really—”
“Lottie? Is that you?” Mrs. Chilton’s chin was pulled so far into her neck that they had become one huge pink trunk of disapproval. The fact that Lottie was dressed did not appear to placate her. “You make your way up here this instant. Come on, girls. Both of you, before anyone else sees you.” She hauled her handbag under her chest, both hands tightly gripping its clasp. “Don’t you look at me like that, Celia. I am not leaving you here with this disreputable rabble. I am going to take both you girls home personally. Goodness gracious, what your poor mother is going to make of this, I don’t know.”
E XACTLY THREE WEEKS LATER C ELIA LEFT FOR SECRETARIAL school in London. It was meant to be a punishment, and Mrs. Holden was faintly put out that her daughter seemed not just unrepentant but rather indecently pleased to be going. She would stay with Mrs. Holden’s cousin in Kensington and, if she did well in her course, would have the chance to work at the cousin’s husband’s office in Bayswater. “London, Lots! And not a charity coffee morning or hideous sibling in sight.” Celia had been in an uncommonly good mood for the entire run up to her departure.
Lottie, meanwhile, had listened to Celia getting carpeted by her father, and wondered from the silent safety of their room what it was likely to mean for her. Nothing had been said about her going to London. She didn’t want to leave. But when she heard them muttering in lowered voices about “bad influences,” she knew it wasn’t Celia they were talking about.
THREE
I t had to be said: She was not a girl one could warm to, even if she did try terribly hard. There was nothing wrong with her, exactly; she was always helpful and tidy and usually polite (unlike Celia, she wasn’t prone to what her husband called “the hysterics”)—but she could be terribly short with people. Blunt enough to be considered rude.
When Mrs. Chilton had brought them both back on that dreadful Saturday afternoon (Mrs. Holden was still having nightmares about it), Celia had at least had the grace to look shamefaced. She had thrown her arms around her mother’s waist and pleaded, “Oh Mummy, I know I was awful, but I’m really, really sorry. Honestly I am.” Furious as Mrs. Holden was, she had been quite taken aback; even Mrs. Chilton’s granite expression had softened. It was very hard to resist Celia at the best of times.
Lottie, however, had failed to apologize at all. She had looked rather cross when told to say sorry for her behavior, and retorted that she had not only kept all her clothes on but would never have entered the water of her own free will, as well they all knew. Except she said “bloody knew,” which immediately got Mrs. Holden’s back up. It had to be said, there was still something of the fishwife in that girl, despite all her best efforts.
No, said Lottie. She would not apologize for her behavior. Yes, she was sorry that they hadn’t been entirely straightforward about where they were going. Yes, she had been there when Celia had stripped to her underwear—and not done anything about it. But she personally had been far more sinned against than sinning.
Mrs. Holden had become rather cross at this point and told Lottie to go to her room. She hated losing her temper, and it made her feel even more resentful toward the girl. Then Sylvia had come in and said—right in front of Mrs. Chilton, mind—that she had seen Celia practicing kissing on the back of her hand and that Celia had told her she had kissed “simply loads” of nice men and that she knew of a way of doing it without getting pregnant. And even though it was plain to Mrs. Holden that Sylvia had got carried away and was indulging in stories, she knew jolly well that Sarah Chilton would be unable to keep the child’s comment entirely to herself, and that had made her crosser with Lottie than ever. It had to be Lottie—there was no one else to be furious with.
“I
“Lottie? Is that you?” Mrs. Chilton’s chin was pulled so far into her neck that they had become one huge pink trunk of disapproval. The fact that Lottie was dressed did not appear to placate her. “You make your way up here this instant. Come on, girls. Both of you, before anyone else sees you.” She hauled her handbag under her chest, both hands tightly gripping its clasp. “Don’t you look at me like that, Celia. I am not leaving you here with this disreputable rabble. I am going to take both you girls home personally. Goodness gracious, what your poor mother is going to make of this, I don’t know.”
E XACTLY THREE WEEKS LATER C ELIA LEFT FOR SECRETARIAL school in London. It was meant to be a punishment, and Mrs. Holden was faintly put out that her daughter seemed not just unrepentant but rather indecently pleased to be going. She would stay with Mrs. Holden’s cousin in Kensington and, if she did well in her course, would have the chance to work at the cousin’s husband’s office in Bayswater. “London, Lots! And not a charity coffee morning or hideous sibling in sight.” Celia had been in an uncommonly good mood for the entire run up to her departure.
Lottie, meanwhile, had listened to Celia getting carpeted by her father, and wondered from the silent safety of their room what it was likely to mean for her. Nothing had been said about her going to London. She didn’t want to leave. But when she heard them muttering in lowered voices about “bad influences,” she knew it wasn’t Celia they were talking about.
THREE
I t had to be said: She was not a girl one could warm to, even if she did try terribly hard. There was nothing wrong with her, exactly; she was always helpful and tidy and usually polite (unlike Celia, she wasn’t prone to what her husband called “the hysterics”)—but she could be terribly short with people. Blunt enough to be considered rude.
When Mrs. Chilton had brought them both back on that dreadful Saturday afternoon (Mrs. Holden was still having nightmares about it), Celia had at least had the grace to look shamefaced. She had thrown her arms around her mother’s waist and pleaded, “Oh Mummy, I know I was awful, but I’m really, really sorry. Honestly I am.” Furious as Mrs. Holden was, she had been quite taken aback; even Mrs. Chilton’s granite expression had softened. It was very hard to resist Celia at the best of times.
Lottie, however, had failed to apologize at all. She had looked rather cross when told to say sorry for her behavior, and retorted that she had not only kept all her clothes on but would never have entered the water of her own free will, as well they all knew. Except she said “bloody knew,” which immediately got Mrs. Holden’s back up. It had to be said, there was still something of the fishwife in that girl, despite all her best efforts.
No, said Lottie. She would not apologize for her behavior. Yes, she was sorry that they hadn’t been entirely straightforward about where they were going. Yes, she had been there when Celia had stripped to her underwear—and not done anything about it. But she personally had been far more sinned against than sinning.
Mrs. Holden had become rather cross at this point and told Lottie to go to her room. She hated losing her temper, and it made her feel even more resentful toward the girl. Then Sylvia had come in and said—right in front of Mrs. Chilton, mind—that she had seen Celia practicing kissing on the back of her hand and that Celia had told her she had kissed “simply loads” of nice men and that she knew of a way of doing it without getting pregnant. And even though it was plain to Mrs. Holden that Sylvia had got carried away and was indulging in stories, she knew jolly well that Sarah Chilton would be unable to keep the child’s comment entirely to herself, and that had made her crosser with Lottie than ever. It had to be Lottie—there was no one else to be furious with.
“I
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