7 Burdett Road
Sidcup
Dear Jean,
Thank you for your kindness in going to call on Gretchen. She has telephoned me as promised and we are agreed that I will have Margaret on Sundays, and the rest of the week she will stay with her mother in Chelsea. Margaret was naturally a little confused and upset by the new arrangements, but children are resilient creatures and she seems to be bearing up.
The house is very quiet without them and I find myself working later, and sometimes sleeping at the shop to avoid returning to it. Obviously, something must be done in time to address the inequality in our living standards, but Gretchen is in no hurry for any further upheaval and so we proceed as we are for now.
One unfortunate by-product of this unhappy situation, dear Jean, is that a certain awkwardness has crept into our friendship and that I regret more than I can say. I quite understand if you feel uncomfortable in my company now that Gretchen is not around, but I want you to know that in your company I always feel only pleasure and comfort and perfect ease.
In short, I would very much like to see you and wonder if you would be able to meet me for lunch on Saturday in town. There is a decent place near the shop. If you prefer not to meet, there is no need to reply—I will be at the shop all day anyway—but I hope you will think our friendship is sturdy enough to survive a crisis that was not of our making.
Yours,
Howard
Jean sat so long at the table rereading these words in a daze of happiness that the milk boiled up all over the stove, into the gas jets, and left a burned ring on the bottom of the pan. But that was fine, because there was no chore in existence that could dampen her spirits now. He wanted to see her. Life was suddenly beautiful, precious and full of meaning. She cleaned the hob and made a fresh mug of Allenburys, and when it came to bedtime astonished her mother by throwing her arms around her and squeezing her tightly.
26
* * *
Pam’s Piece
THE JOY OF MAIL
In our increasingly hectic lives, and with more and more of us having access to a private telephone, the art of letter writing may soon be in danger of dying out. This would be a great pity, as a thoughtful and well-written letter can bring immense pleasure to the recipient, and can be revisited again and again in the way that a phone call cannot. There is nothing quite like the sound of an envelope landing on the doormat and the thrill of recognizing the handwriting of a dear friend or distant relative.
The telephone is a shrill and demanding taskmaster: “Deal with me now!” it shrieks, like a fractious toddler. Whereas a letter may be read and replied to—or not—entirely at the convenience of the recipient. And at only 3 pence for a postage stamp, providing carriage from Land’s End to John o’ Groats if necessary, there can hardly be a cheaper or nicer way of making someone’s day.
How many of us, though, restrict our letter writing to dutiful thank-you notes, seaside postcards or annual bulletins at Christmas? It shouldn’t be impossible to set aside half an hour a week to devote to correspondence. It will not take long for the habit to become ingrained and the effort will be rewarded many times over when the replies start coming in. Everybody stands to gain—except perhaps the overburdened postman!
* * *
Dear Howard,
I’m so glad you wrote. Of course I’ll come.
Your friend,
Jean
The next three days passed in a frenzy of industry and efficiency both in the office and at home. Ashamed of having let her work on Gretchen’s story lapse, she decided to rededicate herself to the investigation, finally taking the initiative to write to Kitty Benteen to arrange a meeting, using Brenda’s letter as an introduction.
She also telephoned Anselm House Prep School, Broadstairs, to ask if she might visit again, after school hours, to get a more thorough look at the former wards. （In this manner she hoped to bypass the headmaster, who she felt was less likely to indulge her.） Susan Trevor, the secretary who had been so helpful on Jean’s first visit, was about to go on leave to have an operation but made an appointment for the week of her return.
Optimism was a new mood for Jean, and it gave her energy for work and enthusiasm for even the dullest household chore. In the evenings, after dinner was cooked and eaten, she would launch immediately into some long-postponed task—clearing out the pantry, resewing worn sheets sides to middle, polishing the brass door handles, switching to winter drapes.
“Why don’t you have a rest?” her mother would bleat from her armchair at nine o’clock as Jean dragged the furniture into the middle of the room to sweep behind it, slamming the Ewbank into the baseboard, or jumped up on a chair to wipe cobwebs from the picture rails.