turn off the gas, but luckily their neighbour looked in, so all was well.'
I did not find this very reassuring, and returned home after depositing my companion, with grave misgivings about the safety of the junior members of the Coggs family during their mother's working hours.
But what could I do about it? Mighty little, I told myself sadly, turning into my drive.
***
I spent that evening at Amy's. James was away and she asked me to keep her company.
We sat watching a very old film in what someone once called 'nostalgic black and white' and thoroughly enjoyed it.
'I wonder why,' commented Amy at one stage when the heroine was crying copiously, 'women in films never have a handkerchief and have to be given one by the leading man? I suppose the film-makers think it is touching, but does any woman go out without a handkerchief? I doubt it.'
'You told me once,' I reminded her, 'of two sisters who used to go out with one hanky between them, frequently asking: "Have you got the handkerchief ?"'
'That's absolutely true,' Amy assured me. 'By the way, I heard from Lucy Colegate. She's got her sister staying with her. She's just lost her husband.'
'What, Lucy? She's always losing husbands.'
'Now, don't be catty, dear. I know you and Lucy don't see eye to eye, but I quite like her. And it's the sister who has lost the husband. Lucy says she's quite numb with grief.'
'Poor woman. It must be absolutely devastating to lose one's other half. Like having a leg off. An awful amputation.'
Amy nodded.
'I can't bear to think how I'd feel if James died. As you say, I suppose one would just feel half a person.'
'Only for a time surely,' I comforted her. It was unusual to see Amy in such a sad mood. Perhaps the black and white weepie we had been watching had something to do with it. In the garden too the rain was tossing the trees in a dismal fashion.
Time the Great Healer, and all that?' queried Amy.
That's right. After a bit you would be bound to start again, getting interested in all sorts of things, doing a bit of travelling, visiting friends. And so on,' I ended weakly.
'Maybe,' said Amy, not sounding very sure. 'I suppose one would just have to find comfort in Little Things, as the agony aunts tell us in the women's magazines.'
'Such as?'
'Well, one suggestion was that you should read all the old love letters. Personally, I can't imagine any more upsetting activity, but 1 suppose some women might be comforted.'
'Have you still got James' love letters?'
'No. I threw them away years ago. We were moving all over the place, and the less luggage one had the better.'
I felt that this was the robust response which one expected of Amy.
'I think Little Things like no snoring said Amy, becoming more animated, 'might be some comfort. And not having any shirts to iron. I must say that I should find that of considerable consolation in the midst of my sorrow.'
'You are a very flippant woman,' I said severely.
'And a hungry one,' said Amy rising. 'It's all this emotion. Come and have some supper in the kitchen.'
So we did.
John Jenkins had rung me before his departure to Portugal, and had also sent a pretty view of some gardens in Estoril with the sea in the background, of that peculiarly hard blue which all seaside postcards seem to show, whether of the Isle of Wight or Amalfi.
He was expected back on Saturday, and the final line of his postcard read:
"Will ring when I return. Love, John.'
The last two words, I felt sure, had been read with great interest by the Beech Green postman, but I was not particularly perturbed.
I half expected a telephone call during Saturday evening, but guessed that his flight might have been held up. No doubt I should hear tomorrow, I thought, as I went to bed.
But Sunday brought no call, and I assumed that he had stayed on in Portugal. It did occur to me in the early evening that I might ring his home, but George and Isobel Annett called in after evensong, and I thought no more of the
I did not find this very reassuring, and returned home after depositing my companion, with grave misgivings about the safety of the junior members of the Coggs family during their mother's working hours.
But what could I do about it? Mighty little, I told myself sadly, turning into my drive.
***
I spent that evening at Amy's. James was away and she asked me to keep her company.
We sat watching a very old film in what someone once called 'nostalgic black and white' and thoroughly enjoyed it.
'I wonder why,' commented Amy at one stage when the heroine was crying copiously, 'women in films never have a handkerchief and have to be given one by the leading man? I suppose the film-makers think it is touching, but does any woman go out without a handkerchief? I doubt it.'
'You told me once,' I reminded her, 'of two sisters who used to go out with one hanky between them, frequently asking: "Have you got the handkerchief ?"'
'That's absolutely true,' Amy assured me. 'By the way, I heard from Lucy Colegate. She's got her sister staying with her. She's just lost her husband.'
'What, Lucy? She's always losing husbands.'
'Now, don't be catty, dear. I know you and Lucy don't see eye to eye, but I quite like her. And it's the sister who has lost the husband. Lucy says she's quite numb with grief.'
'Poor woman. It must be absolutely devastating to lose one's other half. Like having a leg off. An awful amputation.'
Amy nodded.
'I can't bear to think how I'd feel if James died. As you say, I suppose one would just feel half a person.'
'Only for a time surely,' I comforted her. It was unusual to see Amy in such a sad mood. Perhaps the black and white weepie we had been watching had something to do with it. In the garden too the rain was tossing the trees in a dismal fashion.
Time the Great Healer, and all that?' queried Amy.
That's right. After a bit you would be bound to start again, getting interested in all sorts of things, doing a bit of travelling, visiting friends. And so on,' I ended weakly.
'Maybe,' said Amy, not sounding very sure. 'I suppose one would just have to find comfort in Little Things, as the agony aunts tell us in the women's magazines.'
'Such as?'
'Well, one suggestion was that you should read all the old love letters. Personally, I can't imagine any more upsetting activity, but 1 suppose some women might be comforted.'
'Have you still got James' love letters?'
'No. I threw them away years ago. We were moving all over the place, and the less luggage one had the better.'
I felt that this was the robust response which one expected of Amy.
'I think Little Things like no snoring said Amy, becoming more animated, 'might be some comfort. And not having any shirts to iron. I must say that I should find that of considerable consolation in the midst of my sorrow.'
'You are a very flippant woman,' I said severely.
'And a hungry one,' said Amy rising. 'It's all this emotion. Come and have some supper in the kitchen.'
So we did.
John Jenkins had rung me before his departure to Portugal, and had also sent a pretty view of some gardens in Estoril with the sea in the background, of that peculiarly hard blue which all seaside postcards seem to show, whether of the Isle of Wight or Amalfi.
He was expected back on Saturday, and the final line of his postcard read:
"Will ring when I return. Love, John.'
The last two words, I felt sure, had been read with great interest by the Beech Green postman, but I was not particularly perturbed.
I half expected a telephone call during Saturday evening, but guessed that his flight might have been held up. No doubt I should hear tomorrow, I thought, as I went to bed.
But Sunday brought no call, and I assumed that he had stayed on in Portugal. It did occur to me in the early evening that I might ring his home, but George and Isobel Annett called in after evensong, and I thought no more of the
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