‘I never thought to see the day when we’d be standing here,’ said Billy.
‘Me neither,’ agreed Florence, gazing round the crowded drawing room of Melstead Hall. Everywhere she looked there was a familiar face from the village. Many had come out of sheer nosiness, eager to have a snoop round the Hall and see if it was as dismal a mausoleum as legend had it.
Florence was guilty of the same curiosity and while the house itself was large and forbidding, and lacking in any homely charm, with a drinks party in full swing, it didn’t seem too awful.
Frank Ifield singing ‘I Remember You’ on a radiogram helped to create a relaxed atmosphere. All the same though, it struck an odd note, a party to celebrate Julia Devereux’s birthday while her husband was in hospital possibly breathing his last. Not that anybody seemed to mind very much. If this was her way of enjoying, or maybe even celebrating, hernew-found freedom, Florence wished her well.
‘I could do with a bite to eat,’ said Billy, ‘any sign of one of those waitresses we saw earlier with a tray of canapes?’
‘I’m sure one will be round in a minute or two,’ said Florence.
‘Do you know what I really fancy?’ he said.
‘Surprise me.’
‘A bigfry-up when we’re home. What do you say to eggs, bacon, sausages and a slice or two of fried bread? We could eat it by the fire, all nice and cosy like we used to.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ she said. ‘But won’t your mother be coming round?’
‘Not tonight, I told her we’d be back late.’
Florence looked at her husband. ‘If I didn’t know better, William Minton, I’d say you have an ulterior motive.’
He winked. ‘And you’d be dead right.’
She leaned in to him and kissed his cheek. ‘How many times have I told you before, I’m always right?’
‘I’ve lost count. But I just thought it would be good to have some proper time alone, now that George is back at his studies in London and we have the house to ourselves again.’
‘I can see that you’ve put some thought into this.’
‘I have,’ he said, stepping aside to let another couple of guests pass by. ‘But you know,’ he went on, ‘you’re not always right. You were wrong not to tell me about those poison pen letters. You’d have saved yourself a lot of worry if you had.’
‘I know that now,’ she said, ‘but at the time, I just couldn’t bring myself to tell you.’
‘I still can’t believe you doubted me, that you thought I could be messing about with some woman behind your back.’
‘That’s the trouble with poison pen letters,’ said Florence, ‘they poison the mind.’
‘Hello Mr and Mrs Minton, would you like something to eat?’
Florence turned from her husband to see Charles Devereux looking up at her with a tray of canapes in his hands. Florence smiled at the boy. How sweet he looked in his grey pullover, white shirt and tie and neatly combed hair. ‘If you promise to call me Florence,’ she said, ‘I might just try one of those tasty looking sausage rolls. Do you think you can do that?’
He nodded and after she had helped herself, he offered the tray to Billy. ‘Our new cook, Mrs Grundy, says that seeing as God gave us two hands, it’s always better to take two of anything.’
Billy laughed. ‘One for each hand; I like Mrs Grundy’s thinking!’
‘How are you liking your new school in the village?’ asked Florence.
The boy’s face lit up with the sunniest of smiles. ‘It’s great and a lot more fun than my stuffy old school. Best of all I can walk there and back and stay here with Mummy the whole time.’
‘And have you made some nice friends?’
‘Yes, Mrs Min ... I mean ... Florence. Some of us are going sledging tomorrow and then we’re going to build the biggest snowman ever.’
‘You’ll have no shortage of snow, and that’s a fact,’ said Billy through a mouthful of flaky pastry. ‘And you can tell Mrs Grundy that Billy Minton says her sausage rolls are delicious.’
‘That’s a rare word of praise from my husband’s lips,’ said Florence, ‘so be sure to tell her, won’t you?’
