“The balls are in the cupboard under the stairs,” said Gretchen. “I saw them there the other day. Are you all right?” she added, taking in her daughter’s wan expression. “You’re very pale.”
Margaret responded to this inquiry by dropping the tennis rackets and bolting from the room with a hand over her mouth. The sound of pounding feet on the stairs was followed moments later by distant retching.
The two women exchanged looks of alarm and Gretchen hurried to investigate, leaving Jean standing in the kitchen feeling upset. The outing would surely not go ahead now, postponed for another day, requiring another favor from Mrs. Melsom, pushing Jean’s level of indebtedness even further into the red.
Howard came in from the driveway holding out hands smudged with grease.
“All set,” he said. “Tires pumped. Oil and water topped up. Tool kit in the trunk. How are things coming along in the catering division?”
“There’s been a setback,” said Jean. “I think Margaret’s been sick. She said she was feeling poorly and then rushed upstairs.”
“She didn’t eat her breakfast this morning,” said Howard. “I thought that was odd. Poor old Maggie.”
Gretchen rejoined them, looking harassed. “Well, she’s not going anywhere,” she said.
“Poor thing,” said Jean, trying to master her own disappointment at the cancellation of the trip, in the face of Margaret’s greater misfortune. “Is she all right?”
“An upset tummy, I think. I’ve put her to bed. What a pity—it’s such a lovely day, too.”
“I’d better run down to the phone booth and see if I can get hold of Aunt Edie,” said Howard. “Postpone for another day.”
“Oh, you can’t let her down at the last minute,” Gretchen protested. “She’ll have been to all sorts of trouble. And the apples have got to be picked. You two go—I’ll stay here with Margaret.”
“But that’s such a shame for you, Gretchen,” said Jean. “Why don’t I stay with Margaret?”
She felt she knew the little girl quite well enough by now to make this offer. Since the trip to Simpson’s they had had two subsequent outings—once to the swimming baths at Beckenham, where Jean had shown a commendable willingness to get her hair wet, and once to the Swinneys’ house, where they had made cinder toffee. Both events had passed off successfully and even Jean’s mother, initially suspicious of any new acquaintances, had conceded that Margaret was a “dear little thing.”
“Oh no. I wouldn’t leave her when she’s unwell. You two must go. The picnic’s all made and Aunt Edie will be so disappointed if no one turns up.” She looked from Jean to Howard, beaming with pleasure at her sacrifice.
Jean felt a flutter of uncertainty. Was Gretchen really packing her off for a jaunt with her husband?
As if reading her thoughts, Gretchen said, “You can put up with Howard for a day, can’t you, Jean?”
“I’ll try not to bore her to tears,” said Howard humbly.
“And Aunt Edie is tremendous company. You’ll love her.”
“She won’t think it odd—her nephew turning up with some strange woman?” Jean remarked.
“Oh no. She’s a game old bird,” laughed Gretchen.
She continued to wrap packets of sandwiches in greaseproof paper and tuck them into the already full hamper as Howard washed his hands at the sink.
“We surely won’t need all this food now?” said Jean, aghast. “You must keep some of it for yourselves.”
“Well, Margaret certainly won’t be eating anything,” said Gretchen, finally consenting to remove one slice of pie and a tomato from the banquet.
Having satisfied herself as to the sufficiency of the provisions, she fastened the buckles on the basket and began to scurry around collecting together the remaining equipment for the outing. Wooden crates for the apples, picnic blanket, tennis rackets and balls were all soon stowed in the trunk of the Wolseley and they were ready to go. Gretchen seemed quite invigorated by her efforts on their behalf and almost eager to see them off. Either she was relieved to be ducking out of an irksome family duty, which seemed most unlikely given her apparent enthusiasm for the outing, or . . . Jean was at a loss.
Even now, as the car was reversing out of the driveway, Gretchen came running after them, brandishing a wide-brimmed straw sun hat, which she passed through the front window to Jean.
“You’ll need this or you’ll burn,” she panted. “It’s going to be a scorcher.”