considerably.’
This led to a discussion of holidays. Fenella and her parents always went abroad. So, it seemed, did Simon Gilchrist. For a time, therefore, Jenny was excluded from the conversation - which, perhaps, was why Fenella had steered the talk to this topic.
But presently, after remarking that the supervision of his house would preclude his going far afield that year, Simon added, ‘I might possibly manage a week at the White House.’
At this Jenny, who had been wondering how best to excuse herself and leave them together, alerted. ‘The White House?’ she exclaimed. ‘You don’t mean the hotel at Herm, do you?’
‘Yes, I do. Do you know it?’ he asked.
‘Only from the outside. We’ve never stayed there.’
‘I didn’t realize that you and your grandparents had ever been abroad, Jenny,’ said Fenella, as if she suspected the younger girl of making something up in order not to be left out of the conversation.
‘Herm isn’t abroad. It’s one of the Channel Islands,’ said Jenny.
‘Oh, I see,’ said Fenella dismissively. ‘Yes, I remember now. You went on a package holiday to Guernsey some years ago, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, and from Guernsey we took a day trip to Sark, and two or three excursions to Herm,’ answered Jenny cheerfully. She knew that Fenella’s reference to the
‘package’ nature of the holiday had been as calculated as her earlier remark about Jenny’s dress being ‘one of your home-mades’. But such sly digs, although not lost upon Jenny, were wasted on her. They could only have humiliated anyone who, like Fenella and her mother, valued everything by how much it cost.
‘What did you think of Sark?’ asked Simon Gilchrist.
‘Unfortunately the weather was not very good the day we went there, so we didn’t get the best impression of it.
We preferred Herm.’
‘Sark is very fine. But, like you, I like Herm the best,’ he said. ‘My grandparents retired to Guernsey. For years, my sister and I spent the greater part of our holidays with them.’
‘I daresay the Channel Islands are very pretty, but I prefer islands like Majorca where one can be certain of sunbathing every day,’ said Fenella.
‘It’s an advantage, I agree, but one can enjoy oneself without the sun,’ remarked Simon Gilchrist. ‘A couple of years ago I spent a wet but enjoyable week in a place called Les Eyzies in the Perigord region of France.’
‘Oh, really? What is the attraction there?’ she inquired.
‘Prehistoric cave drawings and rock shelters. The National Museum of Prehistory is there, and also several caves full of strange crystals.’
‘It wouldn’t appeal to me, I’m afraid,’ said Fenella. ‘I hate damp, dark underground places.’
‘Is Lascaux in that area?’ asked Jennifer.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Oh, I wish you would tell my grandfather about it. He’s very much interested in prehistory,’ she said unguardedly.
Immediately afterwards she regretted allowing her guard to slip, and made the need for a handkerchief, left in the pocket of her white coat, a rather feeble excuse for escaping.
She left the party as early as possible and, as she walked home, her thoughts reverted to Susan Ellis’s suggestion that Jenny should join her on the Spanish island when school broke up in July. Perhaps it would be a good idea to get away from Farthing Green for a few weeks, and see life in a new perspective.
What Susan did not know was that, in a sense, her stay-at-home friend was far more widely travelled than she was.
Jenny’s father had been in the Foreign Service. Jenny had been born in Washington D.C., had learnt to walk in South Africa, and to read and write in Italy. It was during the Rome posting that her parents had come to England for Christmas, and died there. Jenny had not been with them on the fatal shopping expedition because she had had a cold. Instead, she had spent the afternoon making paper chains. Shortly before tea time, the local policeman had
This led to a discussion of holidays. Fenella and her parents always went abroad. So, it seemed, did Simon Gilchrist. For a time, therefore, Jenny was excluded from the conversation - which, perhaps, was why Fenella had steered the talk to this topic.
But presently, after remarking that the supervision of his house would preclude his going far afield that year, Simon added, ‘I might possibly manage a week at the White House.’
At this Jenny, who had been wondering how best to excuse herself and leave them together, alerted. ‘The White House?’ she exclaimed. ‘You don’t mean the hotel at Herm, do you?’
‘Yes, I do. Do you know it?’ he asked.
‘Only from the outside. We’ve never stayed there.’
‘I didn’t realize that you and your grandparents had ever been abroad, Jenny,’ said Fenella, as if she suspected the younger girl of making something up in order not to be left out of the conversation.
‘Herm isn’t abroad. It’s one of the Channel Islands,’ said Jenny.
‘Oh, I see,’ said Fenella dismissively. ‘Yes, I remember now. You went on a package holiday to Guernsey some years ago, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, and from Guernsey we took a day trip to Sark, and two or three excursions to Herm,’ answered Jenny cheerfully. She knew that Fenella’s reference to the
‘package’ nature of the holiday had been as calculated as her earlier remark about Jenny’s dress being ‘one of your home-mades’. But such sly digs, although not lost upon Jenny, were wasted on her. They could only have humiliated anyone who, like Fenella and her mother, valued everything by how much it cost.
‘What did you think of Sark?’ asked Simon Gilchrist.
‘Unfortunately the weather was not very good the day we went there, so we didn’t get the best impression of it.
We preferred Herm.’
‘Sark is very fine. But, like you, I like Herm the best,’ he said. ‘My grandparents retired to Guernsey. For years, my sister and I spent the greater part of our holidays with them.’
‘I daresay the Channel Islands are very pretty, but I prefer islands like Majorca where one can be certain of sunbathing every day,’ said Fenella.
‘It’s an advantage, I agree, but one can enjoy oneself without the sun,’ remarked Simon Gilchrist. ‘A couple of years ago I spent a wet but enjoyable week in a place called Les Eyzies in the Perigord region of France.’
‘Oh, really? What is the attraction there?’ she inquired.
‘Prehistoric cave drawings and rock shelters. The National Museum of Prehistory is there, and also several caves full of strange crystals.’
‘It wouldn’t appeal to me, I’m afraid,’ said Fenella. ‘I hate damp, dark underground places.’
‘Is Lascaux in that area?’ asked Jennifer.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Oh, I wish you would tell my grandfather about it. He’s very much interested in prehistory,’ she said unguardedly.
Immediately afterwards she regretted allowing her guard to slip, and made the need for a handkerchief, left in the pocket of her white coat, a rather feeble excuse for escaping.
She left the party as early as possible and, as she walked home, her thoughts reverted to Susan Ellis’s suggestion that Jenny should join her on the Spanish island when school broke up in July. Perhaps it would be a good idea to get away from Farthing Green for a few weeks, and see life in a new perspective.
What Susan did not know was that, in a sense, her stay-at-home friend was far more widely travelled than she was.
Jenny’s father had been in the Foreign Service. Jenny had been born in Washington D.C., had learnt to walk in South Africa, and to read and write in Italy. It was during the Rome posting that her parents had come to England for Christmas, and died there. Jenny had not been with them on the fatal shopping expedition because she had had a cold. Instead, she had spent the afternoon making paper chains. Shortly before tea time, the local policeman had
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