London Pride by Beryl Kingston Page B

was talking to her, ‘Did you …? Flossie dear … Poor …’ But she was answering so quietlythey couldn’t hear what she was saying and presently all three grown-ups went into the kitchen and shut the door behind them.
    They talked for ever such a long time. It wasn’t until the sky was quite bright that Uncle Charlie took Aunty Connie home at last and Mum came slowly up the stairs to her bedroom.
    Joan and Peggy tiptoed out onto the landing to meet her, peering at her in the half light. Her face was puffy with weeping.
    â€˜What is it?’ Peggy asked.
    She turned on them as though they’d attacked her, her sagging face lifted into a blaze of fury. ‘Go back to bed this instant!’ she said. ‘Don’t you dare ask me! Don’t you dare!’
    â€˜Is it Dad?’ Joan said, made bold by fear.
    But persistence only made their mother worse. ‘Go back to bed!’ she screamed, stamping her feet. ‘Can’t you see what a state I’m in? Do as you’re told!’ And she pushed Joan away and blundered into her bedroom slamming the door behind her.
    The two girls retreated into their own high double bed, hearts pounding, shocked and afraid.
    â€˜It
is
Dad,’ Joan whispered. ‘He’s ill, that’s what it is. I’ll bet she went to the hospital block.’
    â€˜Or hurt,’ Peggy whispered. ‘He might be hurt.’
    But they couldn’t believe either possibility. Dad couldn’t be ill. He was
never
ill. Look how strong he was, the way he carried them all about. Even Joan and she was nearly grown up and ever so heavy. And he couldn’t be hurt either. Who would want to hurt him? They couldn’t think of anyone. Unless it was an accident.
    â€˜It was that raven,’ Peggy said.
    â€˜Shut up!’ Joan spat. ‘Shut up! Shut up! I don’t want to hear about ravens.’
    Peggy shut up at once, because she could see that Joan was getting shirty. But it
was
the raven. It
had
warned them. Ravens always knew. But what had that one known? That was the thing. Oh what
was
the matter?
    They were still whispering anxiously together when the clock struck four and the sky was quite blue, and theywhispered again when they woke four hours later after a ragged sleep.
    Mum was up and about. They could hear her setting the table and talking to Baby. Fancy Baby being up before they were.
    â€˜Perhaps he’s back,’ Peggy hoped, as they rushed to wash and dress.
    But when they got downstairs there was no sign of him, no boots by the hearth, no coat on the hook, no morning paper, nothing. His chair had been moved from the fire and set against the wall and, what was worse, there was no place laid for him at the table. Oh where was he? Wherever was he?
    â€˜Sit up to the table,’ Mum said, speaking sternly as if they’d done something wrong. The swelling of the previous night had all gone down but her face was set as if it were made of concrete. ‘We’re all behind this morning and I’ve got to be out by ten o’clock.’
    They sat down subdued and anxious, wondering whether they could ask her where she was going, as she filled the teapot and set it on the trivet. Neither of them could ever remember eating a meal at that table without their father and worry was taking away what little appetite they had.
    It was Baby who said what they were all thinking. ‘Where’s Dad?’ she piped as her mother put a plateful of eggs and bacon in front of her.
    Being Baby she got an answer. ‘Your Dad’s ill,’ Mum said flatly as she forked two rashers of bacon out of the pan for Peggy. ‘He was took bad yesterday evening at the Club. He’s in the hospital block.’
    â€˜What’s he got?’ Joan asked, her foxy face peaking with concern. ‘Is it the flu?’
    â€˜No, it’s not. It’s pneumonia,’ Mum said, still speaking flatly as though it