A Winter's Child by Brenda Jagger Page B

shells.
    But Edward had always preferred Dorothy to prepare his meals herself, trusting her as he trusted no one else with the correct balance of his diet. And cheerfully, with no thought of praise, she had performed miracles of ingenuity, while the German blockade had lasted, to tempt his appetite. For he had needed a clear head and an untroubled constitution to cope with the work of Faxby’s military tribunal which, from the start of conscription in 1916, had sat in judgement on those who wished to be excused from answering their country’s call to arms.
    An arduous task, he had made Dorothy well aware of it, and by no means a popular one. For these conscripts, after all, were not being sent out to die on the distant shores of our imperial territories in India and Africa, allowing the wounded – who would be professional soldiers in any case – plenty of time to heal on the long sea voyage home. This war was being fought next door, as it were, in France, a matter of a few hours away at most and the sight of those hospital ships constantly discharging recently and gruesomely maimed men into our ports had been intensely distressing to everyone.
    â€˜Yes,’ murmured Claire who, having loaded those ships, could think of nothing else she wished to say. Nor could she really be expected to appreciate the pain it had cost Edward to fetch her from Faxby Station that day since one of the porters, refused exemption by Edward’s tribunal, had lost both legs somewhere near Bethune and was often to be found in the station yard propelling himself in a wooden box on wheels and begging. Edward could never look at him without a shudder.
    â€˜How terrible,’ said Claire.
    â€˜Dreadful,’ agreed Edward although they were very far from meaning the same thing.
    But one point, at least, could brook no argument. The war was over. That much was quite certain and Edward, in common with many others who had lost nothing by it, believed it best forgotten.
    â€˜My dear, why speak of it? What can be gained by dwelling on what – thank God – is past? One must look forward, not back, and I cannot tell you how much it delights me to see butter again. Although when one might expect to lay hands on a decent foie gras or a ripe Camembert I dare not imagine.’
    Claire smiled and lowered her head.
    â€˜I will help you unpack,’ said Dorothy. And they went upstairs together to the rose pink bedroom Dorothy had decorated to suit the tastes of her own girlhood and in which Claire had never felt more than a guest.
    â€˜Heavens – what terrible luggage.’ But Dorothy was a practical woman who had never been able to afford the luxury of squeamishness and went down on her knees at once, undoing straps and buckles with large capable hands, perfectly at ease with Claire when their relationship remained at the level of undergarments, the stitching of frayed hems, train timetables, the roughness or smoothness of a Channel crossing. Slowly, deftly, she sorted her daughter’s possessions into neat piles as she had always done on her return from school, one for the laundry-maid, one for the sewing room, one for the local jumble sale. And if it shocked or surprised her that the starched cotton camisoles and petticoats with which she had sent Claire away had been discarded in favour of what could only be called by the new and decidedly wicked word ‘lingerie’ she gave no sign, simply whisking those flimsy garments of silk and lace and crepe de Chine quickly away before – Claire supposed – the maids should see them.
    For half an hour the two women worked side by side, Dorothy talking quietly and, she hoped, safely of the domestic and parochial issues which not only dominated her life but with which she was at ease, the delicate matter of who should present the prizes at Upper Heaton’s Annual Flower Show, the eternal servant problem particularly now that the girls were returning from