Tall Poppies by Janet Woods Page A

fetched the woman’s best nightgown and some clean bed linen.
    Soon, she and Florence had their mistress clean and tidy. There was a gold cross on the dressing table. Livia placed it on her arthritic hands, which were in an attitude of prayer. Between them, they cleaned and tidied the room.
    â€˜She looks ever so peaceful, like she’s an angel in heaven already,’ Florence said reverently.
    Livia couldn’t stop the flow of her tears.
    They reported that they’d finished to Mrs Mortimer. She came upstairs to gaze at the still figure in the bed, and didn’t bother to hide the faint smile as she taunted, ‘Goodbye, Mrs Sangster.’
    The stomach of her former mistress rattled.
    Mrs Mortimer took a hasty step backwards and Livia became the recipient of a satisfyingly alarmed look when the woman said hastily, ‘She made a noise  . . . are you sure she’s dead?’
    â€˜Doctor said she were dead. I’ve never seen a corpse get up and walk away yet, though I’ve seen them act a bit lively on occasion  . . . of course, there’s always a first time,’ Florence said. ‘Happen she might leap right off that bed and dance a jig after being confined to it for all that time. She might even find the strength to strangle you.’
    â€˜You’ve only been employed here for a short time, Hutchins. Be very careful if you want to keep your job.’
    â€˜I can’t say I do want to keep it,’ Florence said cheerfully. ‘I was doing the doctor a favour when I came here, I reckon, not looking for a permanent position. He said young Livia here needed a bit of a hand.’
    Livia gave a watery grin when Mrs Mortimer turned on her heel and stalked off, her mouth pulled tight.

Four
    It was the kind of day when the sky would have vanished into a pale sheet of nothingness, had the land not been marked by a scribble of haggard winter trees.
    The funeral was over. The service had yielded its last mournful note and Margaret Sangster’s coffin accepted into the dark maw of the grave.
    Livia paid her respects, standing behind the invited mourners with the cook and shedding her last few tears for her former mistress. Both of them wore black armbands provided by the major.
    Nobody’s grief was more than her own, Livia thought, for she’d genuinely liked Mrs Sangster, and had been saddened by her demise.
    Major Henry was tall and distinguished in his uniform. He greeted his guests with a firm handshake and short, gruff, dog-like barks of words.
    â€˜Mr Phillips  . . . gratified  . . . Margaret would have been pleased. Ah yes, Peabody  . . . so glad. A sad day  . . . your presence most appreciated.’
    He was socially elegant. ‘Anthea Jennings, isn’t it?’ His glance wandered over the woman he was addressing and his tongue flicked out to touch his neatly trimmed grey moustache. ‘You look well, m’dear. How’s young Walter?’
    â€˜Gone, two years since. May 1916. He was one of the crew on the Invincible. ’
    â€˜Jutland, was it? Lord, I hadn’t heard. Sorry.’ His hand closed over the woman’s. ‘So many of our boys  . . . heroes, all.’
    â€˜Richard  . . . is he here?’
    â€˜I sent word  . . . the boy can’t be spared, of course. A pity. He’ll be sorry he missed his mother’s funeral. They were very close. You don’t look a day older, Anthea. We must get together before I go back to London  . . . talk over old times, perhaps. Is Willie still abroad?’
    When the woman nodded and gave a faint blush, Livia exchanged a glance with Connie.
    Mrs Mortimer gave a rather conspicuous sob and swayed on her feet. She was elegant in a black, fur-trimmed coat, ankle-length skirt and deep-crowned hat. She wore a brooch of glittering red and white stones in the shape of a butterfly. There was no denying