In the hallway, she unpins her hat and tosses it on the telephone table on top of her handbag and white kid gloves. Reaching into her handbag, she takes out the cigarette packet, grimacing when she finds it empty. She leans into the mirror and examines her face, pursing her lipsticked lips and pressing at the fine lines that have begun to form at the corners of her eyes. Thirty-three and still in Norwich. Aside from one disastrous April holiday in Paris five years ago, when George had taken a resolute dislike to French food and the Impressionists, and it had rained for four days, she’s never set foot outside of Britain. This wasn’t the life she’d planned.
She reaches down and rests her hands on her girdled stomach. No babies. She hadn’t wanted any, not when she was younger. Certainly not when she’d fallen pregnant with the twins. She’d hated them for snatching her dreams away, for forcing her into this life of torpid provincialism. But then, as the pregnancy had lumbered on, she’d come to see their usefulness. How they could be the key to the closed doors of Norfolk society. She’d get the twins into the best schools – Church of England if she had to; the best clubs; they’d play cricket with the Earl of Leicester’s team at Holkham; learn to ride and shoot. They’d be her golden ticket to a better life.
Then they’d died. Two little boys. She hadn’t let George touch her after that. What was the point? Her womb had been stripped out of her. Why put up with George’s inept fumblings?
He’d suggested adoption. After her initial tantrums, she’d even become excited about the possibility. She could steer the child through the same course she’d planned for her twins. Another chance at the golden ticket. But then, George’s age and his blind eye had scuppered that idea. NOT SUITABLE FOR ADOPTION. The red stamp across their adoption application. It was George’s fault. Again. Her miserable life of pushing and grappling for the wealth and status, and, yes, the freedom, she deserved was all George’s fault.
George was like a distant and irritating brother to her now. She had her room and he had his. He’d buried himself in his work, and she’d negotiated her way onto the boards of the Women’s Institute, the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital Auxiliary, the Norwich Philharmonic Society where she was now Vice President, and slowly and tactically climbed the social ladder. She and George had reached an accord. He was useful to her in his position at Mcklintock’s, but she wasn’t satisfied with that. Oh no. George was going to buy the business, but for that he needed a partner with money. This is where Norwich’s wealthiest industrialist, Walter Humphrey, owner of Firman’s Mustard, came in. How her arduously cultivated friendship with his wife, Marion, would finally bear fruit. Walter wanted to talk business with George. Finally, she was on her way.
Dottie wanders into George’s study. The panelled shutters are drawn closed. She walks over to the tall sash windows and throws them open. The dull grey light of the December day filters into the wood-panelled room. She sits in the antique green leather chair and sifts through the stack of documents under the Maltese glass paperweight she’d found in a Holt flea market. The envelope has been torn open with George’s brass letter-opener. She’d recognise the handwriting anywhere. She slips the letter out of the envelope and reads.
***
Dottie sits in the large brown leather wingback chair in the shadows in front of the book-lined walls. She has closed the shutters. She wants to take him by surprise.
She hears the key in the front door, the squeak as the heavy panelled door swings open, the soft thunk as it closes. The keys rattling onto the telephone table. The pause as George hangs up his hat and bends down to remove the rubber covers of his Church’s shoes.
The study door opens. A pause. A hesitation. The flick of the light switch.
‘Dottie?’
Dottie holds out Ellie’s letter. ‘You’ve been sending her money? Our money?’
George’s cheeks, flushed from walking home from the factory in the chilly winter – a habit she was going to have to put a stop to as soon as he finished his driving lessons – drain of colour. He pushes up the bridge of his glasses in the habit she finds so irritating.
‘You found the letter.’
‘Of course I found the letter. It was on your desk, for all the world to see.’
‘It was under my work pile.’
Dottie raises a finely pencilled eyebrow. ‘How long has this been going on? How much of our money …’ she stabs a finger against her chest ‘… how much of my money have you sent her?’
George crosses over to the desk and slumps into the chair. He rubs his forehead and sighs. ‘I had to, Dottie. After Thomas died, Ellie was in a bad way. She has two children to support. Her mother-in-law was threatening to throw them out. She’s your sister, Dottie. I had to do something. She has no one else to turn to. She’s family.’
‘Emmett’s your son, isn’t he?’
‘Dottie!’
‘I’m not an idiot, George. I’ve done the maths. Ellie and Thomas married at Christmas. Emmett should have been born in September, not August. I saw you and Ellie in the Cow
