Fragile Blossoms (3 page)

A fortnight passed and though the parlour walls still to be papered the cottage is habitable. Weary of trekking back and forth Julia plans to move in but asked if Matty might stay a little longer with Nan. ‘Of course he must stay!’ was her reply. ‘Paint is caustic to the throat, Anna. He can’t be inhaling that.’

Nan is in a good mood. She refers to Julia as Anna. People are always playing with her name, shortening or rearranging. With Mother it was Julia which is probably why Julia thinks of herself that way. The only time she was afforded a full name was when Mother was irritated, the hens not laying or yet another member of the congregation taking advantage of Father.

It’s Matty who brings about the shortening of Christian names here in Bakers. Nan dotes on him, and he upon her and Luke. Aping the long stride and gruff voice he follows him everywhere. ‘Hello, Mister Wolf,’ this morning he sidled up. ‘What big teeth you have.’ Mister Wolf snatched him up and growling ran up and down the yard Matty shrieking with joy. Mister Wolf? Matty does this, gives people he likes fairy-tale names. Julia wishes he wouldn’t; what is charming in a three-year-old is less so in an older child. That night she told Matty he was not to do that.

‘But he is a wolf!’ Matty pointed to a picture-book. ‘Huff, puff, and blow the house down.’ Julia rebuked him but thought Luke only himself to blame. Were he to smile instead of snarl he would be the handsome prince. Instead he’s a nursery rhyme villain and the terror of Three Little Pigs.

‘I’d rather you didn’t encourage Matty,’ she said. ‘He’ll get used to saying it.’

‘The lad’s alright.’ Luke shrugged it away. ‘He’ll stop when the real wolf comes along.’ Dependent to a degree on Nan’s good favour Julia didn’t pursue it. Matty in safe hands she can boost their coffers by taking work as an artist’s model. There was a time when she was ashamed of doing that, thinking she lived two lives, a respectable wife and mother and a woman on the edge of society. A sawbones surgeon changed her opinion. A sunny day in May ‘94 Owen forgot his class notes. Julia delivered the notes and was hurrying home when a woman climbing the College steps hailed her. ‘Mrs Passmore isn’t it?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Julia had said. ‘I can’t stay to chat. My son is unwell.’

‘Nothing serious I hope.’

‘It may be. He had a tonsillectomy and his throat is badly infected.’

‘Oh my dear that is serious! Do you have a physician you trust?’

‘We have someone but I wouldn’t say I trust him.’

The woman produced a card. ‘This is my man. He is very good. If you feel in any way worried do give him a call.’ Julia had scanned the address and the royal crest. ‘Thank you but a physician to Her Majesty is beyond my means.’

‘But not beyond mine. Take it!’ The woman pushed the card into Julia’s hand. ‘Tell him Evelyn Carrington says to come and he will.’

Julian had pocketed the card. Not for a moment did she think to use it but as Matty’s condition worsened so the card burned through her pocket. She showed it to Owen. ‘Ah yes, Stefan Adelmann, the heart specialist. He is cousin to Karl Adelmann, Professor of Archaeology. I attended a lecture of his, Karnack and the Valley of Kings. He had some interesting things to say.’

Typical, his baby son struggles for breath and Owen looks to the dusty treasure of yesterday. Thanks to a modern treasure, the telephone in the Bursar’s office, that evening Stefan Adelman called. There was a knock on the door and kindly eyes smiled over steel-rimmed spectacles. ‘Your son is unwell.’

‘But I only made the call this morning! How can you be here so soon?’

‘I was already in Cambridge. Lady Carrington told me of your concern and being in the neighbourhood I thought to see your son.’

A heavy man in grey overcoat and carrying a soft grey hat he flowed into the room as a calm sea. Huge hands, the hands of a farmer rather than a surgeon, he reached down into the cot. ‘Open your mouth to me,
mein kind
.’ Ten minutes and Matty was gathered up. Instructions were clear. ‘My man is outside. You will wear a hat and coat,
Frau
Passmore. We take your son to a good place.’ The good place was a hospital close by in Bradbury where Stefan had connections. Julia didn’t hesitate. Urgency was in Matty’s tortured breathing and the set of the doctor’s jaw, and the fact that not once throughout the journey did he lay Matty down.

