The Innocents by Margery Sharp Page B

ever wholeheartedly into Bundles for Britain; that is until the war ended, and she could at last seek her only possible true consolation by coming back to collect Antoinette. Though it might be difficult to get an air passage quite immediately, she had several useful connections.
    Even at the moment of reading such sad news, the word “collect” struck me unfavourably; it is a parcel, some inanimate object, one collects, not a child. But perhaps I was oversensitive; and with Cecilia’s postscript, “Perhaps no need to tell Tony?” I thoroughly agreed. If Antoinette had no conception of a mother, no more had she of a father; and one learns to mourn soon enough.
    So I kept the news to myself.
    In the meantime we enjoyed such another exceptional spell of fine weather, Antoinette grew brown as a berry as we lived day after day in the garden. The very sunniness seemed to call for extra treats: extra strawberries, for instance, extra staying-up-lates to see the moon rise. Even Mrs. Brewer was affected; I remember her once taking it upon herself, at midmorning, while I sat knitting and watching Antoinette, to bring me out a glass of sherry—she who had never handled the decanter before. “Go on, haven’t you earned it?” said Mrs. Brewer—I cannot imagine why; I still think it just because the weather was so fine. Even the old fig tree at Woolmers bore to ripeness three out of seven fruit, of which the Admiral (always up early), had one, and Jessie (of necessity up even earlier), the other two. Mrs. Brewer in relating this added that she was fond of a fig herself, she always considered a fig quite a treat—which in an obscure way made me appreciate all the more her bringing me out a glass of sherry.
    I sipped it, made it last, with I confess great enjoyment. I had never seen my garden look prettier with alyssum and snapdragons, nor my artichokes handsomer: it was the moment when their huge cobalt-blue thistle-heads were at the very peak of blueness—though to say “moment” is to do the plant an injustice. There is nothing flash-in-the pan about an artichoke; they would swagger in full glory in a week or two more.
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    The war was already ending. At last it ended. The bonfire lit on the heath, even if several ration books were tossed into it all too prematurely, nevertheless symbolized the triumph of light over darkness. I was particularly happy that Antoinette, whom I kept up to see the glow at least (the occasion so historic), wasn’t frightened at all, only surprised and pleased. Of course she was used to quite spectacular sunsets— see where Christ’s blood streams in the firmament —but never before had seen the heath where she rode her pony suddenly and inexplicably ablaze.
    Not so long since, she’d have been frightened to the point of vomiting. Now she squirmed against me not in fear but in pleasure, and I could put her into bed, and go to bed myself, confident of a good night’s sleep for us both.
    As the war ended some of our pretty young wives (the lucky ones) welcomed back husbands safe and sound and moved away with them. Others were less lucky; but there was no such Spring-tide of mourning as I remembered in 1918. One husband who came back and stayed amongst us was Peter Amory, so disabled that to get his wife with child again from a wheelchair was another triumph of light over dark, over war and all that is against life, and I believe it was for this rather than for his medals the village regarded him as a hero.
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    Though Cecilia had connections, so evidently had many another impatient passenger, with civil airlines. The first Christmas of peace passed, then the New Year; it was spring again before she was able to set a date for seeking her only consolation—and even that not entirely firm. (“ If only my darling Rab were still alive!” wrote Cecilia; by which I hoped she was realizing how much she owed him all round.) However I