Gary and Sergeant Whatsit’s got a staff car for the night and there’s only room for them two and us. Sorry,’ she added, glancing coolly at Annie.
Marion was not beautiful. She was not even pretty. It required a lot of hard work to make her sharp face,mousey hair and angular body attractive to men. She employed most of the devices available to her and spent a large portion of her small income on smoothing out the sharp corners of the raw material against which she had been fighting a running battle ever since she had first admitted to herself that she was plain, bordering on ugly. In her raw state Marion would have been passed unrecognised by the same men with whom, foundation-creamed , plucked, rouged and powdered, her contact could hardly have been more intimate. She was very aware of competition. Winnie, small, soft and silly, was the perfect companion. She laughed at Marion’s jokes and was impressed by her shrewdness. She was happy to sit smiling in the pub until Marion attracted the men and Winnie willingly linked arms with the soldier, sailor or airman who, for one reason or another, did not link arms with Marion. Annie, on the other hand, struck Marion as competition. She was not only attractive but pretty, if not downright beautiful. Added to which she had exactly the sort of personality blokes like best. As a consequence she would have to make her own way into the unreliable, fluctuating social scene of the Ledburton area for neither Marion nor Winnie would initiate her, a fact which, although Marion would not have considered it so, was no disadvantage. As Annie stubbed out her cigarette she caught sight of the silk stockings.
‘Blimey!’ she exclaimed, ‘where d’you get all them?’
‘Where d’you think!’ Marion snapped, enjoying Annie’s envy.
‘From an admirer!’ Winnie said smugly. ‘Three pair each, we got!’
‘Jeez!’ said Annie, deeply impressed. ‘He must’ve been feeling generous!’
‘Well, he was feeling something !’ Marion shrieked and the ensuing laughter echoed along the corridor and was even faintly audible to Rose as she knocked on the door of Alice’s room.
After supper and the washing-up and the setting of the table for tomorrow’s breakfast and the putting of porridge oats into a pan to soak, Rose had retired to her cottage where she had eaten the plate of chicken which, despite being reheated, was not quite hot enough to be pleasant. Try as she might – and for her own, complicated reasons – to harden her heart, she could not forget the look of exhaustion on Alice’s face when her day’s work was at last completed. Unable to stomach the chicken, Alice had given her portion to a cat that, discovering the farmhouse to be once again inhabited, was clearly planning to take up residence in it. Rose fretted for a while and then left her fireside, returned to the farmhouse, heated a pan of creamy milk, filled two cups and made her way through the house to Alice’s door.
‘Only hot milk,’ Rose said breezily. ‘Six tins of cocoa we ordered but d’you think I can put my hands on ’em?’ Alicewas at her mother’s desk. She looked, Rose thought, like an exhausted child.
‘We must reorganise that store cupboard tomorrow,’ Alice said, reaching for notepad and pencil.
‘Never you mind that now,’ said Rose, putting one of the cups of milk into Alice’s hand. Alice thanked her.
‘Bit of a baptism of fire, that supper!’ Rose stood, her own cup in her hand.
‘It certainly was!’ said Alice. ‘And the awful thing is that we have to do it again tomorrow… And the day after… And the day after that!’ She was trying to laugh but Rose felt, uncomfortably, that she was very close to tears. ‘Sit down,’ she invited Rose. ‘Join me, won’t you?’ She indicated one of the two armchairs but remained where she was, at her desk. Rose sat. She looked round the room and complimented Alice on how nicely she had arranged it.
‘The other bed’s for your
Marion was not beautiful. She was not even pretty. It required a lot of hard work to make her sharp face,mousey hair and angular body attractive to men. She employed most of the devices available to her and spent a large portion of her small income on smoothing out the sharp corners of the raw material against which she had been fighting a running battle ever since she had first admitted to herself that she was plain, bordering on ugly. In her raw state Marion would have been passed unrecognised by the same men with whom, foundation-creamed , plucked, rouged and powdered, her contact could hardly have been more intimate. She was very aware of competition. Winnie, small, soft and silly, was the perfect companion. She laughed at Marion’s jokes and was impressed by her shrewdness. She was happy to sit smiling in the pub until Marion attracted the men and Winnie willingly linked arms with the soldier, sailor or airman who, for one reason or another, did not link arms with Marion. Annie, on the other hand, struck Marion as competition. She was not only attractive but pretty, if not downright beautiful. Added to which she had exactly the sort of personality blokes like best. As a consequence she would have to make her own way into the unreliable, fluctuating social scene of the Ledburton area for neither Marion nor Winnie would initiate her, a fact which, although Marion would not have considered it so, was no disadvantage. As Annie stubbed out her cigarette she caught sight of the silk stockings.
‘Blimey!’ she exclaimed, ‘where d’you get all them?’
‘Where d’you think!’ Marion snapped, enjoying Annie’s envy.
‘From an admirer!’ Winnie said smugly. ‘Three pair each, we got!’
‘Jeez!’ said Annie, deeply impressed. ‘He must’ve been feeling generous!’
‘Well, he was feeling something !’ Marion shrieked and the ensuing laughter echoed along the corridor and was even faintly audible to Rose as she knocked on the door of Alice’s room.
After supper and the washing-up and the setting of the table for tomorrow’s breakfast and the putting of porridge oats into a pan to soak, Rose had retired to her cottage where she had eaten the plate of chicken which, despite being reheated, was not quite hot enough to be pleasant. Try as she might – and for her own, complicated reasons – to harden her heart, she could not forget the look of exhaustion on Alice’s face when her day’s work was at last completed. Unable to stomach the chicken, Alice had given her portion to a cat that, discovering the farmhouse to be once again inhabited, was clearly planning to take up residence in it. Rose fretted for a while and then left her fireside, returned to the farmhouse, heated a pan of creamy milk, filled two cups and made her way through the house to Alice’s door.
‘Only hot milk,’ Rose said breezily. ‘Six tins of cocoa we ordered but d’you think I can put my hands on ’em?’ Alicewas at her mother’s desk. She looked, Rose thought, like an exhausted child.
‘We must reorganise that store cupboard tomorrow,’ Alice said, reaching for notepad and pencil.
‘Never you mind that now,’ said Rose, putting one of the cups of milk into Alice’s hand. Alice thanked her.
‘Bit of a baptism of fire, that supper!’ Rose stood, her own cup in her hand.
‘It certainly was!’ said Alice. ‘And the awful thing is that we have to do it again tomorrow… And the day after… And the day after that!’ She was trying to laugh but Rose felt, uncomfortably, that she was very close to tears. ‘Sit down,’ she invited Rose. ‘Join me, won’t you?’ She indicated one of the two armchairs but remained where she was, at her desk. Rose sat. She looked round the room and complimented Alice on how nicely she had arranged it.
‘The other bed’s for your
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