There are two people in the world beside her son for whom she would do anything, Stefan Adelmann, consultant cardiologist to the Queen, and Evelyn Carrington, artist and friend, but for them Matty would not be here. It was no hardship then in the spring of ’95 to return a favour. Freddie Carrington was in his last year at Jesus College. Evie would visit the college and then call at the Passmore house. Aware of the house and unpaid bills the meetings were painful. The third visit brought a chance to repay a debt.

‘Let down your hair, Rapunzel,’ said Evie, ‘and I will paint you.’

Julia had smiled. ‘Surely not!’

‘Surely yes! I want you to sit for me.’

‘I couldn’t do that. My husband would hate it.’

‘Must your husband know?’

‘Of course he must. How could he not, you and me here in the house.’

‘Oh I could never paint you here!’ Evelyn had grimaced. ‘This house is too awful. My muse would quite forsake me.’

The next visit Evie pulled pins from Julia’s hair. ‘All this glory bundled up and you never sharing. And this?’ she’d gripped Julia’s face between her hands and kissed her, ‘how can you keep this from the world? You are cruel, Ju-ju, cruel and beautiful.’ The kiss shocked both into silence. Then Evie had nodded. ‘I must have that look. It’s exactly the look I want for a show in September. Come to my Gloucester house next Thursday. We’re picnicking with John Sargent, the artist. Bring Matty. Stefan will be there. You know he likes to see you.’

That summer Julia sat for John Singer Sargent. A blue silk robe and hair undone she sat under an apple tree a bowl of strawberries in her lap and Matty playing with a puppy. Those sessions were peaceful and Mr Sargent a kind man. Evelyn’s house in London was noisy, doorbells chiming, people spilling out of cabs to play cards or forfeits in the salon while a string quartet plays. ‘What is that they are playing?’Julia asked one afternoon.

‘
L’apres midi d’une faune,
’ said Evelyn. ‘It is you. You are the music.’

The painting,
Fawn Surprised
, now hangs in the National Gallery, valued, Julia has been told, in hundreds of guineas. ‘I’ve had many an offer for you,’ said Evelyn, ‘but I won’t sell. I know it’s all I’ll ever have of you.’ Eve Carrington is generous with her time and favours. ‘Take these,’ she’ll heap furs onto Julia’s lap. ‘So much cluttering the closets you would be doing me a favour.’

Julia would protest. ‘I can’t.’

‘Of course you can. It pleases me to give them to you.’

When it came to fees for sitting Julia refused. ‘Mr Sargent doesn’t pay me for sitting so why should you?’

‘With John there’s no question of money,’ said Evie. ‘Your fee is the adulation the portrait brings. Even so you should be recompensed.’ She’d then suggested the Grosvenor Gallery and colleagues who having seen
Faun Surprised
begged a sitting. ‘The fees will buy the things Matty needs.’

‘What kind of work is it? I’ll not remove my clothes.’

‘You might bare your shoulders. They’d settle for that and pay by post so no one need know. You told me once you get an annuity of a hundred pounds a year. How about another hundred to add to it?’

When Owen died Julia reverted to the family name Dryden.

‘Dryden is a good name,’ said Evie. ‘Shared with a poet what could be nicer.’

It is a good name and taken to avoid creditors who until they came knocking she didn’t know existed. So much was owed, even the telescope! The day she was about to hand it over Freddie appeared. ‘I say there, fellow, step back from the door!’ Who will ever know the true nature of the Honourable Frederick Erasmus Carrington, he of the canary yellow waistcoat and affected manners, a man with so little care of life he came to Cambridge in his late twenties, and who, he says, has no purpose in life other than pleasure.

That morning his eyes glinted steel. ‘Go stay with Evie. Leave this with me.’

It was suggested then that they quit Cambridge. ‘Your life is here with us,’ said Evie. ‘No need to return to that hovel. ’ There was a need, a need that couldn’t be explained other than to say the house in Russell Square was troubled. It troubled Stefan Adelmann. ‘Lady Carrington is a charming lady but an hour among the peacocks and parakeets and it is me in need of a doctor.’

That was said the morning Julia received the letter from August Simpkin telling of the bequest. She’d passed the letter to Stefan who read it and passed it back. ‘Fortuitous wouldn’t you say, Mrs Dryden?’

She’d nodded. ‘Indeed I would.’

*

Maggie Jeffers has been cleaning fire grates. ‘It’s late. You should go now.’ Julia lit the gas mantle. ‘Your family will be anxious.’

‘No, they won’t. They don’t care for me. It’s my earnings they like.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true. Your money is on the table.’

Maggie slid the pennies into her pocket. ‘I could work here.’

