There had been a half-sister for Freda from her father’s first marriage—a resentful daughter called Cissy, already in her teens when Gladys ensnared her father. It wasn’t too long before Cissy went to France to nurse in the war and she never returned to their house. “Glad to see the back of her,” Gladys said. Cissy was married now with several children and lived on the other side of town. Cissy had “ideas above her station,” according to Gladys. Freda thought that seemed like a good thing—how else did you elevate yourself out of a lowly little life?
Freda had overheard Cissy telling Gladys that Freda was “a show-off brat.” She had been wounded by her sister’s judgement on her character. I am not a brat, merely unusually confident, she thought, observing herself practising port de bras in the narrow cheval mirror in her bedroom. She could also see the reflection of her dressing table, on which were proudly displayed her many little trophies won in dance competitions. Swimming, too—she always won the breaststroke in the Rowntree’s swimming competitions in Yearsley pool. She took pride in her achievements, particularly as no one else seemed to—apart from Florence, who was always to be found on any sideline, cheering her on.
* * *
—
“Move in with us?” Cissy said doubtfully. “Well, you know, Freda, our house isn’t exactly roomy—it’s just three bedrooms and there’s six of us living here already.” Freda’s sister’s home was a new semi-detached house in Acomb. It seemed plenty roomy enough to Freda.
Freda perched on the edge of a chair at the kitchen table, ankles politely crossed, back straight. She was minding her manners and working hard to keep a smile on her face and not appear as a “show-off brat” （the remark still stung）。 Freda was playing a desperate part—that of the charming younger sister.
“I could help you with the children. As payment, you know.” Freda couldn’t even remember all of Cissy’s children’s names. The first one was Barbara, she was fairly sure of that. Barbara was currently at school. Two more—twins—were playing on the linoleum of the kitchen with wooden bricks. If they had been kittens she would have adored them, but sadly they bore no resemblance to kittens.
“I am their aunt, after all,” Freda said, smiling benevolently at the twins in an effort to be aunt-like, although, in truth, she didn’t think she had ever come across an aunt. “And I can bed down anywhere. On the settee in the lounge, for example?” She cocked her head to one side, attempting winsomeness.
Cissy had been performing an awkward little ballet, pouring boiling water from the heavy kettle onto the tea leaves in the pot while holding the struggling baby on one hip. （“Bobby,” Cissy reminded Freda.） Both tea and baby seemed to be in peril.
“Can you take him?” Cissy asked. A reluctant Freda held out her arms to an equally reluctant Bobby, who made a great show of refusing the invitation. What a fusspot! Freda took a firm hold of him and after a quick tug-of-war secured his release from his mother.
“I’d be like a lodger,” Freda said, jiggling a mewling, fidgeting Bobby around. She thought of Dorothy, the doll that Vanda carried for the Knits. Much easier. Freda wondered where Dorothy was now, and, perhaps more pertinently, how Vanda was coping with motherhood. Grantham. If she knew where that was Freda would consider going there right now and throwing herself on Vanda’s soft, rabbit-furred mercy, baby or no baby.
“Just for a bit, Cissy,” Freda had persisted, “while I work out what to do.” She could hear the pleading note in her voice. She hated herself for it.
“I don’t really need help,” Cissy said placidly. She was one of those women, Freda thought, who took to motherhood like sainthood. How different from her own mother.
“And even if you stayed here for a bit…” Cissy seemed to be puzzling as to whether there was a cupboard or trunk somewhere that she could stuff Freda into, like a doll being put in a box or a suitcase, Freda thought. She felt an unexpected kinship with Dorothy.
She watched Cissy hefting the kettle back onto the hob and thought, The same blood runs in both our veins, isn’t that supposed to count for something? Was it too late to start being a family? Freda felt suddenly and unaccustomedly feeble.
“Well, let’s have tea, just now,” Cissy said. “You can put Bobby down.”
A grateful Freda abandoned Bobby on the rug, where he lay on his back, waving his arms and legs around like a struggling beetle while Cissy poured the tea and laid out scones. Gladys never baked. Mr. Birdwhistle kept her in constant provision of cakes, which Freda refused to eat on principle. The thought of Mr. Birdwhistle and his specialities made her wince. Of course, Freda knew that she could tell Cissy about Mr. Birdwhistle’s lewd approaches, but she was used to being blamed for the bad behaviour of others and suspected it would be no different in the case of the octopus’s wandering tentacles.