It was clear from some remarks made by Dr. Endicott that her colleagues were nothing if not thorough and that six months was but the blink of an eye in the life of a research project. They would be fortunate indeed to have any results before the end of the year. Jean had not yet broken this news to Mrs. Tilbury, who seemed to be under the impression that enlightenment was only hours away.
“I’ll tell you what,” Jean said. “If you let me pay your usual rate, I’ll accept. But you’ll have to choose the style and fabric. I haven’t got a clue.”
“That’s settled then. You must come round and be measured up, and we’ll choose a pattern together. Something fitted. Not too fussy, I think,” she said, squinting at Jean as though already sizing her up.
“Oh dear,” said Jean, sensing mortification ahead.
“Am I going to have an injection today?” asked Margaret as they crossed the road, almost borne along by the surge of pedestrians.
The smell of diesel exhaust from idling buses was overpowering here on the Strand. Jean could taste the fumes on her tongue.
“I already told her there may be needles involved,” Mrs. Tilbury said.
“No—the opposite of an injection,” Jean replied to Margaret. “An injection is where they put something into you and a blood test is where they take something out. It won’t hurt.”
“I’m not scared,” Margaret insisted. “I didn’t even cry when I trod on a wasp. I haven’t cried since I was seven.”
“What happened when you were seven?” Jean asked, feeling that this was expected.
“I was going to be Mary in the nativity, but I got chicken pox so I had to miss it and I cried.”
“That’s right,” said Gretchen. “I made you a little blue costume and then that other girl had to wear it.”
Margaret’s face clouded for a moment and then just as suddenly brightened. “You bought me my Belinda doll to cheer me up,” she said.
Her emotions were so delightfully close to the surface, Jean thought.
“By the way,” Jean said to Gretchen, this mention of dolls stirring a memory of her own. “I met someone the other day who wanted to be remembered to you. I wonder if you can guess who.”
A flicker of uncertainty passed across Mrs. Tilbury’s face and a faint blush rose to her cheeks. It took no more than a second for her to master herself and say, “No, I can’t. You’ll have to tell me.”
Jean hadn’t intended to mention the visit to Broadstairs at all. It seemed somehow indelicate to remind Mrs. Tilbury that she was still under investigation. But Jean had noticed her momentary loss of composure with interest. She had someone in mind, then.
“Alice Halfyard. From St. Cecilia’s. She sent you her good wishes.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Tilbury gave a laugh and a little shake of her curls.
Was she disappointed or relieved? Jean couldn’t tell; her face was a mask again.
“Matron. I never knew her name was Alice. She doesn’t look a bit like an Alice. She was always just Matron to us.”
“She remembered you very affectionately.”
“Did she? I was a tiny bit afraid of her.”
“Really? She didn’t strike me as very fearsome. She seemed quite . . . motherly.”
“I suppose I was afraid of almost everyone in those days. I was such a timid child. She wasn’t unkind but, you know, she was Matron and she didn’t stand any nonsense. She once scolded me for talking when we were supposed to be having quiet time and after that I was a bit in awe of her.”
“She said you were good friends with another girl called Martha.”
“Oh yes, Martha. I wonder whatever happened to her. And Brenda.”
“You didn’t keep in contact with them when you left?”
“Not really. I always meant to. I did go and see Martha once, at her home in Chatham, but it was a long way and when you are back in the outside world other things come along to take up your time.”
“Margaret, for instance.”
“Yes. Everything changes when you have a baby.”
Hearing her name, Margaret perked up. “Is this the Strand?”
“Yes, darling.”
“If there’s time can we go to Simpson’s for lunch?”
Mrs. Tilbury laughed and squeezed the back of her daughter’s neck. “Of course we can’t. I’ve made you sandwiches and we have to get you back to school.” She turned to Jean. “Last year we came up to London for Margaret’s piano exam, and afterward we went to my husband’s shop and he took us out to Simpson’s for lunch as a special treat. Now Margaret thinks we should go there all the time.”