did you put them?’
‘On the parlour floor.’ In the old days she’d have said, Yes, Ellen, ain’t it amazing. Being that our house is no more than a bloomin hovel. But I felt more sharply rebuked by this measured, adult response.
Pamela tugged at my hand. ‘I want to do a wee-wee.’ We hurried the last few yards. Lucy’s cottage was set high above the road, up a flight of steps, and the privy was at the end of the garden.
‘Why do we have to go in this box?’
Lucy suddenly smiled. ‘It’s the lav, dear.’
‘Look, it’s got a heart in the door.’ It did, a heart-shaped hole cut out of two planks. They had cut half a heart out of each plank and then matched them. I’d known this privy for ten years and never noticed before how exactly the two halves fitted. Lucy went indoors and I led Pamela into the lavatory.
‘Do I just wee-wee into the hole?’
I found myself laughing. ‘Yes.’
Her face darkened. ‘Mummy hasn’t gone to Heaven anyway. She said, “Pamela, I’ll always tell you where I’m going.” And she didn’t say anything about that.’ Her eyes wandered upward, caught in the shaft of light from the cut-out heart, looking for a solution. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘even if she has gone to Heaven, she won’t be long. That’s the other thing she always says. “Won’t be long, Pammie.”’
She shut her eyes and pressed her lips together.
I washed my hands and Pamela’s at the kitchen sink. Lucy handed Pamela a slice of bread and butter. The food stemmed her tears but they began to flow again the moment she swallowed the last bite. Soundless this time. ‘Come, Pamela.’ I opened my arms. ‘Sit on my lap.’
But she didn’t move. Instead she addressed Lucy, jerking her head at me. ‘She’s a horrible lady.’
‘We won’t mind her,’ Lucy said steadily, looking all the while at Pamela. ‘Now, do you know what a tortoise is?’ Pamela nodded, tears dripping from her chin. ‘There’s one in the shed. He’s in a hay box. We can go and take a peek if you like, but we can’t disturb him. It’s not a normal sleep, you see.’
They went out into the garden. I remained sitting, suddenly too tired to move. Lucy came back in. ‘She’s havin a bit of a scramble on the apple tree. Not a tear. They turn on and off like a tap, that age.’
How did people know these things?
‘How come you’ve still got her?’ Lucy went on. ‘Where’s her mam?’
‘Dead.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Dead in the Crown Hotel.’ I told Lucy about the stampede for escape, the well-meaning women. ‘Her mother never made it to Upton. I’ve only just told her.’
Lucy whistled. ‘Blimey.’ She went again to the back door, and I stirred myself and followed her. We both peered out at Pamela. She was jumping, quite unperturbed, onto and off the apple tree’s ancient trunk which bowed like a camel almost to the ground.
‘I don’t think she believes it yet,’ I said.
‘Oh, the poor mite. Oh, lord.’ Lucy gave a sad little chuckle. ‘Explains why she don’t like you. I didn’t much take to the woman who told me my ma was dead. Old boiler of a night nurse.’ She pursed her lips into an O. ‘“I have some very grave noos for yoo, Miss Horne.”’
The hooting tone made me laugh in spite of myself. ‘She didn’t talk like that!’
‘She did.’
We went back to the kitchen and Lucy cut us some bread. She laid the slices on a familiar plate, the edge decorated with pansies which years of scrubbing had worn half away to leave the odd, faded, windblown petal and glint of gilt on the stems. Years ago I had eaten a pie off that plate, and even now it was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted.
We ate now, Lucy breathing noisily, her eyes fixed on the table. No remark, no smile came my way. Finally I took my courage in my hands.
‘What’s wrong, Lucy? What have I done? Please tell me.’
Outside in the garden Pamela chirped like a blackbird in spring. A child used to her own company.
‘You’ve been forgetful,’ she said at last. ‘Forgetful of your friends.’
My mouth fell open. ‘When did I forget you? You were my bridesmaid!’
‘Yep, and you dropped me straight afterwards. Didn’t call by, didn’t chat. Months and months. So I assumed –’ she leaned on the word, using my voice to do so ‘– I assumed that it was my pay-off, the bridesmaid job, and Mrs Parr didn’t want anything more to do with poor little Miss Horne and her chest –’ she coughed theatrically ‘– and her teeth and all.’
Lucy was missing six teeth, many at the front. The teeth were long gone and her gaps were familiar to her friends but all the same she pulled her top lip down to smile, to speak to strangers. And she had coughed every day of her life.
‘I invited you to our garden party. You didn’t reply.’
‘Oh, yes. Your garden party.’
She spoke softly, as if to a silly child. I studied my clasped hands in sadness and shame. The invitation had been written on a card: Mr and Mrs Selwyn Parr, At Home. I hadn’t even popped my head round her door to ask her in person. Merely summoned her to mill about on my lawn with tea and cake, as if she were any one of my acquaintances instead of my oldest friend.
‘Mrs Parr was happy,’ I said after a while. ‘She wasn’t used to that. It made her clumsy.’ I looked up at her. ‘Lucy, please come and see us. We can bake you a potato, and you can share our parsnip stew. It won’t be as nice as yours, because I can’t cook like your nan. But we’ll spare no effort.’
She licked her finger and dabbed at the crumbs on the plate, gathering them up. I did the same thing at home after the children had finished. When she spoke her voice was gruff.
‘They do say you must forgive newly-weds. Their minds run on one thing. Though in your case it was Greek poems, like as not.’
‘Yes, it was. The Iliad. He was teaching me Greek.’
She burst into a cackle. ‘You pair!’
I laughed too. ‘It was fun. We’ve got no time for lessons now, of course.’
‘How’s it been, Ellen? What you expected?’
A mariage blanc, Lady Brock had said. Have you heard the expression, my dear?
The sheets of our marriage bed unfurled, heavy white linen. Is it the French for white wedding, Lady Brock?
No, my dear, it is not.
Lucy was gazing at me. How dark her eyes were. In the gloom of the kitchen I could hardly distinguish iris from pupil.
‘It’s been exactly as I expected,’ I said after a moment. ‘And I’ve honestly never been more content, Lucy.’
Pamela was still on the apple tree. The bark was fissured and slippery with moss but she was sure-footed, turning on her toe at the end of each pass. As she walked she raised a scolding finger. ‘No, no, you’re naughty donkeys.’ Her voice carried in the still air. So clear. She would sing well. Selwyn could teach her. She saw me and jumped down immediately, ran to me with her arms open, collided with my midriff. I clung to her and she to me, her arms bound around my waist, her head pillowed on my belly, all her animosity gone. The door creaked and Lucy appeared on the step, her face sallow in the low light. Pamela continued to cling. ‘Ellen,’ she said. ‘Ell.’
‘Did the tortoise wake up?’ Lucy called. Pamela buried her face in my skirt.
‘Pamela, answer Lucy.’
Pamela