As she swept her front path, enjoying the lazy feel to the hot day that had started early with no children in the house and Dick bringing tea up and getting back in bed with her to drink it, Mrs Wiltshire saw her neighbour, Mrs Kennedy, checking her handbag for her keys before she slammed the front door shut. Grass widow. Grass officer’s widow. She did look nice. Her hair looked… blonder. Certainly blonder. Well you couldn’t say it didn’t suit her with that pale blue dress and hat and the white ear-rings. She was a very pretty woman.
Mrs Wiltshire touched the front of her own hair, wondering whether she dare do a bit of bleach on the front. She would have loved to try it, but apart from the fact that Dick would be angry, Mrs Wiltshire did not know how bleaching was done. People talked about peroxide blondes, and you couldn’t just put on that sort of stuff without knowing what you were doing. You heard about women whose hair turned green or fell out.
Dick liked blondes. He always got up and stood at the window with his hands in his pockets if he heard Mrs Kennedy’s footsteps on the front path.
‘She’s a bit of all right is our Georgia,’ he would say – not that he ever called her Georgia to her face. ‘But you wouldn’t get me off and leaving a wife like her alone in the house.’
‘But you wouldn’t mind leaving a wife like me then?’
‘Ask a silly question,’ Dick had said.
It had been quite like old times the last couple of weeks since Little-Lena and Roy went off for a bit of a holiday with Dick’s mother. They had gone out to the pictures and a couple of times for a drink. Dick had been playful, like he used to be. Making a lot of noise going upstairs.
‘Ssh, Dick. You can hear through these walls.’
‘Never heard a sound from them.’
And you’d think you would. As Dick said, he might have been a bit of an old stuffed shirt, but she doesn’t look like one who’d be quiet while she’s about it.
‘You’re an expert then, Dick Wiltshire.’
‘I reckon she could do with somebody a bit younger. The Chocolate Soldier must be forty if he’s a day, and she can’t be much over twenty.’
Mrs Kennedy came down the path, her white Cuban-heel strappy sandals clicking with that modern sound.
‘How’s Mr Kennedy getting on?’
‘Oh he’s fine. Loving every minute of it apparently. He’s not much of a letter writer. But he’s doing very well – been selected for something. I don’t know what it is. Some new regiment I think.’
‘Not staying in the Hampshire’s?’
‘To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. He said he wasn’t at liberty to say anything about what he is doing.’
Mrs Wiltshire leaned her brush against the separating hedge. Georgia glanced at the abbey clock. Still plenty of time, she could always do her bit of shopping after the meeting.
‘Fancy that. He’ll be getting a bit of leave soon, then you’ll get to know.’
‘Well no, he says he won’t be off camp for at least two months.’
‘Two months! Well that’s pretty steep, especially as he’s only at Aldershot.’
‘I don’t even know if that’s where he still is. All my letters have to go to some office in London for transferring.’
Mrs Wiltshire was impressed. ‘Sounds very hush-hush if you ask me.’
‘That’s what I thought. Well, I must be going. I’ve got myself involved in this committee.’
‘Well… lucky for some. Enjoy yourself.’ Mrs Wiltshire smiled as she watched her walk towards the town. She liked Mrs Kennedy. Liked having a pretty, modern woman next door. It had done Mary Wiltshire no end of good herself. Mrs Kennedy said she did her eyelids with Vaseline and got that nice fine edge to her lips by using a little brush. Mary had tried it out and was really pleased. She had even bought a safety razor of her own once she learned that Mrs Kennedy had one.
Last night Dick had called her to the front window. Mrs Kennedy and the tall chap with the prematurely grey hair were standing outside next-door’s front gate. ‘Here, Mary, come and have a decko at this. Do you think our Georgia’s being a naughty girl?’
‘You don’t want to go saying things like that, Dick. They aren’t doing anything wrong or they wouldn’t be standing out there like that. Anyway, you can’t expect her to live like a nun.’
‘And he don’t look like no monk neither.’
What Dick and Mary Wiltshire had seen was indeed entirely innocent. A friendly game of tennis with Nick.
Georgia had been in the cottage next to the Mission Hall that was to be her office. The place had been dirty, so she had changed into a wrap-round apron and head-scarf. The physical work freed her mind to think about the pile of official instructions and forms she had received on the running of the office, but it had been side-tracked into thinking about Nick Crockford.
Last week, when she was leaving the tennis club, he had been outside.
‘You look nice,’ he said, and fell in beside her. ‘Would you like to give me a game one evening? We used to have fun in the old days.’
‘It’s not the old days – what about Nancy?’
‘Nancy never held a tennis bat in her life.’
‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘I know you didn’t.’ A pause. ‘As a matter of fact, she’s gone. She’s been gone since last spring. She cleared off with a ginger-haired relief signalman at Mottisfont.’ Trying to make it sound comic showed that either his heart or his pride was hurt.
‘I’m sorry about that, Nick. You didn’t say, did you? I expect you miss the little boy.’
‘Do you mind if we don’t talk about it right now?’
Georgia fell silent.
‘Well, Georgia, will you have a game of tennis one evening?’
‘All right, book a court for a Thursday. I’m always free then.’
‘Lead a busy life do you then? Did you enjoy your evening with the toffs?’
He was touchy about that. But it was none of his affair. ‘As a matter of fact, yes. I could quite take to the high life.’
There had always been times when he had never quite known whether her tongue was in her cheek.
They had continued talking easily: at least, Georgia had talked at his prompting. He had walked with her as far as her gate, where they had stood talking for a few minutes.
‘I’ll see you then. Thursday evening.’
They had had their game.
‘You’ve improved,’ he conceded.
He was not very good, but could hit a ball very hard and kept her running about, laughing at her puffing. ‘You smoke too much, Georgia Honeycombe.’ She was the better player, and won. They laughed a lot, had a drink sitting in the garden of a pub and he had walked home with her. It had been really good to be with him again. Not like old times, those years when they were very young and had gone around together. Then, he was inclined to be very serious and solemn. Older now, he was still serious but not solemn. Man and woman now, each with experience of adult life.
Now, in her new office as she was hanging curtains, she heard footsteps in the passage and thought it might be Mrs Farr. Nick’s head peered round the door.
She had not expected him. She pulled her apron across and her hand went to her scarf.
‘What are you doing here, Nick?’
‘I booked the court again. Will you come?’
A spark of irritation, he had booked the court. Men were all the same, expecting you to fall in with their arrangements. Even so, she had enjoyed herself last time. ‘How did you know where to find me?’
‘You mentioned it. I remembered. Here, let me do that.’ He took the curtain spring she had been struggling with and fixed it.
Again the irritation. ‘I could have managed.’
‘I’m taller.’
‘Now that Hugh’s away, I have to stand on my own feet.’ It sounded childish and unnecessary.
‘Doesn’t mean you can’t accept help from somebody with longer arms.’
He was right, she had been about to give up on the spring. ‘Sorry.’
‘You’re niggled because I didn’t ask before booking the court. Come on, say you will. It’ll do you good to bash a ball about.’
They had repeated the enjoyment of the previous Thursday, and again they had separated at Georgia’s front gate, leaving her elated and a bit dissatisfied.