‘I’ll go over there later in the week,’ she decided.
‘You could go over on Friday morning,’ Derek suggested. ‘It’s the clinic this Friday, you’d have to go into Cannonbridge for that anyway. You could stop over till Saturday.’ He never minded these brief absences of Lisa’s, they gave him a chance to draw breath, clear his thoughts.
She pouted. ‘I’ve nothing decent to wear.’ She gestured at her clothes strewn over the backs of chairs, scattered on top of the chest of drawers. ‘Everything’s getting so tight round the waist.’ It would never occur to her to pick up a needle and scissors, let the garments out. ‘I’ll be needing a lot of new things soon,’ she added. ‘And there’s all the stuff to buy for the baby.’
She gave him a wheedling smile. ‘There’s a Mother and Baby fortnight on at Hanson’s.’ This was the most expensive store in Cannonbridge. ‘They have such lovely things. I could go along there with Carole.’
She wouldn’t need to fatigue herself penning a reply to Carole’s letter, she could phone her from the neighbourhood shop just along the road. She popped in there at least once a day for a tin or something from the frozen food cabinet.
Derek was anxious to steer her away from thoughts of spending. ‘Would you like me to run you over to Longmead this evening to see Janet?’ he said. ‘You could find out if she’s coming to stay or not.’ They’d already paid a few visits to Rose Cottage although Janet hadn’t been very pressing about urging them to come over. ‘She may not have had time to write,’ he said. ‘She must be busy at the end of term. She may just intend to hop on the bus on Friday and come straight over.’
Lisa made no reply. ‘We could pop over there about half past seven,’ he persisted.
‘No, thanks,’ she said abruptly. ‘I don’t see why I should go running after Janet if she can’t even be bothered to answer my letters. And anyway,’ she added with a return to her childish manner, ‘I don’t need her now I’ve got Carole.’ Carole was fifteen years older than Lisa and so fitted comfortably into the mother/older sister slot that Lisa was accustomed to. She much preferred the company of people older than herself, she hadn’t kept up with any of her schoolfriends.
And Carole always had plenty of money, was always happy to pay for the steak dinners and wine, tickets for a show, drinks at a club.
‘Then if you won’t come, I think I’ll go over to Longmead on my own,’ Derek said. ‘I’ll ask Janet what she’s going to do about the holidays. I’ll explain that you’re upset she hasn’t written – ’
‘Don’t you dare!’ Lisa said with force. ‘I will not go running after her and I won’t have you going running after her either!’
‘I don’t for one moment think she’d see it like that,’ he said mildly. He gave a joking smile. ‘Of course she may have more ambitious plans for the holidays, she may be going off on a luxury cruise.’
She could certainly afford it. She’d been teaching for seven years now and she was the type to save. She’d been left some money in her father’s will – a sore point with Lisa who’d been left nothing; when her father breathed his last he had no idea that he’d begotten a second child.
Mrs Marshall made her will twelve months before she died and she had divided her estate between her two daughters with scrupulous fairness. The house and its contents were left to them jointly and her investments were split in two, Janet’s share to be paid over without delay as she was already of a sensible age, but Lisa’s to be withheld till she was twenty-five.
‘Promise me you won’t go over to Rose Cottage,’ Lisa insisted.
He moved his shoulders. ‘All right then, if that’s what you want.’
She sank back against the pillows with a satisfied air. ‘I’m hungry,’ she said suddenly, like a child.
‘I’ll make you some breakfast,’ he offered. ‘I’ve plenty of time. What would you like?’ He removed the little glass from the tray and set it down on the bedside table.
She put out a finger and touched the rosebud. ‘What a pretty colour.’ She gave him a delicious dimpled smile and he had a sudden sharp memory of North Africa, the golden idle days, the starry, scented nights. ‘I’ll have some toast and scrambled eggs,’ she said. ‘Some of that lime marmalade. And lots of coffee.’
‘I’m yours to command, Princess.’ He bent down and kissed her, picked up the tray and went briskly down again to the kitchen. The bills were still on the table but he gave them barely a glance as he swept them up into a pile and thrust them back into the drawer of the dresser.
The morning session at Longmead school ended at noon. At five minutes past twelve Janet Marshall walked up Mayfield Lane and pushed open the little wooden gate of Rose Cottage. A trellis brilliant with the full flush of pale pink roses arched over the gate, scenting the air with their delicate perfume. She went up the path to the front door which was exuberantly garlanded on either side with great swags of climbing roses, red and white. She took a key from her shoulder-bag and let herself in.
The cottage was a good two hundred years old; it was small and set well back from the lane, a situation that gave it plenty of privacy without making it in any way isolated. It had a long narrow garden in front and an even longer strip at the back. The cottage belonged to Oswald Slater, the owner of Mayfield Farm, and stood upon his land. It had been allowed to lie empty for many years and had fallen into sad disrepair, but after the spectacular rise in property values in recent times Slater had considered the dwelling worth restoring and modernizing, and it was now a comfortable little residence with a new lease of life ahead of it. It suited Janet very well, standing as it did only a couple of hundred yards from the school.
She hung her bag on a hook just inside the front door. The tiny hall led into the single living-room which was simply and pleasantly furnished with pieces she had brought from Ivydene, pieces she remembered from her childhood in Ellenborough; they gave her an agreeable sense of continuity and tranquillity.
She switched on the radio which began to play light music, but she gave it no more than a fraction of her attention as she set about preparing her lunch.
She shook out a clean cloth and put it on the table in the centre of the room. She took out a jug of goat’s milk, butter and cheese from the fridge, reached down a beaker from the open dresser and brought a tin of crispbread from the pantry. At the sink she carefully washed a fine Cos lettuce she had grown in the garden and made it into a salad with cucumber and tomatoes she had bought on her Saturday trip into Cannonbridge. All her movements were quick, neat and methodical.
Before she sat down to eat she crossed to a small desk that stood against one wall and took out some opened letters. She began her lunch, looking over the letters again as she ate, frowning as she glanced through them. One letter was untidily written in Lisa’s small backward-sloping hand. ‘I’ve been expecting to hear from you,’ Lisa wrote. ‘To say when you’re coming to stay.’ To spend a couple of weeks acting as confidante and general dogsbody, Janet thought without enthusiasm; she’d had more than enough of that in her life.
Her father had died when she was ten years old and her mother, never the most independent and strong-minded of women, had immediately cast Janet in the role of man of the family. Her childhood seemed to end overnight. Her mother took to discussing every problem with her – and there was an endless succession of problems; Janet was called on to offer advice, weigh up situations, make decisions.
She sighed and glanced up from the letter and her gaze