Holding On by Marcia Willett

didn’t discuss it.’ Fliss stretched and shook her head. ‘Never mind. Everyone sent their love. Ellen baked me a wonderful chocolate cake which we’ll have in a minute. Caroline was muttering about an Aran jersey you wanted her to wash. Grandmother and Uncle Theo were still railing against joining the Common Market. Grandmother does not, she informs me, feel like a European. “We are an island race . . .” and so on. Poor Fox is still suffering agonies but being very brave. Nothing changes at The Keep, thank goodness.’
    â€˜Thank goodness,’ he echoed. ‘I forgot to leave the jersey for Caroline. I brought it back in my grip. Never mind. By the way, I had a letter from Sooz yesterday. She’s on the brink of her exams and all of a twitter.’
    â€˜She’s longing for Bristol,’ said Fliss. ‘All those stories Kit told her about student parties and going to the Old Vic.’
    â€˜Thank God she’s going to be staying with Aunt Prue,’ said Mole, a flicker of the old terror touching his heart. ‘The thought of Sooz loose amongst the student life of Bristol hardly bears thinking about.’
    Fliss grinned at him, guessing at the terror, knowing how Mole felt about the safety of his loved ones.
    â€˜It’s the students I feel sorry for,’ she said. ‘They have no idea, poor things, what is about to be unleashed amongst them. Come and help me make the tea and we’ll pig out on Ellen’s cake.’

Chapter Six
    â€˜I know the quarter in Compton Road isn’t as nice as this,’ said Hal, ‘but we were terrifically lucky that old Mike and Sarah were going off to Singapore and let us rent their cottage. It’s been great being out in the country but we can’t expect this sort of luck every time. Once we’re down in Devon we’ll explore and see if we can find a hiring or a cottage to rent. You could have looked into it before, darling, when I was at sea, couldn’t you? No good moaning about it now.’
    The atmosphere in the tiny kitchen tingled with unspoken irritation, contrasting sharply with the peace of early evening. The door stood open on to the small patch of grass, edged about with cottage-garden flowers; heart’s-ease and cornflowers, lavender and feverfew. Beside the door a bush of jasmine blossomed, an old stone trough bright with pot marigolds tucked beneath its delicate sprays. A tall ragged fuchsia hedge sheltered this sunny corner from the narrow village street, and camomile grew between the paving slabs which led to the wooden gate. House martins were busy feeding their babies who crowded at the nest’s edge, jostling for position, clamouring for food, and a blackbird was singing in the ash tree by the old shed which doubled as a garage.
    Maria stood with her back to Hal, waiting for the potatoes to finish cooking. She heard the tinge of exasperation in his voice but was unable to pull herself out of her mood. She hated it when he criticised her, even obliquely. Surely he must see how impossible it was for her to go down to Devon on her own and sort out hirings? She fiddled with the saucepan, knowing that the usual crossroad was before her. She could turn to him, smiling, agreeing that they had been lucky with the little cottage in Boarhunt, that the quarter would be fine, that they could look for something else later. She could let herself fall in with his attitude that life was good fun, that problems were there to be solved and so on, but it meant relinquishing her grievances, allowing him to get away scot-free. It was important that he saw the sacrifices she was obliged to make, that the life of a naval wife wasn’t all coffee mornings and Ladies’ Nights.
    â€˜How could I go down?’ she asked. ‘How could I manage to get about? Can you imagine trying to view hirings by public transport?’
    Behind her, Hal closed his eyes for a moment. Ducking his head