the farm,” she tells him in a calm voice. But what’s she really thinking?
Harry pauses, throws a despairing glance at the face in the cottage doorway, and mumbles his byes to us.
“I’m sorry I can’t be of any help to you,” Miss Saunders says quietly, and begins to close the door.
That’s when Mum makes a move, her delicate hand landing palm-wide by the polished brass door knocker.
“Before we go back to London, could I ask a favour, Miss Saunders?” she asks in her most lovely, polite voice. “Could the children perhaps have a glass of water and use the lavatory?”
This Miss Saunders looks momentarily flummoxed, then backs away. I brace myself for the door to slam shut, but instead it’s pulled open – and we’re ushered inside.
“Of course. Certainly. Come in,” says Miss Saunders, sounding courteous but cool. “Won’t you sit down?”
There’s no hall; the cottage isn’t big enough. We find ourselves walking directly into a snug sitting room, with everything neat and tidy and pretty.
At first glance, it’s much like our front room at home, with a settee and armchair facing the fireplace, a fringed standard lamp and some small side tables. A wireless sits on one, similar to the set we have on our sideboard. On Miss Saunders’ sideboard, however, there’s a gramophone. A gramophone! Lil would love that.
I glance around some more and see that on the far wall, there’s a small, wooden-panelled door that’s ajar – behind it I can make out some narrow, steep wooden stairs.
And to the right is a passage, which leads to the kitchen, I suppose.
“Thank you so much,” says Mum. “Come, Glory! Wipe your feet, Richard!”
She’s using her best voice, just like people use their best room for visiting guests. Immediately Rich and me straighten up, smarten up and follow Mum’s lead. This Miss Saunders might not want us, but we want Mum to be proud of us all the same.
“Er, will you have a cup of tea, Mrs…” the older woman fumbles.
She’s as tall as Dad and has streaks of grey in her hair, like he does. It’s not styled like Mum’s; just a bit wiry and wavy and cut off at chin length. She tries to tuck it behind her ears as she talks, but it just springs out again.
“Mrs Gilbert,” Mum jumps in. “And this is Glory, my younger daughter.”
“Er … ‘Glory’?” says Miss Saunders in confusion, as if Mum has just announced that my name is Boadicea or Buttons or something just as outlandish and unsuitable for a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl.
“Short for Gloria. It’s a pet name that even her teachers call her. Silly, I know, but it’s all she’ll answer to!” Mum says with an easy laugh, glossing over my stubbornness. “Her older sister, Lillian, is in the Land Army, you know.”
Mum says that last bit with great pride, which is funny, since she’s never forgiven Lil for flouncing off and joining up.
Miss Saunders’ eyebrows now rise with surprise above her small, wire-rimmed spectacles. She’s obviously impressed. And obviously, that’s what Mum was aiming for.
“And this little lamb is Richard,” Mum carries on, putting an arm around my brother’s shoulders. “He’s gentle as a lamb too.”
She’s trying to let this Miss Saunders know that Rich isn’t a typical roaring, rough-playing, boisterous boy, isn’t she? But why is she bothering?
“Pleased to meet you,” Miss Saunders says politely enough to us, but there’s no smile on her face. “I … I’ll just fill the kettle.”
Our reluctant hostess smooths the floral-patterned pinny that covers her cream blouse and tweed skirt, and walks away – clip-clopping in her sensible brown lace-up shoes – towards the passage. She looks too tall for the low ceiling, and I swear she nearly has to dip her head to get through the doorway.
As soon as she’s out of earshot, I shoot a question at Mum.
“What are you thinking?” I whisper.
“I’m thinking it’s worth a cup of tea and a chat,” she
Alice Clayton, Nina Bocci