Ellen looked from one woman to the other, she saw both faces drain of colour.
‘Fuckin ’ell.’ The woman held on to the door, the rain splashing in off the doorstep onto the linoleum, but no one noticed.
Jean’s mouth twisted. She drew herself up. ‘Quite,’ she said.
Doreen Whittaker flushed. Chin raised high and with a defiant set to her mouth she stepped inside and leaned against the wall, arms folded.
Jean’s legs buckled. Ellen moved quickly, catching hold of her elbow. ‘Here, sit down.’ She lowered Jean onto one of the chairs and stood behind her, her hands on her shoulders. ‘You’re all right,’ she said.
Jean stared at Doreen.
‘I’ll get you a drink.’ Ellen crossed to the scullery, passing Doreen. ‘What?’ she said curtly.
‘Some sugar?’ Doreen Whittaker raised a bowl. Composed, she stood, back arched to emphasise her swollen belly under the maternity smock, meeting Jean’s scrutiny calmly.
‘None to spare, sorry,’ Ellen said. ‘What’s up? Mrs Miles decided she’s not going to be a soft touch anymore?’
Doreen glowered. ‘She’s not in, and anyway she’s not a soft touch, she’s a good neighbour.’
Jean couldn’t believe she was listening to them talking about sugar when her whole world was crumbling. She opened her mouth but no words came out. She was afraid.
Ellen let the water run for a minute, rinsing a cup under the tap and finally running water into it. ‘You still here?’ Ellen glanced over her shoulder. ‘Can’t you take a hint?’
‘No,’ Jean said, ‘I want to hear what she has to say for herself.’ Her head spun. The kitchen whirled in a stream of colours.
Ellen moved to her side. ‘Drink this.’
Jean glanced at her, gratefully, and took the cup.
‘Say for myself? What are you talking about?’ Doreen flicked her fringe back, a slight smile on her face. But there was trepidation in her eyes and it was obvious to Ellen she was as alarmed as Jean with the encounter.
‘You know who I am?’ Jean said.
Doreen lifted her shoulders. ‘Seen you around, I suppose. What’s the matter? I only came to borrow some sugar.’
‘Shut up about the sugar,’ Jean said calmly. ‘You know I’m Patrick’s wife.’
‘Who?’
Jean saw the change in her face at the mention of his name. ‘Don’t play games with me, lady, I’m not stupid.’ She sipped the water, took in and held her breath slightly before letting it go. The room stilled, the colours faded, the rain slowed to an occasional splash on the window. ‘Whose baby is it?’ she said, almost casually.
‘What do you mean? I’m a married woman.’
‘Whose baby?’ Jean said again.
‘My business, I think,’ Doreen said, smoothing the flowered top over her stomach and resting her hand on it.
The boldness wasn’t lost on Jean. She wanted to leap at the woman, tear clumps of her hair out, to scratch and destroy the beauty. Because there was no doubt she was beautiful, she thought bitterly. Trust Patrick to go for a lovely face however vacuous the mind – or how coarse the voice.
‘My husband’s?’ Jean hadn’t expected to be so forthright. And now she was terrified of the answer. Her world was falling apart.
Doreen shrugged but then said, ‘Course not.’ Then, as though she understood she’d given herself away, she said, ‘Who did you say your husband was?’
‘You know full well who he is.’ Jean jumped up. ‘Is that…’ She pointed with a shaking finger at Doreen’s stomach. ‘Is that his?’
Doreen looked Jean up and down. ‘Could be … yes,’ she said finally.