‘“O Pears” indeed! I can’t think for the life of me why they call them that. More trouble than they’re worth if you ask me.’
The trouble was, Tonbridge thought, that nobody was asking her. If you asked Mabel for anything, she would give it to you, whether it was a rock cake or a piece of advice – her mind, she called the latter. He wondered whether he might be so bold as to bring up the subject with Miss Rachel, and decided that he would have to wait until the right occasion presented itself. Which meant, he secretly knew, that nothing would induce him to bring it up at all.
He did his best to help. This morning, he had brought in the wood for the fires – the small ration of coal had gone by Boxing Day, if not the coke for the kitchen range. He had gone to Battle to fetch the meat and groceries, brought in the potatoes and onions that McAlpine had dug up, and fetched Miss Sidney’s prescription from the chemist. Then it was time for a break before the family’s lunch, which had been laid by Eileen – the dining room for the grown-ups, and the hall for the children and O Pears, two foreign girls, who had washed up breakfast, breaking two cups and a jug, and were now rather sulkily making the beds. It was Miss Rachel who had hired them; and she said it had been explained to them that they were required to lend a hand to anything that was needed. But they had to have a lot of time off, to learn English, and they seemed to spend most of that washing their hair, painting their nails and complaining of being cold.
The house was overflowing. In the old days one family, at least, would have been in Manor Farm, the place down the road, but it had been let. He counted them now. Mr and Mrs Hugh, with her two boys, the little girl and, of course, young Mr William. Mr and Mrs Rupert with Miss Juliet and the little boy with that rat. Mr Lestrange and Miss Clary, with their two children. And, of course, Miss Rachel and her friend Miss Sidney. It was a good thing that Mr Edward and the new Mrs Edward were staying in their own house with their lot, and Lady Fakenham likewise. Well, there simply wasn’t room for them, although Mr Edward had brought some of the family over for Boxing Day tea. Mabel was a wonder, the way she went on producing meals for everyone, but her feet were something awful in the evenings now. He had to admit that the ladies all helped, though. Not like the old days. You’d never have caught Mrs Senior or Miss Rachel with a Hoover. Then there had been a proper staff, and ladies had simply sewed or gone for walks, played tennis and had afternoon rests – except for Mrs Senior, who couldn’t keep out of the garden.
Better get going. He swallowed the last piece of cheese tart, brushed the crumbs off his trousers, and passed some wind before leaving the snug little room adjoining the kitchen that had always been Mabel’s (many a nervous snack he’d had there, with him explaining the state of the world about which she, being a woman, knew very little …).
In the kitchen he found Mr Rupert’s little boy asking what was for lunch.
Macaroni cheese and treacle sponge, she told him. She was beating up the sponge mixture in an enormous bowl.
‘Oh, good! I love treacle sponge. The thing is,’ he had climbed onto a kitchen chair next to her, ‘I wonder if it would be all right for me to have a bit of cheese without the macaroni? Just a small bit?’ He was stroking her arm. ‘It’s not for me. I love macaroni cheese – it’s for Rivers.’
‘And who is he when he’s at home?’
‘He’s my friend. Actually, he’s a rat, but he’s not like most rats.’
‘Don’t you dare bring him into my kitchen.’
‘I won’t.’ He quietly thrust his hand down into the deep pocket inside which Rivers usually travelled and kept it there. ‘Just a small bit, and he doesn’t mind rind.’
He had got one knee on the table, and was holding her arm and looking up into her face. It was too much for her. She put down her spoon and went to the larder. While she was getting the cheese, he put his finger into the mixing bowl and scraped out a finger-load, which he quickly ate. It was delicious, almost nicer than when it was cooked.
She came back with a generous piece of Cheddar. ‘Now be off with you, and don’t you dare bring that creature anywhere near me.’
‘I promise. Thank you very much.’ He scrambled off the table and was gone.
‘Young monkey. The spitting image of Mr Rupert,’ she added, to excuse her softness with him.
‘You’d give anyone anything,’ he said fondly, which provoked her.
‘There are some things I can’t abide, and one of them is you standing over me when I’m working.’ A huge kirby-grip fell into the bowl. ‘Drat it! Now look what you’ve made me do!’
Injustice on this level was a serious warning sign. ‘I’m off to clean the car,’ he said, trying to sound offhand.
She sniffed. ‘You and your cars,’ she said. ‘Just don’t be late for your dinner. I don’t want to send one of them O Pears to get you.’ She had early ascertained that they posed no threat: he didn’t like women with no flesh on their bones.