“Oh, but I only dropped in to see if you’ve all recovered from yesterday’s shock,” Daisy protested, less than sincerely.
“What a nasty business that was! Come in, dear, come in, if you’re not in a hurry, and we’ll have a nice cup of tea. There’s jam tarts in the oven.”
As Daisy stepped in, Mrs. Ditchley opened a door on the left, through which was visible a glimpse of the front parlour.
Obviously rarely used, it was a stiff, chilly room, wallpapered with roses in an unnatural shade of purple and furnished with antimacassared Victorian horsehair furniture. An unhappy aspidistra in a brass pot lurked by the net curtains. The only bright spot was a collection, on the mantelpiece, of china figurines which looked from Daisy’s distance like Presents from Southend and Clacton-on-Sea.
The children were probably rigorously excluded from the room. Daisy had no desire to be thus isolated.
“Mayn’t I join you in the kitchen?” she asked.
Mrs. Ditchley beamed. “It’d be more convenient,” she admitted, leading the way, “if you don’t mind. The kiddies’ll want their tea before they go out to play, and it’s easier if I’m on the spot. My daughter works down the foundry, like her husband. They took women on during the War, when they were making munitions. It was a reserved occupation, but lots of the lads volunteered, and so many didn’t come back, some of the girls stayed on after. She likes it, and the extra money comes in handy, and I’m here to mind the little ones.”
The kitchen was quite large, taking up the entire back half of the ground floor, presumably designed for a servant-less class for whom it was the main living room. Big windows with gay cotton-print curtains looked out on a small garden, full of washing hung to dry, and the railway. The centre of the room was largely taken up by a long, well-scrubbed table which showed signs of pastry-making at one end. On the gas stove, a kettle was beginning to steam.
“Nasty business yesterday,” Mrs. Ditchley repeated as she poured water to heat the teapot. “But like I said, I was a nurse before I married and I went back when my daughter was grown, till the grandkiddies came along. I’ve seen worse in the hospital.”
“I worked in a hospital during the War,” said Daisy, “but in the office. What about the children? Has it upset them?”
“Not so’s you’d notice. They’re always seeing cowboys and Indians shooting each other dead at the pictures these days, aren’t they? Except Katy here, she says she’s never going back to that museum. Bustle about now, Katy, and lay the table for your brothers and sisters. First bring me one of the good cups and saucers for Miss Dalrymple.”
Mrs. Ditchley somehow managed to make tea, take two trays of jam tarts from the oven, stir a pan, and turn toast under the grill all at the same time. Daisy was admiring; her attention tended to wander in the kitchen, so that disaster generally followed any attempt to do more than one thing at once.
Katy carefully brought her cup of tea.
“Not a drop spilled,” Daisy congratulated her. “Were you afraid at the museum?”
“A bit,” the child confessed. “Please, miss, was it the man with the loud voice which got killed?”
“He did have a loud voice,” Daisy agreed. “There was no danger for little girls. You heard him, did you?”
“After he talked in a loud voice, he made a horrable noise and then there was a great big crash. Arthur says he fell in a skellington and it was all smashed to bits.”
“Part of it was badly broken. Mrs. Ditchley, did you hear Dr. Pettigrew speak?”
“That I did not,” Mrs. Ditchley said emphatically, “and there’s nothing wrong with my hearing. But there, Katy was right by the archway. It was when I was going to fetch her back, not wanting to call out in the museum, I heard the crash and she came running back, naughty monkey.”
“I didn’t like them bones, Granny.”
“Those bones.”
“I didn’t like those. I wanted to see the furry ephalunt again. It’s nice.”
“Times I’ve told you not to wander off alone!”
“Do you remember,” Daisy started, when the front door slammed open. The three middle children rushed in like a herd of furry ephalunts, shedding coats, hats, and satchels en route.
“Gran, I’m hungry!”
“Arthur went to the park to play football, Granny. Did you say he could?”
“I got all my sums right, Gran. What’s for tea?”
“Now mind your manners! Here’s Miss Dalrymple come to see us.”
There was a momentary lull as they all said hello, and then the clamour began again, to be halted only by full mouths. Vast quantities of Heinz baked beans on toast disappeared, while Daisy nibbled a raspberry jam tart and debated whether it was worth trying to question Katy with the others present.
If she asked to see Katy alone, what should otherwise pass for common curiosity would begin to look rather odd. Mrs. Ditchley could well object, and the little girl might be frightened.