‘You are employed by Mrs Roberts.’

‘The Missis has plenty maids. I could do your hair and tidy your clothes.’

‘Thank you, I have a maid arriving tomorrow.’

‘What about the kitchen? Your maid won’t want to do fire-grates. ’

‘I’ll think about it.’ Julia closed the door knowing she may well have walked into a trap. But then if Mrs Mac is to stay it’s likely they will need a kitchen maid. Maud McLaughlin is Evelyn’s suggestion. ‘You must have a maid. You can’t be alone in that barren place.’

‘It’s not barren. It’s a little worn but other than that comfortable.’

‘Even so you need help. Mrs Mac will be with you on Thursday, bag packed and sleeves rolled.’ Evie is in her middle years. An elfin figure with blue eyes and bubble of golden curls she might have modelled the cherub in Nan’s breakfast parlour. Slight of build and yet forged of such will the combined strength of Samson and Hercules couldn’t bend her to their want. ‘Do take Mrs Mac!’ she’d said. ‘She’s a good woman and thankfully a little too withered about the neck to attract trouble.’

Having met Mrs McLaughlin, a grey lady with grey moods, a spinster, the Mrs a courtesy title, Julia would’ve preferred to choose her own but who can withstand Evie. ‘You ought not to put up with my sister,’ said Freddie the last time they lunched at the London House. ‘She’s an awful manager.’

‘She is very generous.’

‘No, not generous, Ju-ju, managing! She plays with people. She arranges their lives like a bloomin’ chequer board, this move one day and that the next.’

‘She has a great heart,’

‘She has a great appetite for interferin’ in a fellow’s life.’

‘She interferes with yours?’

Lashes drooping he leaned against the chaise. ‘Everybody interferes with my life. It’s the fashion of the day along with high-buttoned boots and those beastly cloth caps. I hear ‘em snippin’ and snatterin’, ‘let’s see what we can do to set poor Freddie on the right path.’’

‘Are you on a wrong path?’

The question that day ignited a fire in Freddie’s eyes. He’d grabbed her hand. ‘I could walk the right road with you.’

‘Freddie!’

‘No listen. If you were with me I would walk the straightest, cleanest, sharpest road there is. I need help. I can’t keep turnin’ temptation away. There’s only so much darkness a soul can deflect before the glass cracks.’

She’d eased her hand away. ‘I must be going. Matty is restless.’

‘Yes,’ he’d shrugged, ‘off you go to Cambridge and the Doleful Don.’

Doleful Don? It’s not the first time Julia has heard Owen described so. She understood the expression, a look his eyes, wrong place at the wrong time.

Dear Owen, Julia never understood him and until the last day did think he didn’t understand her, but then words and memories pieced together over time and she realises her husband knew her very well.

The day he left he took her hand, not grabbing as did Freddie his nails digging her flesh, gently and humbly. ‘Tomorrow I join the expedition and though I know what I do has little meaning to you I want to say how grateful I am for the opportunity. I wasn’t born into wealth like your London friends and therefore all my life have had to cut my coat according to my cloth. It is my dream to be present at the opening of a great tomb, to stare through the dust of today into the morning of yesterday. Who knows, dear wife, this may turn out to be the day when I find my shabby coat is lined with velvet.’

A new bed and no Matty to snuggle and be warm Julia slept only fitfully. She was woken around midnight by a noise under the window. Fearful, she crept from the bed and peered down. Once again she looked down at Luke Roberts.

She went to open the window but finger pressed to his lips he shook his head. A moment later she saw why, a shadowy figure creeping over the wall. The finger remained pressed against the lips and the eyes warning silence. Then Luke sprang forward and cuffed the man, slapping him down to the ground. ‘Did I not tell you, Nate Sherwood, to stay away?’

There was another slap and a shake of a collar. ‘Get going!’

A boot was planted on a backside and a man went sprawling.

‘This is your last chance. If you’re seen anywhere near this house, you or any of your cronies,’ Luke hissed,’ I swear to God you’ll not walk again. ’

The shape crawled away on his belly and then slithered over the wall into darkness. A moment of silence and then a bird in a hedgerow squawked.

It was the beginning of another day.

Trembling Julia looked down. Luke was looking up. For a long time he held her gaze. Then he nodded. ‘Go in,’ he said.

And again she did.

Julia opened the window and tossed the breadcrumbs.

‘Birds!’ Matty charged by clapping his hands and the sparrows scattered.

