“If you don’t mind,” said Bertie, “we could play in the sitting room. There are some very comfortable chairs there, and it will be just right for playing house in. Don’t you agree, Mummy?”
He looked imploringly at his mother, willing her to agree with him.
“I don’t think so,” said Irene. “House is best played in bedrooms. And I’m planning to write some letters in the sitting room. You won’t want me interfering with your game of house, will you, Olive?”
“No, thank you,” said Olive. “Although you could always be the granny.”
Irene glanced at Olive. She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I see.”
“You could pretend to be the granny who has to stay in bed, and we could feed you soup from a cup,” Olive went on. “And you could pretend to forget everything we said to you.”
“I don’t think so, Olive,” said Irene coldly. “But thank you anyway. You two just go off and play in Bertie’s room. At half past four, I’ll make you some juice and scones. I’ll be putting Ulysses down for a sleep shortly and he will be ready to wake up then.”
“He’s a very nice baby, Mrs Pollock,” said Olive. “My mummy says that you’re lucky to have him.”
Irene smiled. “Well, thank you, Olive,” she said. “We’re all very lucky to have Ulysses come into our lives.”
“Yes,” Olive continued. “Mummy said that she thought you were too old to have another baby. She said that wonders will never cease.”
Irene was silent for a few moments. “I think that you should go and play now,” she said, tight-lipped. “Off you go!”
“Where’s your room, Bertie?” asked Olive. “Can you show me the way, please?”
Bertie cast his eyes about in desperation. There seemed to be no escape, or was there?
“It’s at the end of this corridor,” he said, pointing in the direction of the dining room. “That’s the door over there.”
Olive walked over to the door and opened it. She looked inside, at the table and chairs, and the small bureau where Stuart sometimes did the work that he brought home with him. “Is this it?” she asked. “Is this your room, Bertie?”
Bertie nodded.
“Where’s your bed?” asked Olive. “Don’t tell me you sleep on the table.”
Bertie gave a forced laugh. “Oh no,” he said. “I don’t sleep on the table. I sleep over there, in that corner. We have some cushions and a sleeping bag. We put them over there each night before I go to bed. It’s healthier, you see.”
“So you don’t even have a proper bed?” asked Olive.
“No,” said Bertie. “But that’s quite common these days. Didn’t you know that?”
Olive did not wish to appear uninformed, and so she nodded in a superior way. “You don’t have to tell me that,” she said. “I know about these things.” She paused, looking around at the sparsely furnished room. “But where do you keep your clothes?”
Bertie glanced at the sideboard. “In those drawers over there,”
he said.
Olive turned her head and looked in the direction of the sideboard. Then, without giving any warning, she took a few steps across the room and opened the top drawer.
“You mustn’t,” protested Bertie. “That’s private. You can’t go and look in other people’s drawers. What if they keep their pants in them?”
“There are no pants here,” said Olive scornfully. “All there is, are these mats. What are these table mats doing in your drawer, Bertie?”
“I collect them,” said Bertie. “It’s my hobby.”
118
“A pretty stupid hobby,” said Olive. She slammed the drawer shut and then immediately bent down and opened the drawer beneath it.
“And there aren’t even any clothes in this one either,” she said. “Look. Just candles and some knives and forks. Why do you keep knives and forks in your bedroom, Bertie? What’s wrong with you?”
Bertie sat down on the floor. “I’m very ill,” he said. “You’re going to have to go home, Olive. I’m too ill to play house. I’m sorry.”
Olive looked at him for a moment. “You don’t look ill,” she said. “But anyway, you can still play house when you’re ill. I’ll just put you to bed and nurse you. Then you can get up when you’re better. Come, Bertie, let’s find a better room for that.”
Bertie tried to resist, but Olive had seized his hand and had dragged him to his feet. She was surprisingly strong for a girl, he thought.
Half-pulled, half-pushed, Bertie was propelled down the corridor by Olive. His bedroom door was slightly ajar, and she now pushed this open and saw the bed within. And she saw Bertie’s construction set, which was on the floor, and his spare pair of shoes at the bottom of the bed.
“So this is your real room!” she exclaimed, with the satisfaction of one who has discovered an important secret. “And it’s pink.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Bertie weakly. “You mustn’t say it’s pink.
It’s crushed strawberry.”
