She ignored the tea and forgot that the sky was blue. It was too late to send for the police. All that could be done now was to tell Jackie to go, in the most tactful terms. It would be better not to offend him. Perhaps he carried a gun only to help him in his robberies; it was equally possible that he loved his gun and longed to use it. As she brushed her hair she remembered that Harry had asked for the gun, but she wasn’t sure what had happened in the minute before she entered the kitchen. Harry had asked for the gun; she didn’t know if Jackie had given it to him. If Harry had the gun there was nothing to worry about, except that Jackie might be equally ready to use a bread-knife, or a poker. In any case, Harry would never shoot anyone; he was too good-natured.
She thought tenderly of Harry, and then with a rush of anger remembered how unfairly everyone treated him. She thought of the poets who had died of starvation, drink, drugs, neglect, tuberculosis, and drowning. She would save Harry from all of these. She put down the hair brush and went to her bookcase. There was an issue of the Poets’ Journal devoted to Harry.
She sat down on the bed to read more comfortably.
Prudence came in, with the violence and speed of someone being pursued by the police. It was her usual method of entry in the morning.
“Reading?” she asked suspiciously.
Hester stood up, and slipped the magazine back into the bookcase. Prudence watched carefully, then examined the bookcase.
“Reading poetry at this time in the morning!” she exclaimed in wonder. “You’re a bit nuts, aren’t you?”
“Is that all you wanted to say?”
“No. I’m going to that tennis club dance thing tonight. Terribly dull, I expect, and the only one who asked me was that loutish boy Baron. You know, he’s going to be an accountant. He talks all the time about maths and the Pony Club. It’s going to be absolutely hideous but I thought I’d go. So I was wondering if I could borrow that blue-and-white thing of yours.”
“I thought you despised all my clothes.”
“I’ve got practically none of my own. Father thinks when he’s bought me a gym blouse and hockey shorts that I’m provided with clothes till next summer.”
“Of course you can borrow it, Prudence. It would be nice to have a few more clothes,” Hester said, sighing.
“I told you I was going to take up dress-making. I’ll be able to make myself super things for next to nothing,” Prudence said cheerfully.
“You’ll still have to buy the material.”
“I’ll take it out of the housekeeping money. We cook in margarine from now on. And I believe you can live terribly cheaply on lentil soup and potatoes. It’s a healthy diet, too, if we take a little cod liver oil now and then.”
“It seems a bit hot today for lentil soup. Do you want to try on the blue-and-white?”
“Please.” She went to the wardrobe and looked in. “I must say you haven’t got very many clothes, either. Have you been reading all those articles about how to dress well on ten pounds a year? They’re awfully good so long as you don’t mind wearing a sleeveless cotton frock and sandals at Christmas and you have a rain-coat already. Oh, Hester, aren’t you excited? Father’s going to make piles of money. Maurice is helping him and we’ll all be rich and have special clothes for looking at football matches.”
Hester sat down on the bed again. “I wish you wouldn’t believe in fairy stories, Prudence. The only talent Father has with money is for losing it. You must have noticed. I’m not going to let him have anything to do with this scheme of Maurice’s. I’m going to stop him.”
“I won’t let you,” Prudence said, from the heart of the blue-and-white dress. “It’s our only chance. Otherwise we’ll moulder away for years, drinking lentil soup and making petticoats out of old flour bags.” Her head came out of the top of the dress. “Do you think it’s too tight?”
Hester looked at it critically. “No, really not. It shows you up a bit, but you have quite a decent figure to show. I wish you wouldn’t think about money all the time, Prudence. It’s not right. There are lots of things in life more important than money.”
Prudence looked at herself in the mirror. “If I can’t get on the stage I might be a model,” she said appreciatively. “You get paid lots of money, marry a millionaire, and have your photograph in the papers nearly every day. In fact, you get far more publicity than Florence Nightingale ever had. How many people ever pinned her up over the dressing-table?”
“You have to learn to walk and wear clothes first.”
“Walking and wearing clothes are things that practically the entire human race can do, so I suppose I could learn.”
There was another tap at the door. “Breakfast is served, Miss,” said a solemn voice.
They went down to breakfast, which consisted of strong tea and fried bread. “Still, it’s nice not having to cook it,” Prudence said.
Hester looked at the fried bread with hatred and began again to rehearse her scene with Jackie.
Her father was filling a notebook with small, neat figures. “Maurice is coming over early,” he said. “We have business to consider.”
Hester postponed the discussion with Jackie, and began to make plans for the interception of Maurice.
THURSDAY (2)
MAURICE stepped out of the car. His square, clean face was good-humoured, happy, and appreciative, as it so often was. He looked up at the trees and the sky, participating in the beauty of the summer morning. He seemed as solid and dependable as a pewter mug. Hester, coming through the garden to meet him, found his appearance infinitely reassuring.
“Good morning, Maurice. Have you the time – could I talk to you for a few minutes?” Although she knew that she trusted him, her voice was less cordial than usual.
“Of course, Hester,” he said readily, and she wondered if she heard wariness behind the warmth.
They walked through the garden towards the roses which were rashly opening their hearts to the sun.
“It’s so hard to say what I want to say,” she murmured in confusion.
“Am I wrong, Hester, in thinking you want to ask my advice about Harry?” he asked her quietly.
“Yes, Maurice, you’re wrong, absolutely wrong. The last thing I want to hear is more advice about Harry.”
“I don’t want to be a bore, Hester, but you won’t marry him, will you?”
“So you think that would be a mistake?”
“I do.”
“Everyone thinks it would be a mistake. They keep trying to see what it would do to me. They never think at all what it might do to Harry. They don’t stop to consider that Harry may be more important than me.”
“But, my dear Hester, he isn’t.”
“Keats was more important than Fanny Brawne. Shakespeare was more important than Ann Hathaway.”
“Hester, you’re not seriously comparing Harry to Shakespeare,” he protested with a humorous under-tone that she deeply resented.
“You’re not even trying to be serious, Maurice, and I don’t want to discuss Harry. Don’t look so anxious, Maurice. If I decide to marry him that’s my business. I may even wait until he asks me before I make up my mind.”
“If you don’t want to discuss Harry, what do you want to discuss?” he asked patiently.