was the duty of Raymond Blythe’s daughters to give what they couldn’t a damn good go.
She helped Mrs Collins into a seat at the knitting table, where conversation, as might be expected, was about the sons and brothers and nephews who were set to join up, then delivered the victoria sponge to the kitchen, careful to avoid Mrs Caraway, who was wearing the same dogged expression that always presaged delivery of a particularly nasty task.
‘Well now, Miss Blythe.’ Mrs Potts from the post office reached out to accept the offering, held it up for inspection. ‘And what a lovely rise you’ve managed here.’
‘The cake comes courtesy of Mrs Collins. I’m merely its courier.’ Percy attempted a swift escape, but Mrs Potts, practised in conversational entrapment, cast her net too fast.
‘We missed you at ARP training on Friday.’
‘I was otherwise engaged.’
‘What a pity. Mr Potts always says what a wonderful casualty you make.’
‘How kind of him.’
‘And there’s no one can wield a stirrup pump with quite so much verve.’
Percy smiled thinly. Sycophancy had never been so tiresome.
‘And tell me, how’s your father?’ A thick layer of hungry sympathy coated the question and Percy fought the urge to plant Mrs Collins’s marvellous sponge right across the postmistress’s face. ‘I hear he’s taken a bad turn?’
‘He’s as well as might be expected, Mrs Potts. Thank you for asking.’ An image came to her of Daddy some nights ago, running down the hallway in his gown, cowering behind the stairs and crying like a frightened child, sobbing that the tower was haunted, that the Mud Man was coming for him. Dr Bradbury had been called in and had left stronger medicine for them to administer, but Daddy had quivered for hours, fighting against it with all he had, until finally he fell into a dead sleep.
‘Such a pillar of the community.’ Mrs Potts affected a sorrowful tremor. ‘Such a shame when their health begins to slide. But what a blessing he has someone like you to carry on his charitable works. Especially in a time of national emergency. People around here do look to the castle when times are uncertain – they always have.’
‘Very kind of you, Mrs Potts. We all do our best.’
‘I expect we’ll be seeing you over at the village hall this afternoon, helping the evacuation committee?’
‘You will.’
‘I’ve already been over there this morning, arranging the tins of condensed milk and corned beef: we’re sending one of each with every child. It isn’t much, but with hardly a scrap of assistance from the authorities it was the best we could offer. And every little bit helps, doesn’t it? I hear you’re planning on taking in a child yourself. Very noble of you: Mr Potts and I talked about it of course, and you know me, I’d dearly love to help, but my poor Cedric’s allergies – ’ she raised an apologetic shoulder heavenwards – ‘well, they’d never stand it.’ Mrs Potts leaned in closer and tapped the end of her nose. ‘Just a little warning: those living in the East End of London have entirely different standards from our own. You’d be well advised to get in some Keating’s and a good-quality disinfectant before you let one of them set foot inside the castle.’
And although Percy harboured her own grim fears as to the character of their soon-to-be lodger, Mrs Potts’s suggestion was so distasteful that she plucked a cigarette from the case in her handbag and lit it, just to be spared answering.
Mrs Potts carried on undeterred. ‘And I suppose you’ve heard the other exciting news?’
Percy shifted her feet, keen to pursue alternative occupation. ‘What’s that, Mrs Potts?’
‘Why, you must know all about it, up there at the castle. You probably have far more of the details than any of us.’
Naturally at that moment silence had fallen and the entire group turned to regard Percy. She did her best to ignore them. ‘The details of what, Mrs Potts?’ Irritation lengthened her spine a good inch. ‘I have no idea of what you’re speaking.’
‘Why.’ The gossip’s eyes widened and her face brightened with the realization that she was a star performer with a new audience: ‘The news about Lucy Middleton, of course.’
THREE
Evidently there was a trick to applying the glue and plastering the fabric strip without gumming up the glass. The perky woman in the illustrated guide didn’t seem to be having any difficulty reinforcing
She pasted the last corner of cloth into place and climbed down off the chair, stepping back to observe her handiwork. Oh dear; she tilted her head a little and frowned at the skewed cross. It would hold, just, but it was no work of art.
‘Bravo,’ said Lucy, coming through the door just then with the tray of tea. ‘X marks the spot, don’t they say?’
‘I certainly hope not. Mr Hitler should be warned: he’ll have Percy to answer to if his bombs so much as graze the castle.’ Saffy swiped the towel against her sticky hands. ‘I’m afraid this glue has quite set against me; I can’t think what I’ve done to offend it, but offend it I have.’
‘Glue with a mood. How terrifying!’
‘It’s not the only one. Forget the bombs, I’m going to need a good nerve tonic after dealing with these windows.’
‘Tell you what – ’ Lucy was pouring from the pot and she let the phrase hang while she finished the second cup – ‘I’ve taken your father his lunch already; why don’t I lend you a hand here?’
‘Oh, Lucy darling, would you? What a brick! I could weep with gratitude.’
‘No need for all that.’ Lucy fought back a glad smile. ‘I’ve just finished my own house and it turns out I have a way with glue. Shall I paste while you cut?’
‘Perfect!’ Saffy tossed the towel back onto the chair. Her hands were still tacky but they’d do. When Lucy handed her a cup, she took it gratefully. They stood for a moment, sharing the companionable silence as each savoured a first sip. It had become something of a habit, taking tea together like this. Nothing fancy: they didn’t stop their daily tasks or lay the best silver; they just managed to be busy together in the same place at the right time of day. Percy, had she known, would’ve been horrified; she’d have come over all frowns and glowers, pursed her lips and said things like, ‘It isn’t proper,’ and, ‘Standards should be maintained.’ But Saffy liked Lucy – they were friends, after a fashion, and she couldn’t see that sharing tea could do any harm at all. Besides, what Percy didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.
‘And tell me, Lucy,’ she said, breaking the silence and thereby signalling that they might both resume their work, ‘how’s the house going?’
‘Very well indeed, Miss Saffy.’
‘You’re not too lonely there by yourself?’ Lucy and her mother had lived together always in the little cottage on the village’s outskirts. Saffy could only imagine what a gap the old woman’s death must have left.
‘I keep myself busy.’ Lucy had balanced her teacup on the windowsill while she ran the glue-laden brush diagonally across the pane. For a moment Saffy thought she detected a sadness in the housekeeper’s face, as if she’d been about to confess some deep feeling but had thought better of it.
‘What is it, Lucy?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ She hesitated. ‘Only that, I miss Mother, of course…’
‘Of course.’ Lucy was discreet (to a fault, the nosier part of Saffy sometimes thought), but over the years Saffy had gleaned enough to know that Mrs Middleton was not an easy person. ‘But?’
