was wonder that this—this—could be Blanche Haggard—that well-bred, high-spirited girl who had been the star pupil at St Anne’s. This really slatternly woman with apparently no shame in revealing the more sordid details of her life, and in such common language too! Why, Blanche Haggard had won the prize for English at St Anne’s!
Blanche reverted to a former topic.
‘Fancy little Barbara Wray being your daughter, Joan. That just shows how people get things wrong. Everyone had got it into their heads that she was so unhappy at home that she’d married the first man who asked her in order to escape.’
‘How ridiculous. Where do these stories come from?’
‘I can’t imagine. Because I’m pretty sure of one thing, Joan and that is that you’ve always been an admirable mother. I can’t imagine you being cross or unkind.’
‘That’s nice of you, Blanche. I think I may say that we’ve always given our children a very happy home and done everything possible for their happiness. I think it’s so important, you know, that one should be friends with one’s children.’
‘Very nice—if one ever can.’
‘Oh, I think you can. It’s just a question of remembering your own youth and putting yourself in their place.’ Joan’s charming, serious face was bent a little nearer to that of her former friend. ‘Rodney and I have always tried to do that.’
‘Rodney? Let me see, you married a solicitor, didn’t you? Of course—I went to their firm at the time when Harry was trying to get a divorce from that awful wife of his. I believe it was your husband we saw—Rodney Scudamore. He was extraordinarily nice and kind, most understanding. And you’ve stayed put with him all these years. No fresh deals?’
Joan said rather stiffly:
‘Neither of us have wanted a fresh deal. Rodney and I have been perfectly contented with one another.’
‘Of course you always were as cold as a fish, Joan. But I should have said that husband of yours had quite a roving eye!’
‘Really, Blanche!’
Joan flushed angrily. A roving eye, indeed. Rodney!
And suddenly, discordantly, a thought slipped and flashed sideways across the panorama of Joan’s mind, much as she had noticed a snake flash and slip across the dust coloured track in front of the car only yesterday—a mere streak of writhing green, gone almost before you saw it.
The streak consisted of three words, leaping out of space and back into oblivion.
The Randolph girl …
Gone again before she had time to note them consciously.
Blanche was cheerfully contrite.
‘Sorry, Joan. Let’s come into the other room and have coffee. I always did have a vulgar mind, you know.’
‘Oh no,’ the protest came quickly to Joan’s lips, genuine and slightly shocked.
Blanche looked amused.
‘Oh yes, don’t you remember? Remember the time I slipped out to meet the baker’s boy?’
Joan winced. She had forgotten that incident. At the time it had seemed daring and—yes—actually romantic. Really a vulgar and unpleasant episode.
Blanche, settling herself in a wicker chair and calling to the boy to bring coffee, laughed to herself.
‘Horrid precocious little piece I must have been. Oh, well, that’s always been my undoing. I’ve always been far too fond of men. And always rotters! Extraordinary, isn’t it? First Harry—and he was a bad lot all right—though frightfully good looking. And then Tom who never amounted to much, though I was fond of him in a way. Johnnie Pelham—that was a good time while it lasted. Gerald wasn’t much good, either …’
At this point the boy brought the coffee, thus interrupting what Joan could not but feel was a singularly unsavoury catalogue.
Blanche caught sight of her expression.
‘Sorry, Joan, I’ve shocked you. Always a bit strait-laced, weren’t you?’
‘Oh, I hope I’m always ready to take a broad-minded view.’
Joan achieved a kindly smile.
She added rather awkwardly:
‘I only mean I’m—I’m so sorry.’
‘For me?’ Blanche seemed amused by the idea. ‘Nice of you, darling, but don’t waste sympathy. I’ve had lots of fun.’
Joan could not resist a swift sideways glance. Really, had Blanche any idea of the deplorable appearance she presented? Her carelessly dyed hennaed hair, her somewhat dirty, flamboyant clothes, her haggard, lined face, an old woman—an old raddled woman—an old disreputable gipsy of a woman!
Blanche, her face suddenly growing grave, said soberly:
‘Yes, you’re quite right, Joan. You’ve made a success of your life. And I—well, I’ve made a mess of mine. I’ve gone down in the world and you’ve gone—no, you’ve stayed where you were—a St Anne’s girl who’s married suitably and always been a credit to the old school!’
Trying to steer the conversation towards the only ground that she and Blanche had in common now, Joan said:
‘Those were good days, weren’t they?’
‘So-so.’ Blanche was careless in her praise. ‘I got bored sometimes. It was all so smug and consciously healthy. I wanted to get out and see the world. Well,’ her mouth gave a humorous twist, ‘I’ve seen it. I’ll say I’ve seen it!’
For the first time Joan approached the subject of Blanche’s presence in the rest house.
‘Are you going back to England? Are you leaving on the convoy tomorrow morning?’
Her heart sank just a little as she put the question. Really, she did not want Blanche as a travelling companion. A chance meeting was all very well, but she had grave doubts of being able to sustain the pose of friendship all the way across Europe. Reminiscences of the old days would soon wear thin.
Blanche grinned at her.
‘No, I’m going the other way. To Baghdad. To join my husband.’
‘Your husband?’
Joan really felt quite surprised that Blanche should have anything so respectable as a husband.
‘Yes, he’s an engineer—on the railway. Donovan his name is.’
‘Donovan?’ Joan shook her head. ‘I don’t think I came across him at all.’
Blanche laughed.
‘You wouldn’t, darling. Rather out of your class. He drinks like a fish anyway. But he’s got a heart like a child. And
