Crooked Wreath by Christianna Brand Page A

hysterical unease of the day. Only Ellen kept up a cheerful insouciance, half maddening, half heartbreaking. Bella fed biscuits to her dog, a small white whiskery animal called Bobbin which sat up with a rocklike steadiness, holding its mouth wide open to receive the fragments which, from a really astonishing distance, she threw to it. Edward created a diversion by eating one of the biscuits. “Rather nice, though a bit hard. Is this what the poor troops have, called iron rations?”
    â€œEdward, don’t be so aw ful, how can you eat it? It’s full of all sorts of strange animals, unfit for human consumption.”
    Peta began to neigh horribly; Edward went rather green. “You don’t really think there’s horse and guts and things in it, do you?”
    â€œYes, of course there is,” said Claire. “It says so on the packet.”
    â€œHorrible squirmy entrails, Teddy, all minced up!”
    Edward clapped his hand to his stomach and abruptly rushed off indoors. “There now, Peta, you’ve gone and upset him again!” said Bella; but she was too hot and weary to do more than look anxiously towards the house from the depths of her deck chair. “I hope he’ll remember to bring the little wireless out for the news; what time is it?–about twenty past eight?” For the next twenty minutes she fretted and lectured without, however, doing anything constructive, and was then rewarded by the sight of her grandson reappearing, apparently quite well and cheerful, from the house, and carrying the portable with him. He put it on the edge of the balustrade and, as nobody questioned him, said proudly to Peta: “I was frightfully sick!”
    â€œI don’t believe you were at all,” said Peta.
    â€œWell, what do you think I’ve been doing all this time?”
    â€œHaving a fugue, I expect,” said Claire.
    Edward turned slightly pale, but after a moment his face cleared. “Well, I haven’t actually because now I come to think of it I can remember perfectly well. I’ve been putting a film in my camera. I noticed it on the front terrace and it reminded me about taking some photographs of the baby tomorrow, Ellen.”
    â€œWell, there–so you weren’t being sick!”
    â€œNot all the time,” said Edward. “Naturally.”
    Ellen’s interest in the B.B.C. news bulletins was earnest, trustful and unflagging. She prided herself a little upon taking an intelligent interest (for a woman) in the progress of the war. When, therefore, at this moment Antonia’s voice was uplifted in sorrow from her cot, she looked in despair at the rest of the family. “She would! Miles before her time! Now I shall miss the news.”
    Claire scrambled to her feet. “I’ll go for you, Ellen.”
    Ellen would much rather that Claire did nothing for Antonia; but she would not permit herself to indulge in silly “feelings” and she said, as graciously as possible: “Well, all right–thanks very much. I’m afraid this means that you’ll have to change her though. Anyway, the potty’s under the cot, the little pink one with the teddy bear on it.”
    Stephen Garde, walking with his quick, short steps through the open front door and across the hall to the terrace on the far side of the house, paused at the door of the drawing-room. “Hallo, Claire–what goes on?”
    She was standing before the high white mantelpiece, staring down with dismay at a mass of broken glass, spilt water and scattered flowers. “Oh, Stephen– look at this!”
    He glanced up at the wreath over Serafita’s portrait. “Not Edward again?”
    She looked at him helplessly. “I suppose it must have been. He did come in a little while ago. Peta’s been teasing him; he was a little bit agitated …” She dropped her hands to her sides. “I do feel worried, Stephen; this is the second