. Hearing none, she moved back, noiselessly closed the door, and reached into the pocket of the apron that was
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