Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase Read Online Free PDF

beautiful. There’s competition, whispered jealousies – nothing overt, nothing nasty, but it’s there. I enjoy watching their rivalry from the sidelines, safely out of the fray, me, a good ten years older, and a solid seven. On a good day. On a very good day. No competition at all, no need for these girls to feel threatened by me as well as each other, and I can just enjoy the disinterest of the casual observer. Well, not quite. Both of these women are my friends now. And one of them needs me.
    ‘It has to be somebody I can totally trust,’ says Jenna. ‘I’m not going to tell anybody else and Philip must never, ever know. I can’t do this on my own. Please. You’re so sensible and discreet.’
    ‘I’ll go with you, I mean it. Don’t fret. But what about the father?’
    Jenna laughs a desperate, queer laugh.
    ‘Oh my God,’ she says. ‘Roberta, you really are hopelessly naive at times.’
    She will tell Philip she is meeting a friend for the day – shopping and lunch – and I will phone in sick. Headache, period pains, whatever comes to mind, whatever sounds plausible. It will be a nuisance for Sophie to be on her own all day. But never mind, says Jenna. She’ll cope. We’re not busy at the moment, anyway.
    I listen in silence as she makes her plans. I recall my last birthday, my thirty-fourth. I brought in cakes, split doughnuts oozing with soft artificial cream, with sweet red syrup described as ‘jam’, fresh from the bakery next door to the shop. Jenna declined my offer of a cake, stating weight-watching as a reason. I shrugged and told her I would take it home for my cat, who likes cakes – especially on birthdays. I recall Jenna’s face, her crushed expression, the redness. She muttered an embarrassed ‘sorry’, and took a cake. Of course, I felt dreadful; I didn’t mean to humiliate her. I later found the doughnut in the kitchen bin, a token nibble missing. I realised then that Jenna is used to being disliked. I don’t believe her circle of friends is particularly wide. I resolved to try harder. I’m not the jealous type. And we have become friends, a slow trust growing between us.
    So now I must agree to help her. What else am I to do?
    ‘You’re a good person,’ says Jenna. She blows her nose, and smiles at me bleakly.
    And my thoughts wander, as they are apt to do at stressful times, moments of drama. I want to talk to Babunia. I want to ask her about the letter that is even now whispering its strange words, tucked away in my handbag, calling to me. I can almost remember the letter by heart now. I shall visit her soon; I’m due for a visit, anyway. But can I ask her anything about this letter? I can’t bear the thought of upsetting her, of trying to uncover secrets she does not want uncovered.
    And Jenna is here now, white-faced and scared. I must deal with her first.

4
    A gatha Mabel Fisher and Nina Margaret Mullens descended upon Dorothy in March 1940. They were both London girls, fresh from their six weeks of training with the Women’s Land Army. They were employed by those up at the hall as farmhands; they were in need of a billet, and Dorothy lived alone in the cottage. She was fortunate, she knew, to be allowed to continue living in the cottage at all. Albert had left to join up, to do his bit, he said, everybody said, but Dorothy knew, as they all knew, that Albert had left to get away from her, to leave behind his disappointment and grief. He wanted other women too, because Dorothy would no longer sleep with him, and she was wise enough to know this, even to understand it. He was only thirty-three. Let him go, she told herself. She did not miss him.
    She had started to hear that some at the hall, and in the village, were questioning her right to stay. Albert should not have left, they said. He was a skilled and experienced farmhand, and could have waited for his call-up, which may never have come. It left his wife in a difficult position. Eventually, they put it to her: