Magnolia Square (37 page)

Malcolm knew exactly what it was she had been about to say. He dug his clenched hands even deeper into his pockets. ‘Epileptics aren’t freaks, Pru,’ he said, keeping control
over his voice with difficulty. ‘They’re not sub-normal. They don’t dribble at the mouth. They don’t look peculiar.’

The colour in her cheeks deepened. Had it been so obvious what she had thought? And how must Malcolm now be feeling, having read her mind so clearly?

‘I’m sorry,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Only it never occurred to me . . . I mean, you look so
fit
. . . I always thought you hadn’t served in the services because
. . . because. . .’

‘Because I was a conscientious objector?’ he said, finishing her sentence for her once again, knowing that his church work had led more than her to come to the same puzzled
conclusion.

She shook her head. ‘No. I thought . . . Miriam Jennings once said . . .’ Despite the awfulness of him suffering from something which caused him so much misery, Pru couldn’t
help seeing the farcical side of the situation. ‘We thought you were an intelligence officer,’ she said, something very like laughter bubbling up in her throat.

Malcolm stared at her in incredulity. ‘An
intelligence
officer? What in God’s name would an intelligence officer have been doing in Blackheath and Lewisham for the duration of
the war?’ Over and above his incredulity was a relief so vast he felt as if it were swamping him. Pru wouldn’t be seeing the funny side of the situation if his confession had frightened
or disgusted her. She was going to take his epilepsy in her stride, just as she took everything else in her stride. And it wasn’t as if he suffered
grand mal
attacks. He never lost
consciousness. He never suffered anything more than sick, disorientating giddyness. The Army medical board’s fear had been, of course, that the nature of his attacks would change. That his
petit mal,
usually only suffered by children, would develop into
grand mal,
and that he would suffer a disabling attack without warning. Well, he had never done so, and even if he
did
do so, Pru would regard him no differently than she regarded him now.

‘Pru?’ He took his hands out of his pockets, wondering why the hell he was suddenly so nervous. He was twenty-eight years old. He’d kissed girls before. But not a girl he now
knew beyond any shadow of doubt he was in love with; a girl he would love for the rest of his life; a girl he intended making his wife. ‘Pru? Would you mind if I kissed you?’ he asked
hoarsely and then, without waiting for her reply, he drew her gently into the circle of his arms and in the gas-lamp’s golden glow, lowered his head to hers.

‘What a lovely little bungalow,’ Cecily Lewis was saying as she sat in state on a rather shabby sofa in Doris’s sister’s front room. ‘I’ve
always been partial to bungalows. You would have thought that Frank, being a flat-earther, would have been partial to them, too, but I could never get him to move into one. Our house was always too
big for us, and now there’s only me and Malcolm rattling around in it, it seems vast.’

Doris sat on the edge of an easy chair in an agony of nervousness. Why had this intimidating woman called on her? Had Pru got into trouble? Why hadn’t Pru warned her Mrs Lewis was going to
descend on her? What was she supposed to say to her? She’d never had the knack of conversation, never been able to chat blithely about anyone and anything as Leah and Miriam and Hettie and
Nellie did. And if she couldn’t chat to the likes of Leah and Miriam and Hettie and Nellie, how was she supposed to chat to a woman whose white silk blouse and navy blue suit, worn with
matching leather handbag and shoes, made her look like a lady mayoress?

Cecily Lewis, well aware of Doris’s discomfiture, smiled disarmingly. ‘I’m so pleased about Malcolm’s friendship with Prudence,’ she said sincerely.
‘She’s such a lovely girl. So bright and cheerful and thoughtful.’

Doris’s teaspoon clattered in her saucer. Pru’s friendship with Malcolm Lewis? What sort of friendship? Whatever sort it was, Wilfred wouldn’t like it. If the Emmersons
weren’t keeping a close enough eye on Pru perhaps it was time she returned home to Magnolia Square. But if she returned home to Magnolia Square she would have to live with Wilfred again, and
she didn’t want to live with Wilfred again.

‘Of course, I do appreciate how young Prudence is and that you are probably concerned about Malcolm’s intentions,’ Cecily continued, attempting to put Doris in the picture as
painlessly as possible, ‘but he has assured me they are scrupulously honourable.’

Malcolm hadn’t, in fact, used the word ‘honourable’. What he had said was that he wanted to marry Pru and that he intended giving her an engagement ring on her birthday, which
was Christmas Day.

‘We’re going to have to wait until she’s twenty-one before we can get married, as her father certainly won’t give his permission,’ he had said pragmatically,
‘but it will give me time to add to my savings. I’d like to buy a house in Magnolia Square. And it will give Pru time to get a bottom drawer together.’

‘And she knows about . . . about your medical condition?’ she had asked, avoiding the ugly word as she always avoided it.

‘She knows I suffer from a mild form of epilepsy,’ he had said cheerfully, ‘and she knows my being an epileptic doesn’t mean I’m mentally retarded.’

‘But is the . . . is your medical condition the reason her father won’t give permission for an earlier wedding?’ she had asked unhappily.

He had shaken his head. ‘It’s because Wilfred Sharkey is mad as a hatter,’ he had said, as if madness was of no consequence whatsoever. ‘He Bible-bashes down at Lewisham
clock-tower. All hell and harlots. He’s as likely to give Pru permission to marry under-age as fly to the moon.’

While she had been coming to terms with this little gem of information, he had added, ‘I thought you could help out where the problem of Wilfred is concerned. Pru’s mother is
mortified by what she sees as the shame of having a barmy husband. I thought if you told her about how you had coped when Father was at his worst it would help her see she’s no need to feel
ashamed. I also thought the two of you might get on rather well. It would be nice if you did. Especially as this house is so big and you’ll soon be all alone in it, and neither I nor Pru want
Doris returning to number two to live.’

‘You mean you want me to invite Prudence’s mother to come and live with me?’ she had asked, in a daze.

‘Why not?’ He had shot her a cheeky grin, a grin that had been melting her heart and ensuring he got his own way with her ever since he had been a toddler. ‘Think how
convenient it will be for me and Pru, having only one visit to make when the children want to see their grannies!’

She said now to the fraughtly anxious woman sitting opposite her, ‘I do hope we can become friends, Mrs Sharkey. We have so much in common.’

‘We do?’ There was incredulity in Doris’s voice. How could she and this frighteningly self-assured, impeccably dressed woman have anything in common?

‘Why, yes.’ Cecily set her cup and saucer to one side and settled in for a confidence-sharing, friendship-forming chat. ‘Our husbands, for one thing. My dearly loved late
husband was
extremely
eccentric. He believed the earth was flat, and felt it his duty to proclaim his belief to all and sundry.’

Doris stared at her. Was this amazing woman saying to her what she thought she was saying to her? ‘Even in the street?’ she asked, leaning further forward on the edge of her
seat.

‘Even in the street,’ Cecily affirmed. ‘It was highly embarrassing at times, especially as he was a Justice of the Peace.’

Doris’s jaw dropped open. A Justice of the Peace! And barmy! And she’d thought Wilfred was bad!

‘I soon learned to take it in my stride, though,’ Cecily continued amiably. ‘I told people, “I may be married to Frank, but I’m not joined to him at the hip. What
he believes and does is his own affair. It’s no reflection on me.”’

Doris continued to gape. Was it really as easy as that to deal with gossip-mongers and sniggerers? Even more amazing, this smartly dressed woman apparently knew of Wilfred’s cracked
behaviour and yet still wanted to be friends with her! Not since she had been young and single had she had a friend, and she had
never
had a friend so wonderfully self-assured and
capable.

‘Would you stay for another cup of tea?’ she asked, hope and excitement beginning to burgeon deep in her tummy. ‘And will you have a biscuit with it this time? They’re
home-made. Home-made biscuits are always much nicer, aren’t they?’

‘I wouldn’t mind the recipe for these biscuits, Emily,’ Leah said as she enjoyed her elevenses in Emily and Esther’s cosy kitchen.

Emily’s wrinkled face flushed with pride. Leah was Magnolia Square’s acknowledged queen as far as baking was concerned, and to be asked for a recipe by Leah was praise indeed.
‘It’s six ounces of self-raising flour to two ounces of porridge oats, three ounces of sugar and four ounces of margarine that’s been melted with a tablespoon and half of Tate
& Lyle’s golden syrup,’ she said, knowing that she needn’t write it down, that as it was a recipe Leah would remember it for life after only one hearing. ‘The last thing
to add is a half teaspoon of bicarb of soda that’s been scalded in a teaspoon of hot water.’

‘Well, that’s simple enough,’ Leah said, determining to make some that afternoon if her cache of sugar would run to it. ‘What are you doing for Christmas? Are you and
Esther going to spend it with Nellie?’

‘With Nellie
and
Harold
and
Anna,’ Esther said from her wheelchair. ‘It will be Harold’s first Christmas at home in six years. Nellie’s expecting him
any day now. He’s sailing from Colombo, in Ceylon, aboard the
Empire Pride.
And perhaps Jack will be home for Christmas as well,’ she added hopefully. ‘Do you know if
Christina’s heard anything?’

‘If she has, she’s keeping it very close to her chest,’ Leah said darkly. ‘No-one gets anything out of her these days, not even me.’

Emily laid down her knitting. ‘It can’t be easy for her at the moment,’ she said gently, ‘not with the papers all full of what is happening at Nuremberg. The evidence
being given at those trials is terrible, truly terrible.’

They were silent for a moment, thinking of the monsters standing trial at Nuremberg for crimes against humanity. Goering and Hess and Ribbentrop and Fritz Sauckel, the slave labour overlord, and
a score of others.

At last Leah said emotionally, ‘Christina thinks her mother and grandmother could be still alive. That’s why she’s so quiet and strange these days. We’ve all told her
it’s impossible, but she won’t listen to us. She just keeps saying they could be alive and that if they are, she’s going to find them.’

Emily and Esther stared at her aghast, and then Emily said slowly, ‘Her grandmother was your childhood friend, wasn’t she, Leah? Do you have anything that belonged to her? Anything
she had worn?’

Leah’s eyes widened. ‘Moshambo?’ she asked. ‘Are you thinking your Moshambo might be able to contact them?’

‘I’m thinking it’s about time I tried to help dear Christina in the only way I know,’ Emily said, much on her dignity as she always was when her spiritualist skills were
being questioned. ‘Moshambo is wise and all-seeing and has never let me down yet, not even when the people seeking his help have not been true believers in him.’

‘Well, I ain’t a true believer,’ Leah said frankly, ‘but if he settles the question of whether Jacoba and Eva are alive or dead, I will be. Now, what would be of best
use? A necklace of Jacoba’s I once swopped one of mine with her for, or a handkerchief?’

‘The necklace,’ Emily said, her aged face alight at the thought of renewing contact with her indomitable Indian spirit-guide. ‘Moshambo has a natural affinity with
beads.’

‘It’s highly irregular, of course,’ Bob Giles was saying grave-faced to Christina and Carl.

They were in Carl and Ellen’s tiny Greenwich kitchen, Coriolanus sprawled beneath the table they were seated around, Macbeth curled on a Windsor chair which Ellen had made comfy by means
of a tie-on seat cushion, Hector hogging pride of place in front of a well-stoked wood-burning stove.

‘Red Cross officials are not travel couriers,’ Bob continued, his eyes holding Christina’s, ‘but under the circumstances—’

‘The circumstances being your willingness to co-operate with them when a home was needed for Anna?’ Carl interrupted queryingly, wondering just how Bob had managed to pull such
powerful strings.

‘Partly,’ Bob admitted, well aware that if he hadn’t put himself, and the Parish, at the disposal of the Red Cross over the question of housing a displaced person, he would
have had no contacts to approach over the problem of how best to help Christina enter Germany. ‘Miss Marshall, a Red Cross official, leaves for Berlin on the seventh of December,’ he
continued, hoping fervently that neither he nor Carl would live to regret the plans now being made. ‘You’ll be able to travel with her as far as Cologne, Christina. After that you will
be on your own.’