Fog of Doubt by Christianna Brand Page A

she’s see-able. I think she’s going out.’
    â€˜Who with?’ said Damien, blurting it out before he could stop himself.
    â€˜I don’t know, my dear. Go and wait in the office and I’ll call her.’ (Blast the boy!—with Melissa off duty, Emma half-undressed for bed, probably by now sailing her bedroom slippers in the bath, and the animals singing lustily for their supper …) But she toiled upstairs and called up to the attic that Damien was here and Rosie called back that Damien could go to hell and Matilda replied that Rosie could tell him so herself, then, because she was not going to, and went into the nursery. She heard Rosie thump down the little attic stair and duly lean over the banister and call out to Damien that he could go to hell. Damien apparently came out into the hall and said something in reply, for Rosie called back that she couldn’t, she was in her pants and bra, and that anyway, if she had been as fully dressed as an esquimo or an igloo or whoever those people were, she wouldn’t, so he might just as well fuss off because there was no point in his staying. He evidently hung about for a little while; just as Tilda, unable to bear the thought of his hurt young face, was about to abandon the baby once more and go down and administer comfort, the front door banged. Oh, well, she thought; I really didn’t have time! She dumped the baby in its cot, where it stood looking over the high railed side with a trembling lower lip; in its white woolly sleeping-bag, with its halo of red-gold hair, it looked as though it were about to enter a sack-race in some celestial school-sports. She caught it up and kissed it, besought it not to add to the complications of life by weeping, and hurried away, thankfully closing one door at least behind her. Emma gave a couple of dismal yells, changed her mind and broke, instead, into loud singing. Outside, the fog was like a blank grey face peering in through the window-panes. Pray heaven, she thought, that it means that Raoul will be late.
    Thomas came in. He was bleary-eyed and coughing. ‘Tilda?’
    â€˜In the kitchen, darling.’
    Thomas appeared at the kitchen door. ‘Is he here yet?’
    â€˜No, thank goodness. I’m praying he’ll be late. I’m not nearly ready.’
    â€˜Perhaps he won’t come,’ said Thomas, hopefully. ‘The fog’s frightful. I almost thought I might have to leave the car.’
    â€˜You’re not late, though.’
    â€˜I skipped all but the positively dying. I’ll make a round of ’phone calls. Any messages?’ He drifted off towards the office and came back a moment later with a small piece of paper. ‘What’s this about Harrow Gardens?’
    â€˜I don’t know, darling,’ said Tilda, straining potatoes, her head held back to protect her make-up from the clouds of steam. ‘Harrow Gardens?’
    â€˜Yes, it looks as if I shall have to sweat out again—and in this fog. Oh, blast! “Ten weeks. D. and V. Three days.” Who took it?—Melissa, I suppose?’
    â€˜I suppose so, but she’s out,’ said Matilda, pushing past his unyielding form to get at the cooker again. ‘Do move , sweetie, how can anybody get round you?’
    â€˜What the hell does she mean, “Ten weeks. D. and V. Three days”?’
    â€˜I suppose she means that a ten-weeks-old baby has had diarrhoea and vomiting for three days: what else? Thomas, I shall go mad if you don’t move, darling.’
    â€˜Oh, hell!’ he said, looking savagely at the note on the paper and very slightly shifting his position to let her get past, immediately resuming it again. ‘I shall have to go.’
    â€˜My poor pet, ’ said Matilda absently, straining frozen peas.
    â€˜Where on earth’s Harrow Gardens? Somewhere round the Harrow Road, I expect, miles from here, of course, and off any known map route,