As soon as the two women were alone though, it was Gretchen who brought it up again.
“I’m so glad you went to see Howard,” she said. “He likes you very much, you know, and it’s so good for him to have a woman friend to talk to.”
She was so emphatic in her approval that Jean began to suspect her of meaning quite the reverse. It was funny, too, that Howard had described the benefits of Jean’s influence on Gretchen in much the same terms. She remembered her mother’s jealous remark: “They seem to be making quite a project of you, for some reason.”
17
September 1957
Dear Jean,
I wonder if you would be free to come on a little family outing next Sunday to Howard’s Aunt Edie near Maidstone. We go every year to harvest her apples and cobnuts. She has a wonderful garden for tennis and a picnic and it’s always a lovely day out.
I do hope you can join us.
With good wishes,
Gretchen
The day after this letter arrived saw Jean once again paying court to Mrs. Melsom. She took with her a gift of runner beans and tomatoes from their own vegetable patch, and some plums and red currants, which Gretchen had foisted on her the week before. Mrs. Melsom was out in her front garden, kneeling on a hassock filched from the church to weed the flower beds. At Jean’s approach and in spite of her protestations, she hauled herself up to standing using the garden fork.
“I’ve a little favor to ask,” Jean said as soon as the offering of fruit and vegetables had been accepted. “I’m away for the day next Sunday and wondered if you’d be able to just look in on Mother at some point. She doesn’t seem to take to anyone but you.” She almost blushed at her own shamelessness.
Mrs. Melsom wiped soil-dusted hands on her skirt and leaned on the fork for a moment to recover her breath.
“Of course, dear. I was only saying to Mr. Melsom that we should take her out for a drive in the Riley one day.”
“Well, that would be wonderful. She had such a lovely time at the strawberry tea.”
This was not too violent a distortion of the truth. Mrs. Swinney had not been nearly as critical of the event as Jean had feared, declaring it, “Bearable, I suppose.”
“Did she? I’m so glad. I wasn’t sure. I thought it might have been a bit noisy for her, but she seemed to enjoy the strawberries.”
“Oh yes, there’s nothing wrong with her appetite,” said Jean, wondering if Mrs. Melsom was hinting at a degree of overindulgence. Although keenly alert to her mother’s faults, it still pained Jean to think others might notice and judge them.
It was left with Mrs. Melsom to discuss with her husband the possibility of a drive out into the countryside on Sunday. Jean went home with her usual unsettling combination of a light heart and a heavy conscience, made heavier by her dawning awareness that the impetus behind these plans and schemes was, above all else, the thought of seeing Howard.
On the appointed morning, Jean’s mother, having been briefed and coached into a positive frame of mind for most of the previous evening, woke after a poor night’s sleep and seemed about to cry off the outing. It took all of Jean’s patience and encouragement to cajole her into compliance, until at last she was dressed and brushed and painted and loaded into the Riley, as though into a tumbrel for her final journey.
When Jean arrived at the Tilburys’， Howard was on the driveway, pumping up one of the tires on the Wolseley, while in the kitchen Gretchen packed a picnic basket with enough food for ten hungry men. Veal and ham pie, chicken, chopped-egg sandwiches, the infamous spitzbuben, split scones, Aunt Edie’s favorite zopf bread—a Swiss plaited loaf that was one of Gretchen’s specialities—and tomatoes and plums from the garden.
She was wearing one of her own creations—a cotton lawn sundress with a gathered skirt in a bold poppy print. Jean, who had inferred from the invitation that manual labour and tree climbing would be required, was dressed in twill trousers, a short-sleeved shirt and gym shoes.
“I feel a bit of a mess,” she said. “I thought I’d be shinnying up tree trunks.”
“Oh, I always leave that to Howard and Margaret,” said Gretchen. “But you look fine. Aunt Edie’s very informal.”
Margaret wandered in, clutching two tennis rackets and looking whey-faced and queasy; quite unlike her ebullient self. She watched her mother’s preparations for a minute or two without enthusiasm.
“I can’t find any tennis balls and I’ve got a tummy ache,” she said.