afraid that is my rule: we must speak of
summer warmth and sunlight only. There are many interesting diversions in this part of the world. I always arrange excursions during my stay in Broadstairs – I am quite established here, you
know – and I hope I may rely on you both, such interesting ladies as you are, to attend at least some of them?’
Delphine felt Julia’s eyes on her. In all of their travels they had made every effort to remain friendless. It had not been difficult – but this old woman, with her wrinkled face and
the Georgian jolliness which seemed thirty years out of date, seemed suddenly to have insinuated herself into their company.
‘I am sure we can attend at least one,’ said Delphine. ‘We are at Victory Cottage, if you wish to call.’
Mrs Quillian seemed pleased with this; goodbyes were said, and they moved apart. Julia tucked her hand in the crook of Delphine’s arm and steered her swiftly towards the door.
‘What on earth were you thinking of?’ she said in a severe whisper.
The vicar was conversing in an animated way with an elderly couple. Delphine was glad to be able to leave without speaking to him. She did not want to have to face down his disapproval of her,
nor be troubled by trying to decipher its source. On the church steps they passed Martha and her family, who were evidently arguing about dinner. Martha’s family were all tall and stocky,
like her, so that they made others look stunted; and Martha, dressed in her Sunday best, looked splendid, a lavender ribbon in her bonnet, her face relaxed and bright with pleasure.
As Delphine and Julia passed the group, a small child, who was evidently one of their number, slipped away in parallel. She was about seven years of age, dressed in a dark blue dress and a white
apron, and holding her straw bonnet in her hand.
‘Martha’s niece,’ said Julia. ‘They seem to adore her. She did not wish to go to Sunday school today, so came with the family.’
As she spoke, the little girl descended the steps in front of them and seemed about to cross the street, transfixed by the sight of an unruly gull that was pecking at a piece of rubbish. As she
came near, it stopped, and regarded her with its angry, yellow gaze.
Delphine glanced back towards the church; none of Martha’s family were watching. ‘Wait there,’ she said, running down the steps and taking the child’s arm. ‘Wait
for your family.’ The little girl turned and stared at her, round-eyed, as though she didn’t know what to do next.
‘Sarah! What have you been doing?’ It was Martha, looking more flushed than usual as she came quickly out of the church and down to the roadside. Her family filtered out onto the
steps and stood there, awkwardly gathered as though grouped together ready for a daguerreotype to be taken, their faces set. Delphine felt their eyes on her: curious, and not without hostility.
‘Sorry, madam,’ said Martha, taking the little girl’s hand. ‘She is so very particular about going here and there on her own, a little like me.’ She swallowed hard.
‘She is my sister’s girl, and my sister is ill, very often. Sarah can be a little wild.’
‘I was not thinking that,’ Delphine said. ‘I simply did not wish her to wander into the street and be crushed by something. I know from experience that the carts and horses
come round that turn at a lick sometimes.’
‘Yes, they do,’ said Martha. Then, gravely, ‘Did you hear that, Sarah? Did you hear what the lady is saying? Does it remind you of anything, Sarah? It’s what we say to
you, all the time, isn’t it? You must not wander off. It is not safe.’ There was a throb in her voice which surprised Delphine.
Sarah said nothing, clearly feeling that her words would have no bearing here; she merely nodded.
Martha curtseyed and said goodbye, and Julia came down the steps to Delphine. As Martha led Sarah away, they heard the little girl’s piping voice. ‘I am quick,’ she
summer warmth and sunlight only. There are many interesting diversions in this part of the world. I always arrange excursions during my stay in Broadstairs – I am quite established here, you
know – and I hope I may rely on you both, such interesting ladies as you are, to attend at least some of them?’
Delphine felt Julia’s eyes on her. In all of their travels they had made every effort to remain friendless. It had not been difficult – but this old woman, with her wrinkled face and
the Georgian jolliness which seemed thirty years out of date, seemed suddenly to have insinuated herself into their company.
‘I am sure we can attend at least one,’ said Delphine. ‘We are at Victory Cottage, if you wish to call.’
Mrs Quillian seemed pleased with this; goodbyes were said, and they moved apart. Julia tucked her hand in the crook of Delphine’s arm and steered her swiftly towards the door.
‘What on earth were you thinking of?’ she said in a severe whisper.
The vicar was conversing in an animated way with an elderly couple. Delphine was glad to be able to leave without speaking to him. She did not want to have to face down his disapproval of her,
nor be troubled by trying to decipher its source. On the church steps they passed Martha and her family, who were evidently arguing about dinner. Martha’s family were all tall and stocky,
like her, so that they made others look stunted; and Martha, dressed in her Sunday best, looked splendid, a lavender ribbon in her bonnet, her face relaxed and bright with pleasure.
As Delphine and Julia passed the group, a small child, who was evidently one of their number, slipped away in parallel. She was about seven years of age, dressed in a dark blue dress and a white
apron, and holding her straw bonnet in her hand.
‘Martha’s niece,’ said Julia. ‘They seem to adore her. She did not wish to go to Sunday school today, so came with the family.’
As she spoke, the little girl descended the steps in front of them and seemed about to cross the street, transfixed by the sight of an unruly gull that was pecking at a piece of rubbish. As she
came near, it stopped, and regarded her with its angry, yellow gaze.
Delphine glanced back towards the church; none of Martha’s family were watching. ‘Wait there,’ she said, running down the steps and taking the child’s arm. ‘Wait
for your family.’ The little girl turned and stared at her, round-eyed, as though she didn’t know what to do next.
‘Sarah! What have you been doing?’ It was Martha, looking more flushed than usual as she came quickly out of the church and down to the roadside. Her family filtered out onto the
steps and stood there, awkwardly gathered as though grouped together ready for a daguerreotype to be taken, their faces set. Delphine felt their eyes on her: curious, and not without hostility.
‘Sorry, madam,’ said Martha, taking the little girl’s hand. ‘She is so very particular about going here and there on her own, a little like me.’ She swallowed hard.
‘She is my sister’s girl, and my sister is ill, very often. Sarah can be a little wild.’
‘I was not thinking that,’ Delphine said. ‘I simply did not wish her to wander into the street and be crushed by something. I know from experience that the carts and horses
come round that turn at a lick sometimes.’
‘Yes, they do,’ said Martha. Then, gravely, ‘Did you hear that, Sarah? Did you hear what the lady is saying? Does it remind you of anything, Sarah? It’s what we say to
you, all the time, isn’t it? You must not wander off. It is not safe.’ There was a throb in her voice which surprised Delphine.
Sarah said nothing, clearly feeling that her words would have no bearing here; she merely nodded.
Martha curtseyed and said goodbye, and Julia came down the steps to Delphine. As Martha led Sarah away, they heard the little girl’s piping voice. ‘I am quick,’ she
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