Lion Street towards the centre of town. It had been a hot day, and the air was still heavy, but now she saw clouds darkening in the west and remembered Uncle Charley’s warning about thunder. She should have taken a coat, she realized, as well as food. But she wouldn’t turn back now. Nothing would make her go back and apologize to her mother. She turned on to the road she had taken that first day out on the bicycle with Arnold and Lennie – the road that led to Wendon, and Phyl.
She cycled fast for the first few miles, breathing heavily, her anger giving her strength; but soon she began to flag. She stopped to pick half-ripe blackberries from a hedge, and to snatch apples from an overhanging branch. Gradually she lost heart. It hadn’t seemed far that day in June. But now, alone and hungry, with the temperature dropping and evening coming on, she felt as if the road would go on for ever.
There were few other people about. Occasionally she passed a countrywoman trudging along from one village to another. Twice a pony and trap came clattering up behind her; once a car went by – a doctor, perhaps.
She knew she had to climb Foss Bank before she reached Cheveley. Every time she rounded a bend in the road she expected to see it ahead: the steep climb where they’d had to get off and push the bikes. But every turn of the road revealed another dull, unfamiliar stretch, bordered by endless hedges, endless green verges full of flowers that didn’t interest her now. Ahead, in the west, dark clouds were massing. There was an ominous yellow tinge to their undersides. It was going to rain soon – rain hard. She felt the expectant quiver of wind in the kerbside grass.
The apples and blackberries hadn’t filled her. She had to get food. And she was stuck here in the middle of nowhere. What could she do? Go home? Her pride wouldn’t let her. Go to Olive’s, or Uncle Charley’s? No. They’d only tell her she must go and make peace with her mother.
Arnold’s? She thought of the Revells’ home: the dirty, casual kitchen where people wandered in and out and there was always plenty of food: rabbit stew, big pies from the butcher’s, hunks of bread. The Revells didn’t waste money on shoes or shirts or soap, but they always had plenty to eat.
And they wouldn’t ask questions. They wouldn’t express shock or surprise or concern if she turned up there. Sid Revell wouldn’t tell her mother where she was, or lecture her to apologize. She could go there, be fed and looked after, stay the night.
It was the thought of staying the night that checked her. She’d once glimpsed through an open doorway the room where Molly and the little ones slept. Mattresses on the floor, grey blankets, dust. And Molly, who always had nits, and probably fleas as well. She didn’t fancy dossing down with Molly. Besides, her mother knew she was friendly with Arnold; she might come looking for her there, and make a scene.
A spot of rain touched her face. Better get on, get to Wendon before it came down harder. She rounded the next bend, and there was Foss Bank. Wendon wasn’t far now.
She climbed up the Bank, free-wheeled down the far side, passed the turning to Cheveley, and went on towards that area of trees where Arnold had pointed out to her the chimneys of Wendon Hall.
The Hall lay in the shelter of the valley. For the first time Mary felt nervous at the thought of approaching the place. It was so huge, so totally removed from the world she knew. How would she ever find Phyl there?
Two immense black wrought-iron gates marked the entrance to a tree-lined drive. Mary didn’t dare go in that way. She followed the wall round – miles, it seemed – until she came to a smaller, wooden gate. Tentatively she pushed it. It opened, and she found herself in a kitchen garden. A man in work clothes was hoeing between the rows of carrots and beet.
Mary’s voice was small. “Please, I’ve come to find my sister. She’s a maid here. Phyllis
She cycled fast for the first few miles, breathing heavily, her anger giving her strength; but soon she began to flag. She stopped to pick half-ripe blackberries from a hedge, and to snatch apples from an overhanging branch. Gradually she lost heart. It hadn’t seemed far that day in June. But now, alone and hungry, with the temperature dropping and evening coming on, she felt as if the road would go on for ever.
There were few other people about. Occasionally she passed a countrywoman trudging along from one village to another. Twice a pony and trap came clattering up behind her; once a car went by – a doctor, perhaps.
She knew she had to climb Foss Bank before she reached Cheveley. Every time she rounded a bend in the road she expected to see it ahead: the steep climb where they’d had to get off and push the bikes. But every turn of the road revealed another dull, unfamiliar stretch, bordered by endless hedges, endless green verges full of flowers that didn’t interest her now. Ahead, in the west, dark clouds were massing. There was an ominous yellow tinge to their undersides. It was going to rain soon – rain hard. She felt the expectant quiver of wind in the kerbside grass.
The apples and blackberries hadn’t filled her. She had to get food. And she was stuck here in the middle of nowhere. What could she do? Go home? Her pride wouldn’t let her. Go to Olive’s, or Uncle Charley’s? No. They’d only tell her she must go and make peace with her mother.
Arnold’s? She thought of the Revells’ home: the dirty, casual kitchen where people wandered in and out and there was always plenty of food: rabbit stew, big pies from the butcher’s, hunks of bread. The Revells didn’t waste money on shoes or shirts or soap, but they always had plenty to eat.
And they wouldn’t ask questions. They wouldn’t express shock or surprise or concern if she turned up there. Sid Revell wouldn’t tell her mother where she was, or lecture her to apologize. She could go there, be fed and looked after, stay the night.
It was the thought of staying the night that checked her. She’d once glimpsed through an open doorway the room where Molly and the little ones slept. Mattresses on the floor, grey blankets, dust. And Molly, who always had nits, and probably fleas as well. She didn’t fancy dossing down with Molly. Besides, her mother knew she was friendly with Arnold; she might come looking for her there, and make a scene.
A spot of rain touched her face. Better get on, get to Wendon before it came down harder. She rounded the next bend, and there was Foss Bank. Wendon wasn’t far now.
She climbed up the Bank, free-wheeled down the far side, passed the turning to Cheveley, and went on towards that area of trees where Arnold had pointed out to her the chimneys of Wendon Hall.
The Hall lay in the shelter of the valley. For the first time Mary felt nervous at the thought of approaching the place. It was so huge, so totally removed from the world she knew. How would she ever find Phyl there?
Two immense black wrought-iron gates marked the entrance to a tree-lined drive. Mary didn’t dare go in that way. She followed the wall round – miles, it seemed – until she came to a smaller, wooden gate. Tentatively she pushed it. It opened, and she found herself in a kitchen garden. A man in work clothes was hoeing between the rows of carrots and beet.
Mary’s voice was small. “Please, I’ve come to find my sister. She’s a maid here. Phyllis
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