Miss Trott’s pension, they had carved a life for themselves. It wasn’t much of a life but neither of them complained; they had a roof over their heads and enough to eat. It had been towards the end of the third year that she had had a letter from her grandmother’s solicitor. A cousin—one she had never known that she had—and her husband had been killed in a plane disaster, leaving a small boy. There were no members of the family save herself, and was she prepared to give the boy a home?
She had gone to see the solicitor and was assured that the facts set out in his letter had been true; the child, unless she was prepared to give him a home, would have to go to an orphanage. There was a little money, she had been told, enough to send him to prep school and, provided he could win a scholarship, pay for his further education. Of course she had agreed to have him, her kind heart wrung by the thought of the lonely little boy, and she had never regretted it. Between them, she and Trottie had helped him with his grief, found a decent school not too far away from the flat, and turned themselves into a family.
They finished their early supper, discussing quite seriously where it would be nice to live, the puppy they would have, a kitten or two and a rabbit—because of course the garden would be large enough to house all three…It was a kind of game they all played from time to time, Peter firmly of the opinion that one day it would all come true, while Eulalia and Trottie hoped for the best. Miracles did happen, after all.
Eulalia helped Peter with his homework presently, while Trottie cleared away the supper things, and when that was done they read a chapter from The Wind in the Willows together before a noisy bath-time in the minute bathroom leading off the kitchen. Peter went to bed, and once he was asleep Eulalia sat down at the table to do her anxious sums and count the money in the house. They managed, the pair of them, to keep their heads above water but there was never any money over. Peter was growing fast, the children’s allowance was barely enough to keep him adequately clothed, and as for shoes…
She sat chewing the top of her ballpoint, ways and means for the moment forgotten, while she admired the roses displayed in a vase on the sideboard. Which, naturally enough, led her to think of the man who had bought them. He might, even at that very moment, be with his Ursula, apologising abjectly…No, he wouldn’t! she corrected herself. He wouldn’t know how to be abject…Then, neither would his Ursula. They would stare coldly at each other, concealing bad tempers in a well-bred manner. ‘And good luck to them,’ said Eulalia, so loudly that Trottie jumped and dropped a stitch of her knitting.
Eulalia had to explain about the rejected roses when she got to the shop in the morning. ‘It was too late to bring them back, and besides, Miss Kendall tore the wrapping.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ observed Mrs Pearce. ‘No point in bringing them back—he paid for them, didn’t he?’ She added, ‘Men do such silly things when they’re in love.’
Eulalia agreed, although she didn’t think that he had behaved like a man in love. Very tight-lipped. He wouldn’t do for me, she reflected, preparing to gather up the wedding bouquets and convey them in a taxi.
Her destination was a palatial mansion in Belgravia, the home of the bride and, judging by the coming and going, the wedding was going to be a day to remember. She was admitted at the side door, bidden to wait, and then led through a bleak passage into a kitchen and out again through a baize door to the entrance hall—a gloomy place with a lot of marble about and a very large chandelier hanging from its lofty ceiling. Here the bouquets were taken from her by a vinegar-faced lady in a black dress and borne away up the wide staircase. ‘Wait here,’ she was told sourly, and since there were no seats she wandered around, studying the large paintings on the walls. They were as gloomy as the hall, depicting scenes of battle, dying ladies in white robes, and dead ducks lying in a most unlikely fashion beside bowls of fruit and bunches of flowers.
‘Absolutely awful,’ said Eulalia in her clear voice, and turned round to see if there was anything better on the other wall.
The man who had bought the roses was standing at the foot of the staircase watching her. He looked rather splendid, in a morning coat with a carnation in his buttonhole, and she felt an unexpected pang at the thought of him marrying his Ursula, who most certainly didn’t love him. He would be hard to love, of course, with that air of knowing best all the time…
She eyed him, her lovely head on one side. ‘You look magnificent,’ she told him, ‘and I dare say you’ll be very happy. She’s quite beautiful and I dare say you made it up. Well, you’d have to, wouldn’t you, since you’re getting married…?’
‘Your impertinent remarks are wide of the mark, Miss—er. I am not the bridegroom, nor indeed do I find it any of your business.’
He was as cross as two sticks, but she was glad he wasn’t getting married. ‘So sorry,’ she told him cheerfully. ‘I brought the bouquets, you know.’
‘I did not know, nor am I the. least interested. Why are you waiting here?’
‘I was told to. By someone in a black dress. She had a sharp nose.’
His thin mouth quivered just a little. ‘Then I will leave you to await her return. Good day to you, Miss—er.’
He crossed the hall and disappeared through a doorway and shut the door after him. At the same time the vinegar-faced lady came back, told her that the bouquets were satisfactory and that she might go. ‘Through the side door.’
‘I expect you’re tired, and overworked and cross,’ said Eulalia kindly, and nipped back down the bleak passage and out through the side door, to catch a bus and be borne back to the shop.
She was kept busy all day, for Mrs Pearce had built up quite a reputation for the perfection of her floral arrangements and there was a steady stream of customers, carried away by the sight of the flowers displayed so enticingly in the June sunshine. Besides, Eulalia was a very pretty girl and knew just how to please them, waiting patiently while they pondered their choice.
She didn’t go home for lunch; the bus cost money, for one thing, and for another, if the shop stayed open during the lunch-hour there was always a sprinkling of office workers, mostly husbands wanting flowers sent to their wives for an anniversary. Eulalia, a romantic girl, took great pains with them.
She worked on Saturdays, too, which meant that Peter, home from school, had to rely on Trottie’s company, but they spent their Sundays together, taking picnics to the parks in the summer and visiting museums in the cold weather. It wasn’t ideal but it couldn’t be helped. Mrs Pearce closed the shop on Mondays, which meant that Eulalia could stay at home and do the washing and ironing and then go to the local shops and stock up with groceries for the week. It worked well enough; since she and Peter spent their Sundays away from the flat, it gave Trottie a day to herself.
Going home that evening in a crowded bus, she planned what they would do at the weekend. They would take a bus, riding on the top, of course, and feed the ducks in St James’s Park. Banana sandwiches as well as Marmite, she decided, apples, and she would make some sausage rolls before she went to bed on Saturday. Orange squash, because he liked it, and some chocolate…He was a contented child and wise beyond his years, for he never asked her for something he knew she couldn’t afford.
It was a splendid morning as they left the flat on Sunday. It would be warm later, but now, in the comparative quiet of a Sunday morning, it was pleasantly cool. The bus was half-empty, so they had an upstairs front seat. At times, reflected Eulalia, parts of London were delightful. There would be no hardship in living in one of the elegant houses which lined the streets through which the bus lumbered. Peter, as though he had read her thoughts, said, ‘I’d like to live here. Do you suppose we could move
