The kindly ones by Anthony Powell

experience to Mrs Gullick, who used to lend a hand in the kitchen, a small, elderly, red-faced woman, said to ‘give Gullick a time’, because she considered she had married beneath her. Mrs Gullick, although a staunch friend of Billson’s, was not prepared to accept psychic phenomena at any price.
    ‘Don’t go saying such ignorant things, dear,’ was her comment. ‘You need a tonic. You’re run down like. I thought you was pale when you was drinking your cup of tea yesterday. See the doctor. That’s what you want to do. Don’t worry about that ghost stuff. I never heard such a thing in all my days. You’re sickly, that’s what you are.’
    Billson seemed partially disposed to accept this display of incredulity, either because it must have been reassuring to think she had been mistaken about the ‘ghost’, or because any appeal to her own poor state of health was always sympathetic to her. At that early stage of the day, she was in any case less agitated than might have been expected in the light of the supernatural appearance she claimed to have witnessed. She was excited, not more than that. It was true she muttered something about ‘giving notice’, but the phrase was spoken without force, obviously making no impression whatever on Mrs Gullick. For me, it was painful to find people existed who did not ‘believe’ in the Stonehurst ghosts, whose uneasy shades provided an exciting element of local life with which I did not at all wish to dispense. My opinion of Mrs Gullick fell immediately, even though she was said by Edith to be the only person in the house who could ‘get any work out of’ Mercy. I found her scepticism insipid. However, a much more disturbing incident took place a little later in the morning. My mother had just announced that she was about to put on her hat for church, when Albert appeared at the door. He looked very upset. In his hand was a letter.
    ‘May I have a word with you, Madam?’
    I was sent off to get ready for church. When I returned, my mother and Albert were still talking. I was told to wait outside. After a minute or two, Albert came out. My mother followed him to the door.
    ‘I do quite understand, Albert,’ she said. ‘Of course we shall all be very, very sorry.’
    Albert nodded heavily several times. He was too moved to speak.
    ‘Very sorry, indeed. It has been a long time …’
    ‘I thought I’d better tell you first, ma’am,’ said Albert, ‘so you could explain to the Captain. Didn’t want it to come to him as a shock. He takes on so. I’ve had this letter since yesterday. Couldn’t bring myself to show you at first. Haven’t slept for thinking of it.’
    ‘Yes, Albert.’
    My father was out that morning, as it happened. He had to look in at the Orderly Room that Sunday, for some reason, and was not expected home until midday. Albert swallowed several times. He looked quite haggard. The flesh of his face was pouched. I could see the situation was upsetting my mother too. Albert’s voice shook when he spoke at last.
    ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I’ve been goaded to this.’
    He shuffled off to the kitchen. There were tears in his eyes. I was aware that I had witnessed a painful scene, although, as so often happens in childhood, I could not analyse the circumstances. I felt unhappy myself. I knew now why I had foreseen something would go wrong as soon as I had woken that morning.
    ‘Come along,’ said my mother, turning quickly and giving her own eyes a dab, ‘we shall be late for church. Is Edith ready?’
    ‘What did Albert want?’
    ‘Promise to keep a secret, if I tell you?’
    ‘I promise.’
    ‘Albert is going to get married.’
    ‘To Billson?’
    My mother laughed aloud.
    ‘No,’ she said, ‘to someone he knows who lives at Bristol.’
    ‘Will he go away?’
    ‘I’m afraid he will.’
    ‘Soon?’
    ‘Not for a month or two, he says. But you really must not say anything about it. I ought not to have told you, I suppose. Run along at