Janet delivered the headmaster’s message and Mrs Abell promised to give particular attention to the cloakroom. As Janet turned to walk back through the garden the two girls, Jill and Heather, came out of the back door of the adjoining cottage and ran down the garden, throwing a ball to each other, laughing and squealing. They caught sight of Janet across the fence and came to a sudden stop.
‘Hello, Miss Marshall!’ Jill cried and Heather gave her a smile. Janet waved and smiled in reply but said nothing and continued on her way.
Jill’s mother, Mrs Bryant, was standing in the back doorway of her cottage. ‘You’re not to pester Miss Marshall,’ she said to the girls in an easy, tolerant tone as soon as Janet had passed out of earshot. ‘I’m sure she sees enough of you children during the day, she must be allowed some peace.’ She yawned widely. ‘I’m going upstairs now for a nap. Don’t get up to any mischief and don’t go making a lot of noise.’
She went slowly upstairs. On her wedding-day twenty-one years ago Mollie Bryant had been slender and pretty with a fine skin, corn-coloured hair and bright blue eyes. She’d put on a great deal of weight since then. Her hair had darkened and she’d taken to bleaching it; it was now a harsh brassy colour. Her skin had grown lined and weather-beaten and had developed a permanent shade of light brick from stooping over the oven in her kitchen.
She was fond of cooking and served a substantial high tea every evening when her husband and son came in. Nowadays she felt more and more the need to toil upstairs out of the hot kitchen in the sultry afternoons, put on something loose and cool, lie down and close her eyes. She opened the bedroom door and began to unbutton her dress; five minutes later she was fast asleep.
Shortly before six her husband Ken walked down from Mayfield Farm for his tea. He would go back again afterwards to work in the turkey sheds for an hour or two.
He came through a wicket gate set in the screen of trees and walked up the back garden towards the house. He was a tall, powerfully-built man in his late forties, with straight black hair sleeked back from his forehead and dark bushy eyebrows meeting across his nose. His sleeves were rolled up, showing muscular brown arms with a strong growth of black hair.
The two girls ran up to him, besieging him with questions about the kitten.
‘I can’t bring it home for another day or two,’ he said, laughing as Jill swung on his arm. ‘We can’t take it from its mother yet – you don’t want the poor creature dying on you.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ Jill said reluctantly. She went with him into the house and Heather ran home next door for her tea.
Ken pushed open the back door and went into the kitchen. Mollie had already come downstairs again, somewhat refreshed after her nap. She hadn’t bothered to comb her hair or powder her face – she wasn’t going anywhere and she wasn’t expecting visitors. She had merely slipped on a cotton kimono and thrust her bare and unlovely feet into a pair of flat mules.
She had laid the table and was now busy cutting bread. ‘You’re back then,’ she said to her husband in ritual greeting, looking up at him with a cheerful smile.
He gave her a nod, mastering his irritation at her slatternly appearance. He had to discipline himself these days not to snap at her. He’d tried friendly suggestion, diplomatic hints, outright advice that she should lose weight, do something about her hair, her skin, her clothes. He still felt it not impossible that out of that slack flesh, the lines and folds, the slim nymph of twenty-one years ago might somehow be conjured up again.
But none of his efforts produced the slightest effect. ‘I’m not a girl any more,’ Mollie said with easy acceptance. ‘Can’t expect to stay young and beautiful for ever.’
Ken made a stern effort now to speak amiably to her as he went over to the sink to scrub his hands. ‘Warm old day,’ he said. ‘We’ll end up with a storm if this keeps on.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a drop of rain.’ She began to butter the bread. ‘It’d cool things down.’
He studied her reflection in the mirror above the sink. The kimono was gaily coloured with a jazzy design in lemon, apricot and orange. Mollie had always had a fondness for bright colours and they’d suited her well enough when she was a girl. She had bought the kimono on holiday a couple of years ago to wear on the beach, now it was downgraded to housewear in hot weather. The belt kept slipping and the kimono fell apart periodically to reveal a dingy nylon petticoat straining across her bosom before she clutched the folds about her again and refastened the belt. He dried his hands on the roller towel, closing his eyes briefly against a glimpse of vast bare thighs, quilted and dimpled, pale as lard.
The roar of a motorbike sounded in the lane, growing louder as Dave Bryant drove up to the cottage, dying away again as he parked the machine at the side of the house. He came in through the back door a couple of minutes later, carrying his crash helmet under his arm.
‘Hello, Mum, Dad.’ He grinned at Jill. He was a sturdy lad of twenty, nothing special in the way of looks, a frank, intelligent face and a generally likeable air, the kind of lad an employer would probably engage on sight.
He was apprenticed to a Cannonbridge firm of builders on a day-release scheme, working three days a week for the firm and spending the other two days at the local technical college. He was an industrious lad and a good student, he had taken more than one prize.
‘Sit down, everyone!’ Mrs Bryant commanded. She patted her frizzed hair into place and began to dish up. They all ate with keen appetite, there was never any trouble with finicky eaters at Mollie’s table.
‘This is a very good rhubarb tart,’ Dave said with keen appreciation towards the end of the meal. He and Jill never regarded their mother with criticism, they took her as she was, not having known her in her willow-slim, com-gold days.
‘I’ll bake you a couple of tarts for the party on Friday if you like,’ Mrs Bryant offered expansively. The party was an end-of-term social at Dave’s college and she’d already promised half a dozen goodies.
‘Oh yes, please,’ he said with enthusiasm. ‘That’d be great.’
‘Are you inviting Clive to the party?’ Jill asked her brother.
‘I did ask him,’ Dave said without much interest, ‘but I don’t think he’ll come. He said he’d let me know.’
‘You should try to persuade him,’ Mrs Bryant said as she stood up to fetch a massive fruit cake from the larder. ‘He never goes anywhere, he sticks in those digs all the time, making his models – it can’t be healthy for a lad of his age.’
Clive Egan was twenty-one years old, the only surviving child of Mrs Bryant’s cousin. His parents were dead and he lived in lodgings in Stanbourne with a Mrs Turnbull, an elderly widow. He was employed as a general building worker by the Cannonbridge firm where Dave Bryant was apprenticed.
‘It would do Clive good to go to the party,’ Mrs Bryant said with a jerk of her head. ‘It’s not much of a life, living in digs.’ She poured herself another cup of tea. ‘Mrs Turnbull’s a good sort but the lad needs more life at his age.’
Ken took a huge slice of cake and bit into it. It was undeniably excellent, full of plump raisins and glacé cherries. His mood softened. ‘Go on, Dave,’ he said. ‘You ask Clive again. You’ll find he’ll go to the party with a bit of persuading.’