‘Don’t do that, Matthew! You’re scaring them!’

Scowling, he returned and stood kicking the door post.

‘And don’t kick the door! Doctor Adelmann comes tomorrow. He will want to talk to you so be a good boy and tidy your room.’

Pulling faces and making ugly sounds he stomped back up the stairs.

Julia closed the window. Maud McLaughlin hovered at her shoulder. ‘I am sorry, Mrs McLaughlin,’ said Julia exasperated. ‘If you’re unhappy it’s best you seek another position. I’m sure Lady Carrington would welcome your return.’

‘Oh no, madam, I couldn’t go back! I was never comfortable there.’

‘I suppose I could suggest you to Mrs Roberts for work.’

‘A public house, madam?’

‘I think you’ll find the Lord Nelson is quite a bit more than that.’

‘I dare say but I still couldn’t work there, not where strong liquor is sold. I’m Temperance. It would be against my principles.’

‘Then I don’t know what to suggest. Not familiar with Bakers End I don’t know the employment situation. It’s best you ask Maggie.’

Mrs McLaughlin shuddered. ‘I couldn’t ask her. She’s the problem. I’ve nothing against working here. I like it. I like my room and the way you treat me kindly. I like that you give us food off your table and not the leavings. I like that I’ve time to myself. I’d be happy here but for Maggie and her ways.’

‘What way in particular?’

‘She’s slovenly, madam! She doesn’t wash as she should, she won’t listen when I bid her, and she will sit with me of an evening.’

‘Why should she not sit with you?’

‘Not in my sitting room!’

‘But is it your sitting room? I thought it for everyone, for you, for Mrs Cross, the daily cook, should she need it, and for Maggie.’

‘I shouldn’t have to share. I never shared in Russell Square.’

‘Perhaps not but I understood you to say life there was less than agreeable.’

‘It was anything but. I spent all my time keeping out the way. You don’t know who’s who in that house, especially when they have them costume parties. Dodging in-and-out of folk’s bedrooms! There was no privacy for anyone, and I’m talking below stairs as well as above.’

‘Mrs McLaughlin! Lady Carrington is a friend of mine. Please stick to the subject at hand. You have your own room. Maggie has hers. Surely you can share a sitting room.’

‘I like the sitting room, madam. It looks out on the parkland. I wouldn’t want not to sit there. I have my bird in there, Joey, my cockatiel.’

Julia had sympathy for the woman. She may as Evelyn said complain but she is decent and Maggie is not the cleanest of beings. ‘I’ll have a word.’

Julia made for the yard. Matty difficult, the help bickering, the front parlour in a mess and plants stolen, life was less of a problem in Cambridge.

Joseph Carmody, the gardener from the village, was already at the wall.

‘Marguerites!’ She knelt to look. ‘Why would he take those?’

‘It’s vindictive is what it is!’ spat Joseph.

‘You think so?’

‘I do! It’s not about plants. You’ve upset somebody, ma’m, and all this is meant to make you feel bad. I tell you, I catch him messing with them Persian roses I put along the back wall and I’ll skin him alive.’

‘Trouble again, Joe,’ Luke Roberts joined them.

‘Looks like it.’

‘Good morning, Luke.’

‘Morning, ma’m.’ Luke knelt alongside. ‘What’s he taken this time?’

‘Marguerites. Joseph thinks it is a person with a grudge.’

‘Well that’s plain enough.’

‘You think so too!’

‘I do, though I doubt it’s a real grudge. He goes round the edge without damaging anything else. If it were real malice he wouldn’t care.’

‘Then why do it?’

‘Maybe he thinks it a joke, a foolish thing not really hurting anyone.’

‘He’s hurting me.’

‘Is he?’ Luke turned to stare. ‘Aye, maybe he is.’

Tears in her eyes Julia hurried away. Six weeks she’s been here and though Luke Roberts often here, at the moment papering the parlour, the new paper finally arrived, it’s the first time she’s heard caring in his voice. The man is as tough and sharp as blackthorn and to be avoided wherever possible, his work, however, is excellent. As Nan suggested he is clever, his use of space to accommodate twists and turns of the cottage and still maintain the rustic charm is exceptional. An example is the top floor bathroom. Where there was a closet there’s now a bath, a wash-pedestal, and WC that flushes. Friday morning she was trapped in the linen cupboard trying not to laugh as on the landing Albert extolled the virtues of the Whispering Falls water-closet to Joe Carmody: ‘
You must get one put in, Joe.
We have ‘em in the Nelson. You wouldn’t catch me going back to china piss-pots; too cold on your arse in t’middle of night
.’ Julia had scurried away to the herb beds to giggle unseen. That was when she saw plants had been taken and laughter ceased.

