‘She’s supposed to be there for another week,’ said Oliver – unmoving.
‘Perhaps if we don’t open it, she’ll go away?’ Ava whispered, hopefully, at the same moment as the handle turned, and Mrs Moss swept into the kitchen, her enormous carpet bag clutched beneath one arm.
Ava had always read about women being described as ‘forces of nature’ in novels, and never quite understood what that meant until she’d met Mrs Moss – for no matter the day, no matter the occasion, when Mrs Moss blew into a room, youfelt it. She was dressed head to toe in black as always; from her dahlia-trimmed hat down to her neatly stitched leather shoes, though the time for full-mourning garb had long passed. Mr Moss had died the year before Ava’s mother Adeline, some four years ago now.
‘Most people use the front door, you know,’ Oliver muttered.
‘Most people aren’t your landlady,’ said Mrs Moss stoutly, pressing a kiss to Ava’s cheek. ‘How was Edinburgh, my dear? What brings you back? Oh, and have youseenwhat’shappened to the house –my house? What your father has done to the windows?’
Ava – somewhat stunned by the sheer volume of questions – decided to focus on the safest possible thing.
‘Is that … a new hat?’
Mrs Moss frowned for a moment, reaching up to touch the faux-silk flower upon the bonnet. ‘Do you like it? My niece bought it for me. You remember Miss Collins, of course? Oliver?’
‘Miss … Collins?’ Oliver turned – the wooden spoon dangling from his good hand. ‘What was it she did again? Assistant to the Queen? Or …’
Mrs Moss blinked at him. ‘She’s agoverness, Oliver. As I’ve told you a hundred times.’
‘Ah, no – I remember now. She justspeaksas though she’s high and mighty.’
‘Don’t be clever, Oliver – it doesn’t suit you,’ Mrs Moss said flatly, turning her attention back to Ava. ‘I thought I could bring her to one of your shows! Wouldn’t that be lovely? We could make a night of it, the four of us. Oliver and Miss Collins, Arthur and I?’
‘That might be hard,’ Oliver said, turning back to the stove. ‘Seeing as Ava—’
‘Hasn’t been past the theatre yet,’ Ava said quickly, for she didn’t need Mrs Moss berating her for her decisions alongside her brother.
‘All in good time,’ Mrs Moss said, taking a seat at the kitchen table. ‘Now then – Oliver? Tell me – how fares the job hunt?’
Her brother shrugged. ‘I’m still sending out applications.’
‘Well, I saw Mr Bramwell when I went to fetch my bread,’ Mrs Moss said. ‘You know – the baker? He’s still looking for an apprentice.’
‘I don’t want to be a baker,’ said Oliver. ‘I want to work in a restaurant. As achef.’
‘I still remember when you wanted to become a cooper,’ Ava reminded him.
‘Barrel-making was never mydream, I just did it for the money.’
‘Like the theatre job?’ Ava asked – giving her brother a meaningful stare. ‘Which you quit?’
‘I didn’tquitthe theatre. I was fired, because I can’tworkthere with a broken arm.’
Mrs Moss tilted her head to one side. ‘Well, we can all have dreams, my dear. But they’ll never come true if you don’t leave the house. As I’ve tried to tell Arthur a hundred times.’
‘Ileave the—’
Ava gave her brother a meaningful look, and shook her head. It was never a good idea to answer back to Mrs Moss – least of all when the house looked like a mausoleum. ‘When is your niece arriving?’ Ava asked instead, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters.
‘Hopefully next month,’ said Mrs Moss, unpinning her hat with the utmost care. ‘If the show isn’t ready, I thought perhaps I’d sign her up for one of your private sessions, Ava. Wouldn’t that be lovely? She so wanted to see you on stage before, but by the time she’d made it here for a visit, you’d already upped and …’ She paused, licking her dry lips. ‘Moved.’
Ava wondered whether it was the broken sleep, or the rising heat in the kitchen, but her thoughts felt sluggish and slow. ‘Did you say, “private sessions”?’
‘Yes, dear,’ said Mrs Moss. ‘The interviews?’
Oliver turned back to the eggs and began stirring them intently.
‘Oh, but Mrs Moss, I’ve …’ Ava wondered how best to put this, now that she would be forced to say it. ‘I’ve quite given up on my memory work.’
