“Well, get out there and do some more digging. It’s not too late. And take a word of friendly advice from an old man. Keep the husband at a distance while this plays out. Newly abandoned men tend to look for consolation wherever they can find it.”
Jean felt herself reddening under his scrutiny.
“Don’t tell me he’s already . . .”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Jean insisted, her blush deepening.
He expressed his relief by blowing out a long plume of smoke.
“He’s the most decent, honorable type you can imagine—apart from you, of course.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I’d begun to wonder whether there wasn’t something more personal in your commitment to this story.”
A shadow darkened the room. Muriel from Accounts stood outside the glass-paneled door with a sheaf of invoices. Roy raised an open hand to indicate five minutes and she retreated.
“Well, there was. Is. But it was the whole happy family thing. I wanted a little of what they had. And they were so willing to share. Even Margaret.”
“The little girl.”
Jean nodded. “I thought I’d buried all those maternal feelings long ago, but . . .”
Roy Drake, father of four, placed his large freckled hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right, old girl. I understand.”
24
Jean’s first visit to Luna Street had been in the summer. Children had been playing football and vandalizing cars on the street, and babies had been put out to air in their carriages on doorsteps. On a cold Tuesday morning in late October it was deserted. Frost still glittered on the pavement on the shaded side of the street.
The slanting autumn sunlight exposed the smeared windows of number 16. A glass panel was missing from the front door, a piece of plywood nailed over the gap in the sort of temporary repair that was likely to become permanent. It was not the only house in the street to boast this sort of improvisation.
As she had walked from Sloane Square, Jean had caught a glimpse of herself in a shop window and was dismayed to see reflected there a stooping, middle-aged woman in a shabby raincoat, with unstyled mousy hair, neither straight nor curly and streaked with silver. This image of round-shouldered drabness was quite at odds with Jean’s sense of herself as a brisk and respectable workingwoman, and reminded her why she generally avoided mirrors.
Drawing herself up straight, she now rang the doorbell and after a long delay heard the slap of approaching feet. It was Martha who answered. She was wearing a belted dressing gown as though just out of bed, but her face was made up, her hair tied back in that cleaning woman’s bandana.
“Ah,” she said by way of welcome. “I thought someone would be along sooner or later.”
“It’s Gretchen I’ve come to see.”
“She’s not here at the moment, but come in anyway.”
Martha led the way down the passage and into the studio. The doors to the kitchen and bedroom were—perhaps strategically—shut against the intimate evidence of shared occupancy. There were already touches of Gretchen about the place—the dead plant replaced with a jam jar of fresh flowers, the floor swept, the clutter corralled if not exactly tidied. They sat as before on the low couch, but this time there was no offer of coffee and no gift of florentines.
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“No. She comes and goes as she pleases. She’s not a prisoner, you know.”
“I never imagined she was. I’ve brought her some money. From her husband.”
Martha raised her eyebrows, clearly not expecting this degree of compliance.
“Well, that’s useful,” she conceded.
Jean had taken the envelope from her bag but kept hold of it, reluctant to surrender it to anyone but Gretchen.
“You can leave it with me. I won’t steal it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I was hoping to talk to Gretchen herself.”
“She doesn’t want to talk to anyone.”
“I can imagine. But there is a conversation to be had about Margaret, sooner rather than later. Do you know what she intends?”
“I expect she’ll want her here.” Martha shrugged as if it was a matter of no great moment, one way or another.
“There is scarcely space here for a child,” Jean said, feeling that there was something surreal in this discussion, conducted without any of the relevant parties present.
“We might need to find somewhere bigger at some point, I suppose.”
“She is due back on Saturday.” Jean’s voice gave a squeak of impatience. Martha’s nonchalance was beginning to rile her.