grey.’
‘Well I did just have a peep couldn’t resist it, ever so sweet, rolled up in the hall, I said to Annie I hope it don’t come up to our landing, what with our coal bucket and that tap, soon spoil it.’
‘But you’ll like to see it when it’s on the stairs, won’t you? I’m having your stairs done, too, you know, in your house as well.’ And then Mrs Pearson fully smiled. A girl of seventeen was suddenly looking out through the window. Or was it that Gladys had grown a little more accustomed to the unforgettable face?
‘I s’pose you’ll be letting those rooms on the ground floor, then?’ she blurted, on an impulse to relieve the anxiety she and Annie felt on this point.
‘Oh no … Peggy says the ceilings are down, and that must be put right of course. But I shan’t let them. Mr Pearson wants to use those rooms for store-rooms.’
Her smile faded, and was replaced by an expression of gravity, as if, now, the talk had touched on a matter that was not a smiling one. Mr Pearson, and what he stored in the rooms, was important. ‘And in Lily Cottage … such a sweet name! … I’m going to have a bathroom … a good big one … and then’ – a luxurious small sigh – ‘my bedroom will be that room overlooking the yard at the back. It’s nice and quiet there, Peggy says.’
While this talk was going on, Mr Fisher had turned away, with two more silent bows and a tiny lift of his ancient cap, and, having groped under layers of coats and waistcoat, produced from a hidden pocket a large old-fashioned key. He mounted the steps of Rose Cottage and inserted it in the door.
‘Mr Fisher! Mr Fisher! Don’t lock me out! Wait for me – if I haven’t forgotten my key again!’ Gladys lamented, having been occupied, during her conversation with Mrs Pearson, in a similar search among her own cardigans and scarves.
The old man gently pushed open the door to its fullest extent, so that it rested against the inner wall, and, leaving it so, marched silently up the stairs just visible in the weak glow of the electric light. But that glow was brighter than it had been; it was thrown back, now, from walls of a dreamy rose-pink. The plaster whorls on the ceiling suggested the icing on some giant’s birthday cake.
‘Oh, how pretty!’ cried Mrs Pearson, peering out. ‘It really is a lovely colour, isn’t it, Peggy?’
‘I suppose so. Mother, we really must go.’
‘All right, dear. Please, George …’ to the driver.
‘Night, Mrs Pearson, night Peggy, night all!’ called Gladys, as the car began to move, then, recollecting some half-dozen questions, she began an interrogatory scream that died away as the car gathered speed and turned the corner.
The Walk looked so dim, so lonely and deserted after it had gone, that she made haste to shut the front door and hurry up the stairs to the comfort of their own rooms, and Annie’s reassured cry. For she had, as usual, and certainly with more reason than she would have had twenty years ago, been anticipating murder.
7
‘Because I may as well do that as anything else.’
Peggy spoke in a controlled tone, keeping her eyes fixed on the shop-lined streets going by.
‘I don’t know why you won’t live with your old mum, dear,’ Mrs Pearson went on timidly, keeping her eyes on her daughter’s profile. ‘You can have anything you want, come and go when you please, be as free as air. I know it isn’t what most people call a nice neighbourhood but it’s a quiet street, very quiet, for London, and the house is going to be lovely. Why won’t you, dear?’
In Peggy’s short lifetime, she had found no weapon stronger or more successful than silence: the simplest, easiest weapon and, usually the most neglected. She did not use it now, however, preferring to keep it for a more dangerous occasion:
‘It’s quieter up there – more like the country,’ she said.
‘Well, lovey, if you’re so fond of the country why did you ever leave
‘Well I did just have a peep couldn’t resist it, ever so sweet, rolled up in the hall, I said to Annie I hope it don’t come up to our landing, what with our coal bucket and that tap, soon spoil it.’
‘But you’ll like to see it when it’s on the stairs, won’t you? I’m having your stairs done, too, you know, in your house as well.’ And then Mrs Pearson fully smiled. A girl of seventeen was suddenly looking out through the window. Or was it that Gladys had grown a little more accustomed to the unforgettable face?
‘I s’pose you’ll be letting those rooms on the ground floor, then?’ she blurted, on an impulse to relieve the anxiety she and Annie felt on this point.
‘Oh no … Peggy says the ceilings are down, and that must be put right of course. But I shan’t let them. Mr Pearson wants to use those rooms for store-rooms.’
Her smile faded, and was replaced by an expression of gravity, as if, now, the talk had touched on a matter that was not a smiling one. Mr Pearson, and what he stored in the rooms, was important. ‘And in Lily Cottage … such a sweet name! … I’m going to have a bathroom … a good big one … and then’ – a luxurious small sigh – ‘my bedroom will be that room overlooking the yard at the back. It’s nice and quiet there, Peggy says.’
While this talk was going on, Mr Fisher had turned away, with two more silent bows and a tiny lift of his ancient cap, and, having groped under layers of coats and waistcoat, produced from a hidden pocket a large old-fashioned key. He mounted the steps of Rose Cottage and inserted it in the door.
‘Mr Fisher! Mr Fisher! Don’t lock me out! Wait for me – if I haven’t forgotten my key again!’ Gladys lamented, having been occupied, during her conversation with Mrs Pearson, in a similar search among her own cardigans and scarves.
The old man gently pushed open the door to its fullest extent, so that it rested against the inner wall, and, leaving it so, marched silently up the stairs just visible in the weak glow of the electric light. But that glow was brighter than it had been; it was thrown back, now, from walls of a dreamy rose-pink. The plaster whorls on the ceiling suggested the icing on some giant’s birthday cake.
‘Oh, how pretty!’ cried Mrs Pearson, peering out. ‘It really is a lovely colour, isn’t it, Peggy?’
‘I suppose so. Mother, we really must go.’
‘All right, dear. Please, George …’ to the driver.
‘Night, Mrs Pearson, night Peggy, night all!’ called Gladys, as the car began to move, then, recollecting some half-dozen questions, she began an interrogatory scream that died away as the car gathered speed and turned the corner.
The Walk looked so dim, so lonely and deserted after it had gone, that she made haste to shut the front door and hurry up the stairs to the comfort of their own rooms, and Annie’s reassured cry. For she had, as usual, and certainly with more reason than she would have had twenty years ago, been anticipating murder.
7
‘Because I may as well do that as anything else.’
Peggy spoke in a controlled tone, keeping her eyes fixed on the shop-lined streets going by.
‘I don’t know why you won’t live with your old mum, dear,’ Mrs Pearson went on timidly, keeping her eyes on her daughter’s profile. ‘You can have anything you want, come and go when you please, be as free as air. I know it isn’t what most people call a nice neighbourhood but it’s a quiet street, very quiet, for London, and the house is going to be lovely. Why won’t you, dear?’
In Peggy’s short lifetime, she had found no weapon stronger or more successful than silence: the simplest, easiest weapon and, usually the most neglected. She did not use it now, however, preferring to keep it for a more dangerous occasion:
‘It’s quieter up there – more like the country,’ she said.
‘Well, lovey, if you’re so fond of the country why did you ever leave
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