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 one day?’
‘Just as soon as I make my fortune,’ she promised him, ‘but that may take a little time!’
‘You could marry a very rich man, Aunt Lally.’
‘Indeed, I could. Perhaps you will find him for me, dear.’
They were nearing the park, and made their way down to the platform, where they exchanged the time of day with the conductor and got off at the next stop.
There weren’t many people about, for it wasn’t ten o’clock yet. They wandered along, looking at the bright flowerbeds and presently feeding the ducks, before going to sit down in the sun.
There were plenty of people about now. They wandered on and presently sat down again to eat their lunch, and since Peter wanted to walk and there was plenty of time before they need go back again for tea, they had a last look at the lake and crossed the park to the Mall, crossed into Green Park and turned into Piccadilly, where Eulalia suggested that they might get a bus. However, Peter wanted to walk through the elegant streets with their big houses. ‘We can go as far as Park Lane,’ he pointed out, ‘and catch a bus there.’ Nothing loath, she agreed. She seldom had the chance to walk for any distance and, although the streets of London, however elegant, weren’t a patch on the country roads in the Cotswolds, it was pleasant enough to walk through them.
‘I dare say dukes and duchesses live here,’ said Peter. ‘Do you suppose they’re very grand inside?’
‘Certainly—lovely curtains and carpets and chandeliers…’ She enlarged upon this interesting subject as they walked, until in one of the quiet streets they came upon a magnificent dark grey Bentley and Peter urged her to stop while he took a good look at it. He circled it slowly, admiring it from all angles.
‘I shall have one, when I’m a man,’ he told her, and laid a small, rather grubby hand on its bonnet.
‘Peter, don’t touch. The owner would be very angry if he were to see you doing that.’
She let out a great gusty breath when a quiet voice said in her ear, ‘A wise caution, Miss—er. You should exercise more control over your son.’
They had been standing with their backs to the terrace of grand houses. Now she shot round to face someone who was beginning to crop up far too frequently. ‘It’s you,’ she said crossly. ‘I might have known.’
‘Now, why do you say that?’
‘No reason at all. I’m sorry if Peter has annoyed you; he had no intention of doing so.’ She moved away and took Peter’s hand. ‘Apologise to this gentleman, dear. I know you meant no harm but we mustn’t forget our manners.’
The boy and the man studied each other. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Peter finally, ‘but it’s a super car and I wanted to look at it.’
The man nodded. ‘Goodbye, Peter; goodbye Miss— er.’
He watched them