“Angelina! I am glad if that … object gives you pleasure, but as soon as you brought it into the Pan we were bombed. And now”—the realization rushed back to her—“what are we going to do with that horrible egg powder?”
“Sell it, darling, sell it at a profit in cakes. All we want is a teeny weeny oven somewhere. Leave it to me and Beowulf. If I can get wheels fitted to his dear little paws and a basket to his back, people will be tumbling over themselves to buy from me. And remember, partner, here we are alive. Why mope about the past? I’m stepping into the future….” And she slapped Beowulf so hard on the tail that a woman in the corner moaned, “Listen, they’re here again, they’re overhead.”
“I might even get a soapbox and let him draw it.”
“It’s her nerves,” Selina whispered; “the strain must be telling on her.”
“I expect I shall have to get a hawker’s licence! Won’t that be fun?”
“So much depends upon one’s temperament.”
“Cheer up, partner, let’s have a little community sing-along and we shall all feel better.”
“Silence,” somebody roared from the far end of the room, “lights out, no talking!”
Angelina shrugged her shoulders. She pushed the dog up against the wall, sat down on a mattress, and began to unlace her shoes. “As if one could sleep, at such a moment,” she grumbled. Nobody wanted to be free. Stuffy fools, they wanted to sit with their silver dishes for crumpets and—why, it rhymed—their ear trumpets. She was going to tramp England, marshes, moors, heather, and gorse, she said over and over to herself; perhaps she could get a donkey as well as Beowulf. I’ve always wanted to be a vagabond, and I wouldn’t mind, I really wouldn’t mind being a weeny bit of a rogue. But she said this to herself, for Selina was being as difficult and uncooperative as possible. Taking it all tragically. But she had always been a bit of a crumpet.
Dobbie swallowed the last of his tea noisily. “See you in the morning, and don’t you worry, Miss Tippett. Jerry’s going to be mighty sorry for himself one day, and I hope I’m here to see it. And you did save your dog.”
“Could you try to rest?” Selina looked up; she had never realized before that the Colonel was so old. He was arranging her shawl about her shoulders, and she did not mind that the shell-pink lining was covered with black smudges. “If you cared to use my flat until you can make other arrangements I should be delighted. They tell me my street is intact.”
“It is really very kind of you.”
“Not at all, it is a help to me to feel that I am of use.”
She would never have to wake up again and worry about the rent. Only it was so strange; it wasn’t two hours since she had dragged Horatio down those solid, century-old stairs. She seemed to feel the Warming Pan in her fingers, hear its creaks and noises, but it had gone, and in a little while she would be the only person to remember it. “You’re wonderful,” Eve said, “wonderful, but you must get out of London. Would you like to go to my sisters in the country?”
Selina shook her head. “It’s silly, I suppose, but I have got to stay on here in my own village.” She smiled at them both and at the nice child with the fair hair that had come round again with yet another tray.
“Have a cup of tea,” her neighbour suggested, and he patted her arm.
“No, thank you, Colonel Ferguson; people are so kind, I seem to have been drinking tea all the evening. There is a war on, you know!” It was one of the stock Warming Pan jokes, and she looked up for approval. They stared back at her so seriously that she felt quite puzzled. “Oh, dear,” she said, for she felt suddenly quite helpless, “I do think it is very embarrassing to be bombed.”
