“Thank you,” Miriam said, remembering to smile in return.
They were pulling into a station. “EAST HAM,” the sign read. English place-names were so very odd. “Why is your town called Barking?” she asked, suddenly curious. “Is it for the sound the dog makes?”
Ann giggled, and the sound of it was so infectious that Miriam found herself laughing as well. “I don’t think so. I feel as if it’s from an old form of English, or at least that’s what we learned in school. Of course now I can’t remember what it means.”
The train was moving again. Ann packed away her knitting and tucked her bag under her arm. “We’re almost there. Our station is next.”
It was a beautiful evening. As they emerged from the station and began their walk to Ann’s house, the evening sun cast everything in the prettiest sort of rosy glow. Even a slum might look welcoming in such a light. But this was a good neighborhood, the houses neat, windows clean, front yards tidy. Here and there, people had planted out window boxes or left pots of flowers on their doorsteps.
“What are the names of the flowers? Those pink and white ones?” Miriam asked.
“Those? Petunias. What are they in French?”
“Pétunias,” Miriam answered, and they both smiled.
“I have some in my garden,” Ann added. “It’s very small, but I grow as much as I can. Probably more than I should, to be honest. It’s very crowded.”
They turned off the main road and onto a street of terraced houses. Every house was the same: liver-colored brick on the ground floor and whitewashed stucco on the first floor, with a tiled roof and white-trimmed windows.
“This stretch of road was built first,” Ann said. “Before the rest of the estate. I grew up in the last house but one.”
“The houses are very tidy,” Miriam said, not wishing to lie by saying they were pretty or charming. Surely Ann could see that was not the case.
“They are. And it’s quiet here, which is nice. People are friendly, but they keep to themselves, too, if that makes any sense.”
There was such a relentless sameness to the houses on the street. One after the other they continued on, with little changing apart from the number on the door. Even the white lace curtains in the front windows looked identical. How would she ever find the correct house in the dark?
“Here we are,” Ann said, and then, as if she’d read Miriam’s thoughts, “the top of my gate is rounded, see? And the others nearby are all straight across or pointed. That’s how I keep track when I come home in the evenings and it’s black as pitch. Silly streetlights don’t help either. They’re so dim you can hardly see your hand in front of your face.”
Beyond the gate, the front yard was covered with paving stones, with not a blade of grass peeping up between them. Ann unlocked the door and beckoned Miriam inside.
“Come on in, and don’t mind your shoes.” They stood in a tiny entranceway, with barely room enough for the two of them. “There’s a coatrack behind the door, and in bad weather or winter you can leave your shoes on the mat here.”
Moving into the front room, Ann pulled open the draperies, revealing a set of crisp net curtains beneath, their edges embroidered with a pretty design of marguerites. The room was furnished with a plump sofa and matching chair upholstered in brown horsehair, a small occasional table between them. On the opposite wall was the hearth, and it was flanked by a wireless in an enormous wooden cabinet. Near the window was an étagère crammed with little china figurines and other decorative items. Daintily crocheted lace doilies lined each shelf, as well as the top of the wireless cabinet, the mantel above the hearth, and the backs of the sofa and chair.
“This is the sitting room, and here’s the kitchen,” Ann said, continuing into the adjoining room. “I’ll put on the kettle so we can have a cup of tea in a bit.”
The kitchen was far more modern than Miriam’s mother’s had been. Instead of a coal range, the centerpiece of the room was a compact gas cooker adorned with white enamel and chrome trim. A sink was in front of the window, a draining board to its side, and on the far wall was an old dresser, its shelves laden with rose-patterned dishes. The remaining wall was taken up by a table with two chairs, and beyond, just past the dresser, was a sort of storage room with open shelves lined with jars and tins and boxes.
“If you go through that door you’ll see the pantry, and beyond that is the washroom. There’s a bath and sink and an inside WC, thank goodness. We’re ever so lucky in that way.”