Ulden station is closed now, axed by Dr Beeching’s axe. The railway track is used by ramblers. An amazing collection of wild and garden flowers grows along it, memorial of that long dead eccentric who once travelled the length and breadth of England’s railways, scattering flower seeds by sackfuls, feeding them out of the carriage window into the rushing Edwardian wind.
Egden station, down the line, remains. Here Inigo leaves the adult Chloe, and she catches the train to London with two minutes to spare.
Inigo said she would.
Chloe arrives punctually at the Italiano. Marjorie does not. Marjorie is late, having, no doubt, important matters to delay her. Chloe is not sure whether to be glad for Marjorie, or irritated on her own behalf.
Marjorie, as a child, is all too anxious to please. If she is brave and good, she thinks, and does not complain, and is unfailingly helpful, her mother, whom she loves, will come and take her back home. It is a direct challenge to God, but God does not appear to notice, although Marjorie goes to church with Esther on both Wednesday evenings and Sunday mornings. (Grace, an early atheist, refuses to go to church: or at any rate faints whenever she does, which comes to the same thing.)
And still Helen does not come, to claim her child and take her home.
Marjorie, it is soon acknowledged by all, and whatever her motives, proves a better daughter to Esther than Grace, her natural daughter, ever was.
Marjorie makes the beds, appreciates the cooking, runs Edwin’s bath, skips in and out of rooms prattling and eager, learns the piano, comes top in examinations, buries her head in Esther’s lap when she is miserable, brings her wild flowers when she is happy, asks for advice about what to wear and what to say.
And still Helen her real mother does not even write a letter, let alone come to take her away.
Marjorie is frightened of Edwin, but masters her fear sufficiently to learn the disposition of the allied and enemy forces, and so be his companion as, year in year out, he follows the progress of the war through Europe, Africa, Asia on the maps on the library table.
And still Dick, her real father, does not come to take her away. How can he? He is in France, and if he writes to her, care of her mother, who is to say whether the letters arrive at their destination, or whether her mother simply forgets to forward them?
As for Grace, she is not interested in the war. Grace has disowned her parents, those plain and boring people now so fond of Marjorie, the cuckoo in her nest. Grace decides to be a changeling. She sulks, she lounges, she complains. She fails to make her bed; she makes trouble instead. She is artistic, and is proud of it. She draws. She paints. She models. She stares in the mirror, and has hysterics in the moonlight. She makes Chloe her confidante. Chloe, for all her mother is a waitress, is genteel, and clever, and funny, and regards adults – excepting only Gwyneth her mother – as equals and enemies. But she does not betray her opinion, as Grace does. And Edwin and Esther regard Chloe with relief, see her as a civilizing influence on Grace, and welcome her to the house. She appears quiet, polite, deferential, and clean. And she acts as some kind of helpful catalyst on Grace and Marjorie.
In Chloe’s presence, Grace will behave quite civilly towards Marjorie, and even show her some degree of affection.
In the garden, Marjorie learns how to grow Christmas roses, and protect their pale bruised petals from the slugs and the wet.
Grace deigns to grow Brussels sprouts, under her father’s instruction, and wins First Prize in the 1942 school competition.
Chloe, whose home is a clapboard room shared with her mother behind the Rose and Crown, learns how to prune the roses which so aggravate Edwin’s asthma.
And still Helen does not write.
Marjorie works hard at school, and comes top of all her classes, except games, art, music and PT. She inspires pity and admiration both. She gives her sweet ration away, mostly to enemies, sometimes to friends, aniseed ball by peppermint drop, and if she is buying love, poor little thing, so, it is bought.
And still Helen does not come.