‘Do you think I should tell the constable about this?’

‘You could though it seems a heck of a fuss over a clump of daisies.’

Luke Roberts was behind her. ‘Sorry, I thought you were Joseph.’

‘No, it’s only me, the big bad wolf, miserable as ever.’

Julia ignored that. ‘You don’t think it was that Sherwood person?’

‘No. A rogue like Sherwood is more like to steal the breath from your lungs than a plant from the soil.’

’He is a rogue then?’

Luke nodded. ‘He is, and with a nasty streak where women are concerned. He’s been up before the Beak more than once.’

‘Then thank you for scaring him away.’

‘I did nothing. I merely let him know how it stands.’

‘You had our welfare at heart and I was less than grateful.’ She offered her hand. ‘Might we shake hands, Luke Roberts, and be better friends?’

‘Friends?’ Brow furrowed he questioned the word. Then polishing his hand on his shirt he took her hand. ‘Aye, we’ll be friends, Julianna Dryden,’ he said, his clasp strong and accent even stronger. ‘It’s better than nowt.’

The following day Julia walked to the Nelson to tell Nan of the proposed visit to London. By the time she arrived she was soaked, the heavens opened.

‘You must get a conveyance, Anna,’ said Nan. ‘You can’t keep splashing through mud. It isn’t seemly. Why didn’t you get a cab?’

Julia scraped her boots. She had money for the running of the cottage, for Maggie and Mrs Mac, for repairs, but not to waste on cabs.

Nan nodded. ‘Bit strapped for cash are you?’

‘A little. I had to tell Mrs Cross I won’t need her while I’m in London.’

‘She was lucky to have you at all. From what I’ve heard she is a plain cook and you a generous employer. Room and board and an afternoon off a week for them other two, my stars, there aren’t many doing that hereabouts.’

‘You don’t approve.’

‘You must run your own house according to your likes. Just make sure you’re not making a rod for your own back, especially with Maggie Jeffers.’

‘She and Mrs Mac don’t get along.’

‘They’re pushing for elbow-room seeing who can control the soft young widow-woman. You must keep your people in check, Anna! Too much leeway and they run amuck.’

*

Julia wrote Evie of the domestic feud. She said much the same as Nan. ‘
Let them go if they’re not doing right. As for the maid being none too clean it’s the same with all dumb beasts, you can lead them to water but can’t make them wash. I suggest a little reverse psychology. Praise your Maggie. Make her think cleanliness is next to godliness. I’ll pop a parcel over, a couple of bits for you, my dear, if you’d deign to wear them, and bits for Mrs Mac and your maid
.’

A parcel arrived the following day, an apricot velvet jacket for Julia, a new ink-carrying pen for Mrs Mac, and dresses for Maggie. The note was in Evie’s spidery hand: ‘
The dresses were for my maid Bella but she is preggers with a village lad! I hope your Mucky Maggie is a more of a Plain Jane. Breaking in new maids is such a bore
.’

Julia rang for Maggie. ‘These dresses are for your afternoon duties. You may use the Holland aprons for mornings.’ Navy-blue with pin-tucks, and aprons like sugar frosting, and caps with frills, Maggie was dazzled. ‘I’ve never had anythin’ so lovely.’ Julia passed them over. ‘Take them and be clean and mindful of Mrs McLaughlin, who is older than you, and wiser, and who I would
not
be without.’ The hint taken Maggie scuttled away. When Julia returned to the sitting room Stefan Adelmann, here visiting, was smiling.

‘You are amused, Doctor Adelmann.’

‘I am thinking the successful maintaining of a modern household requires the strength of Hercules and the diplomacy of Mr Gladstone.’

‘As I am everyday learning, although in the battle of Maggie versus Maud I believe even Mr Gladstone would quail.’ She sat on the chaise. ‘Please do sit and tell what you think of Matty.’

Bulk squashed into a chair Stefan Adelman sat. ‘He is a dear young soul.’

‘Isn’t he?’ said Julia feelingly. ‘He has his moments yet at heart is a good boy.’

‘I’m sure he had a good Papa. I’m told students at the University enjoyed his classes. They thought him a dry stick with a ready wit.’

Julia grimaced. ‘Did they indeed?’

