Born of Woman by Wendy Perriam Page A

one side tooth; dressed in some skittish mauvey thing instead of seemly black.
    People thronging all around him, invading Hester’s privacy. Half of them had shunned his invitation, yet the house still bulged with bodies. He crept towards the hearth. Despite the sun, he felt chilled and corpse-like from the inside out. However many fires they lit, the house refused to thaw. Jennifer had tried to tame it, but it still shrugged off her overtures. It was an uneasy mixture now of her and Hester—Jennifer’s blaze and polish on the ground floor, and the barer, greyer death-knell of the bedrooms.
    Someone joined him by the hearth. ‘How’s Matthew?’
    Lyn jumped. ‘Er … fine.’
    â€˜Couldn’t he come up?’
    â€˜Well, no, he …’
    â€˜Are his boys doing well?’
    â€˜Yes. Very.’
    â€˜Any sons yourself yet, Lyn?’
    â€˜N … no.’ He turned away, grabbed a sausage roll to stop his mouth. You had to breed up here. Sons meant extra pairs of hands to help with the harvest or the lambing, to carry on the line. They’d be wondering what was wrong with him. A strong young wife like Jennifer should be swelling out by now. He pushed through the crowd to find her. She was surrounded by a group of older women, all mobbing her with questions.
    â€˜Such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Winterton. We always wondered why you’d never …’
    â€˜How did you come to meet your husband, dear?’
    â€˜Reckon you’d like to stay up here—make the house more modern? Remember what I told you. If there’s anything you want, even if it’s only a chat or a …’
    â€˜I understand no one’s found a Will?’
    Lyn winced, tried to catch Jennifer’s eye. She had created a sort of party all around her—fancy clothes, fancy food, hum of conversation. Hester would have hated it. Hester kept her doors shut, her parlour blinds drawn down. Even the vicar had swapped his tea for Scotch and was stuffing himself with cake.
    â€˜Delicious chocolate gâteau, Mrs Winterton. You’re a very good cook, I see.’
    â€˜It’s my job, Mr Arnold. I was trained in domestic science.’
    â€˜Oh, you cook for a living, do you?’ Little flakes of chocolate spraying from his lip.
    â€˜No, nothing as grand as that. I do a few dinner parties for people, or things like weddings, sometimes. And I sell my stuff—you know, jams, chutneys, pâtés, to the local delicatessen.’
    Lyn slipped into the circle. ‘She does it for fun ,’ he muttered. ‘Just a hobby.’ Didn’t want them saying he couldn’t keep her, that his own job was underpaid and tied to Matthew’s whim, that Matthew paid the bills but kept the purse-strings.
    The vicar stroked his chin, left a smear of chocolate icing. ‘Pity you didn’t meet your mother-in-law. She was a very inventive cook, you know. Found ingredients in the fields and hedgerows and concocted all sorts of things, even her own medicines. And she was the only one up here who still made cheeses.’
    â€˜ Cheeses ?’
    â€˜Oh yes, you’ve probably seen the moulds. They’re …’
    Lyn tried to manoeuvre his wife into a corner, get her on her own. ‘Ask them to leave ,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t feel well.’
    â€˜Hush, darling—they’ll hear you. Go and lie down for a minute. They’ll understand. They’ll be leaving soon, in any case.’
    â€˜No, they won’t, they’ll …’ He was talking to the wall. His wife had been swallowed up again.
    â€˜Mr Winterton?’
    He jumped. Another face ballooning from his childhood—grizzled perm, scatty hat, eyes lost in their wrinkles. Mrs Wise from Alwinton smiling with her off-white china teeth. He tried to make his mouth work, use solemn straitjacketed words to fit a death. A blob of trifle was quivering on her