“Yes, to a nice man called Howard. Not the father of the little girl, of course. Margaret.”
“Margaret. Well, well. I feel guilty for disbelieving her now. But on the other hand, you can’t really go along with all that virgin birth twaddle, can you?”
“I’m keeping an open mind,” said Jean. “Or rather, I’m confident that the scientists will get to the bottom of it. But I’m interested to hear your view of Gretchen.”
“I didn’t mean to give the impression that I thought she was a regular liar. I didn’t at all. But I don’t believe in the supernatural, and she can’t have got pregnant during her time at St. Cecilia’s. We were never alone. You couldn’t even unwrap a toffee without bloody Brenda hearing it.”
“That’s more or less Miss Halfyard’s view. Although she wasn’t so hard on Brenda.”
“Matron,” said Martha, shaking her head at the memory. “She didn’t like me much. We had a few run-ins, as I recall.”
“She sent you her good wishes, actually,” said Jean, hoping to shame Martha into softening her outlook. She had observed before that when people said “so-and-so doesn’t like me,” the dislike was usually in the other direction.
“All these people wishing me well,” exclaimed Martha. “I should be touched.”
Jean recalled Alice’s remark about Martha being “spiky.” Certainly, it was hard to imagine her being good friends with the reserved and decorous Gretchen.
“I suppose you’re not in touch with anyone else from those days?”
Martha snorted. “Hardly.”
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t pass on Gretchen’s good wishes because she doesn’t know I’ve come to see you,” Jean said.
“Will you be in contact with her again?”
“Oh yes. The medical tests are ongoing.”
“I wonder if you’d give her a little gift from me,” Martha said, fetching a folder from a drawer in the workbench.
Inside was a selection of postcard-sized silk-screen prints of birds, fruit and flowers. Bold, graphic and colorful, they were quite different in style from the gray urban landscapes.
Her bandaged hand riffled through the collection for some time, selecting and discarding different possibilities before settling on a print of a bowl of tangerines.
“That’s . . . er . . .” said Jean, remembering just in time the prohibition regarding compliments. “I’m sure Gretchen will be delighted.”
Fortunately, Martha was preoccupied with trying to find an envelope to put it in and didn’t notice or hear. She left the room for a moment, while Jean buttoned her jacket and gathered up her bags. She was wondering whether to replace the florentines on her way home or do without, when Martha returned with a stiff-backed envelope.
“Something for her to remember me by,” she said.
“That’s very kind of you,” said Jean, trying to picture the tangerines on the Tilburys’ wall between the Alpine scene and the embroidered sampler. “I wonder,” she said as an idea struck her. “Do you remember the layout of St. Cecilia’s well enough to draw me a floor plan?”
“Yes—at least the ground floor, where we were. I never made it upstairs.”
Jean handed over her notebook, turned to a fresh page, and watched as Martha, frowning with concentration, sketched a neat diagram with quick, confident strokes and added her signature with an ironic flourish.
“Thank you,” said Jean, smiling her acknowledgment. “Now I must leave you in peace.”
She wondered if it would be quite safe to depart, or whether Dennis might be skulking outside, ready to rush the door as soon as it opened, but all was quiet on Luna Street.
“Well, that was more interesting than I dared to hope,” said Martha as they said goodbye. “You’ve certainly stirred up the past. St. Cecilia’s and my parents—all in one day!”
* * *
Has the stiffening at the back of your house slippers worn down? I have successfully repaired several pairs by sewing a piece of old collar inside. The semi-stiff kind from a man’s shirt is ideal and will prolong the life of your slippers.
* * *
10
There had been some kind of incident at Charing Cross and the station was in confusion. The rush-hour crowds gathered on the concourse, staring at the departure boards, which declined to display any platform numbers, and awaiting an explanation from the PA system, which had fallen mysteriously silent. Queues had formed at the taxi stand outside as people lost patience. Every few minutes a fresh load of travelers disgorged from the subway would join the throng. A rumor was going around that someone had fallen onto the tracks at London Bridge; incoming trains were delayed.