‘It needs work,’ Ginny admitted reluctantly. ‘But it could be really cosy.’
Ouch, she thought, as her mother reared up indignantly. Wrong word.
‘Cosy? There isn’t space to swing a cat, let alone entertain my friends.’ She added sharply, ‘And, of course, with only two bedrooms, you’ll need to find somewhere else to live.’
Ginny stared at her. ‘But Cilla’s getting married. Surely we can share a room until then.’
‘Don’t be silly, Virginia. Both bedrooms are tiny, and your sister will need storage for her clothes.’ Rosina made it sound so logical. ‘Anyway, it’s time you were independent. You can’t expect me to support you for the rest of your life.’
Ginny wanted to protest. To say, If I’d gone to university and trained as a teacher I’d be qualified by now. But you stopped me.
Instead, she said quietly, ‘No, Mother. I’ve never expected that. And I’ll find something.’ She paused. ‘Where is Cilla, by the way?’
‘Out.’ Rosina shrugged. ‘I suppose at the Welburns’.’
‘Building bridges, I hope,’ said Ginny, remembering without pleasure that awkward few minutes with Jonathan in the hall.
‘That’s hardly necessary. Not when you’re as pretty as Cilla.’ Her mother shook her head. ‘Poor Virginia. You’ve never really understood how it all works, have you?’
‘Obviously not, but I’m learning fast.’ Ginny got up. ‘I think I’ll have a hot bath.’
In the hall, she encountered the housekeeper. ‘I won’t want dinner, Mrs Pel. I’m planning an early night.’
Closing my eyes. Blotting out this awful day...
‘I’m not surprised,’ Mrs Pel said with faint asperity. ‘You look washed out. But you’re not going to bed hungry,’ she added firmly. ‘I’ll bring you something on a tray.’
The ‘something’ turned out to be a steaming bowl of Scotch broth, accompanied by crusty bread, a hunk of cheese and an apple, and this, allied with the hot-water bottle Ginny had discovered in her bed, made her throat tighten with the threat of tears.
But I can’t cry, she thought. Because if I start, I may never stop, and I need to be strong.
‘You’re spoiling me, Mrs Pel,’ she said with an attempt at lightness.
‘It doesn’t happen so often.’ The older woman set the tray across Ginny’s lap. ‘Besides, it may be my last chance to do so. Mrs Charlton wants me gone by the end of the week.’
‘The end of the week,’ Ginny repeated numbly. ‘But that isn’t even proper notice.’
‘Oh, hush now,’ Mrs Pel said robustly. ‘She’s been trying to get rid of me for long enough, as well you know. And I’ve no wish to stay on here without the master, not with my beautiful cottage waiting for me.’
She paused. ‘And you should do the same, my dear. Spread your wings and fly.’
She gave a brisk nod and left Ginny to her supper. And to her thoughts—which, although confused and unhappy, were still not proof against the delicious soup, thick with chunks of lamb, vegetables and pearl barley, and spreading its beguiling warmth through every inch of her. She found she was finishing every last drop and scraping the bowl.
She finished off the bread with the cheese, then, leaning back against her pillows, began to eat the apple, juicy and slightly tart, just as she’d always liked them. Like the ones on the tree in Aunt Joy’s garden at the big comfortable house in Fulham...
She hadn’t thought about that for years, and but for Andre Duchard’s hateful insinuations, she wouldn’t be remembering any of it now. Yet some of their exchange had set alarm bells ringing. And taken her unwillingly back to the time when she was eleven years old and her life had changed for ever.
Taking her back to Lorimer Street. A terraced house like all its neighbours with a small paved area in front and a yard at the back.
A house her mother had always hated, although Ginny could recall her father explaining quietly and patiently that on his present salary as a primary school teacher, it was all they could afford. That when he got promotion, they could, perhaps, think again.
Instead he’d become ill, and while Ginny had been too young to understand what leukaemia was, some instinct had told her that it was taking her gentle, humorous father away from her, all too quickly and with a terrible finality.
A trained beautician, Rosina had been working part-time at a local salon but switched to full-time when she became a widow. The wages, bolstered by tips from a wealthy clientele, weren’t generous, but the family survived, with the help of neighbours in term time and Aunt Joy in the school holidays.