sort of way.
‘I was in Simpsons on Piccadilly, finishing off Christmas shopping for my parents’ presents last year. And I was freezing. I had got wet waiting for the bus, then I got splashed by a taxi. And I was shivering. I was trying to cheer myself up and looking at the Christmas lights. I went into the shop and walked up this gorgeous curving staircase to the third floor. I just wanted to warm up, you know.’
‘You stole the fur from Simpsons?’ Nell was incredulous.
‘Not exactly. There was a lady looking at woollen coats. You know those long ones with a clinched-in belt and wide shoulders? Latest fashion. The assistant was a bit flustered. I sat on the window seat with a mind to look at the lights on Piccadilly while I dried off. This customer was making a bit of a fuss, raising her voice. Insisted on taking ten coats to try on in the changing room, when I think you are only supposed to take three. She’d discarded her own coat, the fur, complaining at how hot she was. I thought, nice to be too hot. She flung it at the assistant who didn’t quite know what to do with it so she laid it on the seat next to me. I gave her a smile. Poor girl hurried off to wait on madam. I waited. And waited, watching the traffic, watching the lights. I reached out to touch the fur. Let my fingers sink into it. Then I stood up, slipped off my own old coat, and slipped on the fur.’
‘Goodness, Diana, how ever did you have the nerve?’
‘Search me. I surprised myself, walking out of that shop, slowly, with dignity. Head held high. Back down that beautiful staircase.’
‘Oh dear. Don’t tell Mother, she might throw you out the house,’ Nell laughed. ‘She might not even want you in Mr Pudifoot’s cottage.’
‘Thing is, it’s so beautiful and warm. And I think I can look the part in it,’ said Diana, caressing the collar against her cheek. ‘Trouble is, it still stinks of that old bag’s perfume.’
Nell was back in her armchair, warming herself from her walk, when Sylvie came over to her holding out a brown paper package.
‘Happy Christmas, Nell.’
‘Oh, happy Christmas …’ Nell muttered.
‘No,’ Sylvie jiggled the package up and down and thrust it on her. ‘ Happy Christmas . You’re meant to open it, Nell.’
She peeled away the paper to reveal a book, a pristine, brand-new copy of the Adventures of the Little Wooden Horse.
‘I ordered it especially from Foyles,’ said Sylvie and she went back over to the card table where Mrs Bunting was setting up snakes and ladders.
Sylvie’s gesture left Nell shy and bewildered. She stared down at the cover for a while, relishing the familiar illustration and listening to the tapping of the counters on the board as the game progressed. When she looked up she noticed her father was watching the frosty afternoon grow darker from the french windows. His shoulders were down, his hands were in his pockets. He seemed very relaxed, looking, Nell thought, so unlike himself.
Mollie was lounging on the sofa in stockinged feet, remembering the time Mr Pudifoot forgot to put the handbrake on the car and it rolled back into the dovecote. Mrs Bunting laughed at the memory as she rattled the dice in the cup. Nell exchanged hesitant smiles with Sylvie and relaxed back into her chair.
Diana, in her heels, came into the room and walked over to the windows, yawning and stretching as she went. She stood close to Marcus.
‘What a lovely walk I just had with Nell,’ she told him. ‘Lovely how a good walk refreshes you and makes you inordinately tired at the same time. Just now, when I went upstairs to change my shoes, it was all I could do not to lay down on the bed and fall asleep.’
Diana gazed ahead of her through the misty windowpane. Marcus turned his head and looked down at her for what, Nell decided, was a very long time indeed.
‘Parlour games!’ cried Diana suddenly and made Marcus jump. ‘That will wake me up – wake us all up.’
Mollie put
‘I was in Simpsons on Piccadilly, finishing off Christmas shopping for my parents’ presents last year. And I was freezing. I had got wet waiting for the bus, then I got splashed by a taxi. And I was shivering. I was trying to cheer myself up and looking at the Christmas lights. I went into the shop and walked up this gorgeous curving staircase to the third floor. I just wanted to warm up, you know.’
‘You stole the fur from Simpsons?’ Nell was incredulous.
‘Not exactly. There was a lady looking at woollen coats. You know those long ones with a clinched-in belt and wide shoulders? Latest fashion. The assistant was a bit flustered. I sat on the window seat with a mind to look at the lights on Piccadilly while I dried off. This customer was making a bit of a fuss, raising her voice. Insisted on taking ten coats to try on in the changing room, when I think you are only supposed to take three. She’d discarded her own coat, the fur, complaining at how hot she was. I thought, nice to be too hot. She flung it at the assistant who didn’t quite know what to do with it so she laid it on the seat next to me. I gave her a smile. Poor girl hurried off to wait on madam. I waited. And waited, watching the traffic, watching the lights. I reached out to touch the fur. Let my fingers sink into it. Then I stood up, slipped off my own old coat, and slipped on the fur.’
‘Goodness, Diana, how ever did you have the nerve?’
‘Search me. I surprised myself, walking out of that shop, slowly, with dignity. Head held high. Back down that beautiful staircase.’
‘Oh dear. Don’t tell Mother, she might throw you out the house,’ Nell laughed. ‘She might not even want you in Mr Pudifoot’s cottage.’
‘Thing is, it’s so beautiful and warm. And I think I can look the part in it,’ said Diana, caressing the collar against her cheek. ‘Trouble is, it still stinks of that old bag’s perfume.’
Nell was back in her armchair, warming herself from her walk, when Sylvie came over to her holding out a brown paper package.
‘Happy Christmas, Nell.’
‘Oh, happy Christmas …’ Nell muttered.
‘No,’ Sylvie jiggled the package up and down and thrust it on her. ‘ Happy Christmas . You’re meant to open it, Nell.’
She peeled away the paper to reveal a book, a pristine, brand-new copy of the Adventures of the Little Wooden Horse.
‘I ordered it especially from Foyles,’ said Sylvie and she went back over to the card table where Mrs Bunting was setting up snakes and ladders.
Sylvie’s gesture left Nell shy and bewildered. She stared down at the cover for a while, relishing the familiar illustration and listening to the tapping of the counters on the board as the game progressed. When she looked up she noticed her father was watching the frosty afternoon grow darker from the french windows. His shoulders were down, his hands were in his pockets. He seemed very relaxed, looking, Nell thought, so unlike himself.
Mollie was lounging on the sofa in stockinged feet, remembering the time Mr Pudifoot forgot to put the handbrake on the car and it rolled back into the dovecote. Mrs Bunting laughed at the memory as she rattled the dice in the cup. Nell exchanged hesitant smiles with Sylvie and relaxed back into her chair.
Diana, in her heels, came into the room and walked over to the windows, yawning and stretching as she went. She stood close to Marcus.
‘What a lovely walk I just had with Nell,’ she told him. ‘Lovely how a good walk refreshes you and makes you inordinately tired at the same time. Just now, when I went upstairs to change my shoes, it was all I could do not to lay down on the bed and fall asleep.’
Diana gazed ahead of her through the misty windowpane. Marcus turned his head and looked down at her for what, Nell decided, was a very long time indeed.
‘Parlour games!’ cried Diana suddenly and made Marcus jump. ‘That will wake me up – wake us all up.’
Mollie put
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