Crooked Heart Read Online Free PDF Page B

third-class lavatory and stayed there all the way to Luton. And once there, she’d still felt so shaken that she’d ended up taking a nip at the Bird in Hand, opposite the station. Which had meant that she hadn’t been in a fit state of mind to carry out her plan of knocking on doors to ask for contributions, and the whole morning had been wasted.
    The only comfort was that Irene had obviously jumped to the wrong conclusion, and had assumed that Vee was off to meet a man. Which wasn’t illegal, after all. It could have been someone quite respectable, or even a soldier. So there was nothing to worry about on that score.
    Perhaps, though, she ought to learn from the encounter and start making notes when she talked to people. She could keep an old envelope and a pencil in her bag:
    Uncle Clive, bladder stone, Ward 4, Luton General Hospital. Told to Irene F., 14th June 1940.
    That would do. And, while she thought of it:
    I’ve always loved small dogs. Had a brown-and-white Jack Russell terrier called ‘Happy’ when I was a girl. Told to Mrs Fillimore, 20th June.
    And, come to mention it:
    Was at school with a girl who lives in California now, called Eileen, she married a salesman and did very well for herself, and she sends us parcels with more silk scarves than we know what to do with. Told to policewoman with red hair after Woolworth’s incident. Second half of May.
    And:
    Have bilious stomach, can’t come to the door, we’ve all come down with it, will pay it off next week. Note left on door for Ezra Rigg, 22nd June.
    An exercise book, rather than an envelope, perhaps.
    Her mother was humming again, a different tune this time. ‘Gold and Silver Waltz,’ said Vee. ‘Is that right, Mum? Gold and Silver Waltz?’
    There was no response. The previous letter had been folded and stuck in an envelope, and her mother had started on another, her pen sprinting across the paper. In spite of herdouble vision, she had lovely handwriting, put Vee’s own to shame.
    â€˜Who’s that one to, Mum?’ she asked. In lieu of an answer, she peered at the addresses on the envelopes. It was the usual mixture of domestic and official – Cousin Harold, ex-neighbour Phyllis Gladney, the Archbishop of Canterbury, President Roosevelt. Harold’s envelope was the thickest; he had a vixen of a wife, and a daughter who’d run off to live with a Scotchman, and was much in need of the words of encouragement and Christian comfort her mother offered.
    â€˜Cup of tea, Mum? Piece of toast?’
    Her mother looked up and nodded. As Vee lit the grill, the electric clock made a noise like a cup hit with a teaspoon; half past five. It was nearly time to wake Donald for work.
    Her son was lying with the eiderdown over his face when she went into the room. She laid the tray on the bedside table, and opened the curtains.
    â€˜It’s a lovely evening,’ she said. ‘Proper summer.’ The low sun had gilded the edge of a pile of hub caps in the yard below, and turned a dented zinc bath into a crimson shell. ‘And I’ve made you a nice rarebit,’ she added. ‘Oh, and you’ve got three letters.’
    Donald drew the quilt from his face and reached out a hand. Vee had checked the postmarks earlier, and they were the usual puzzling collection; one from Wembley, another from Luton, a third from Leicester. Two were cheap yellow envelopes, one was expensive, the paper as thick as card. All had masculine handwriting.
    â€˜Friends of yours?’ she asked, brightly.
    Donald said nothing, but gestured for the tray, and she waited for him to sit up before placing it on his lap. It often took him a few minutes after waking before he could speak. He’d been that way since childhood, and year after year she’d chivvied and nagged him, thinking it was just laziness, and then he’d gone forhis call-up medical and the doctor had found a heart murmur. It was a