‘It is not a good remark?’

‘It has a touch of irony.’

‘Ah, so I misunderstood. My English is not so good. I mistake the sardonic nuance of British humour for a statement of fact.’

‘English humour is not easy to understand. Basically we mock the things we like, though I must say I wasn’t aware of Owen’s wit.’

‘A wife cannot know all of a man. He has another life that is not home.’

‘Don’t we all, Stefan.’

‘Ah-hah!’ Stefan clapped his hands. ‘At last my Christian name! Does this mean I may now refer to you as Julianna?’

‘If you so wish.’

‘Thank you, Julianna.’ He folded his arms, ‘and so to Matthew. His health gains from being here but his impediment continues.’

‘I know.’ Julia sighed. ‘I don’t know what to do. It’s not always so obvious. There are times coming out of sleep when it’s not so noticeable.’

‘That would indicate an unwillingness to talk, a desire for silence. But then I am a heart man. Blood, valves and veins are my world, children and their psychoses quite another.’

‘But why? I am his mother the one person he can talk to.’

‘Or the one person he cannot. A child’s greatest fear is for his mother. He fears her death and so keeps his own pain close. It might be Matty does the same. Having lost his Papa he may be afraid to lose you.’

After Stefan left Julia was unable to settle. Matty alone in the world is her greatest fear. Owen’s death was unexpected. Though slight of build he was rarely unwell. When he left for Cairo no one doubted his return. Even now Julia’s ear is tuned to a key in the lock and his call, ‘my dear, it is I.’ News of the accident came via the British Embassy. The Chancellor came to call, he said the house was hers for another month but after that she must make way for another tutor and his wife. When Father died there was a similar message, move or be moved, the difference this time there’s no mention of marriage.

Actually that’s not true; that last month in Cambridge she was in receipt of several proposals one of which was for marriage. ‘You can marry me,’ Freddie had said. ‘Other than pride what’s to stop you?’

‘It’s not a question of pride, ‘Julia had retorted. ‘It’s about respect.’

‘Respect for whom?’

‘For Owen and for me and my son!’

‘I do respect you and given the opportunity I would adore your son.’

‘Freddie, this is wrong. You ought not to talk this way.’

‘I dare not do otherwise. It’s time and opportunity.’

‘But why now? Do you think it right and proper to declare your feelings with my husband not cold in his grave?’

‘Owen Passmore is where he has always wanted to be alongside his beloved Pharaohs. The sun will shine on his bones forever and a day. Neither he nor his grave shall ever be cold again. The same cannot be said of me, Julianna, or my grave should you not save me.’

With Owen’s death Freddie began a crusade. Day after day he would offer marriage. There were other proposals. Bearded professors and pale-faced lecturers would arrive at her door after dark. They would doff their hats. ‘I was passing and thought to offer condolences and any help I might give you and your son.’ Dusty-gowned conjurors they waved calling cards under her nose. ‘Take a card, Julianna, any card! Choose and let it be our secret.’ She refused them all but not because she is a respectable widow offended by importunate suggestions, she refused because according to them she has no heart and doesn’t understand their needs. She understood.

Matty had a nightmare last night. He dreamt of Mister Punch.

One summer the Punch and Judy man came to Cambridge, a gaudy striped tent set up in a field. ‘Let’s go and see the puppets,’ said Owen.

Such a mistake! Matty returned screaming. ‘No, Mister Punch!’ Since then if he has a nightmare it is hook-nosed Punch that is the bugaboo. Last night Julia heard him crying. ‘Mumma, Mister Punch is here!’ Newly painted the door to his bedroom stuck and wouldn’t open. Matty was screaming and then all of a sudden stopped. That silence worse than any shriek she’d pushed on the door. It opened. He was sitting up in bed. ‘It’s alright,’ she’d hugged him. ‘Mister Punch can’t hurt you.’ He snuggled down in her arms. ‘Mister Punch gone.’

This morning she told him Punch was a puppet and couldn’t hurt him. Matty was serene. ‘Punch gone.’ That’s all he would say. To the Wolf he said more.

They passed on the stairs. ‘Mister Punch came to your lad then last night?’

’Yes,’ said Julia, ‘it gave him a nightmare.’

‘Well he won’t be having another, leastways not with Mister Punch. The nasty brute was eaten up by a crocodile.’

‘A crocodile?’

‘Matty said the Seed Lady brought in a basket.’

‘And did the Seed Lady leave a name and address so we might thank her?’