Clarke sighed. ‘Maybe I will.’

‘If they let you,’ Howard snapped bitterly.

‘Yes, if they let me,’ Clarke agreed.

MARCH 1915

23

VIVIAN HAD A visitor. The novelty was breathtaking. Mrs Henderson, the smiley lady she’d met in Mr Walker’s shop right back in October, had taken it upon herself to come and call. Vivian had seen her at church every week since they’d first met, and Mrs Henderson had always thrown a friendly nod or wave in her direction, but after the service she never lingered to chat. Vivian had thought of inviting her for a drink on Christmas Eve, but Aubrey had coughed at the suggestion and pointed out that Mrs Henderson wasn’t the proper sort of society. Instead he invited the vicar, the doctor and their wives. Both women were absolutely rigidly polite; Vivian thought her mother would have found them tolerable – if her mother had accepted the invitation to visit for Christmas, but she hadn’t. Vivian found them boring.

Mrs Henderson lived in a cottage at the end of the village; Vivian had had Mrs Rosebend point it out. It was a very overly decorated cottage. The slate roof slipped into carved gables, hung tiles and a dense stucco facade. It was one of three tied cottages that had been built by Aubrey’s grandfather in Victoria’s reign. The grandfather had no doubt been a generous employer, ahead of his time; however, the congested decor advertised not only his benevolence but also his lack of taste. There was a little iron gate, which was stiff and creaky. Vivian knew that because she’d twice very nearly called in on Mrs Henderson, but the slight resistance the gate gave was enough to put her off, bring her to her senses. How would she explain the nature of the call? ‘Oh, hello, I’m a little bored and lonely. Some months ago you encouraged me to garden, which turned out rather nicely, and because of that I thought you might want to be my friend.’ Pathetic! Ridiculous.

Mrs Henderson had left a card yesterday. It was hand-painted with a border of intertwining forget-me-nots; her calligraphy was exquisite. The card stated her intention of calling at 3 p.m., if convenient. Lovely manners. Without the warning she might have found Vivian dressed in trousers and digging in the back, which wouldn’t have been the thing. As it was, Vivian had time to instruct Cook to bake a sponge.

Mrs Henderson arrived at three on the dot. Vivian was relieved she hadn’t plumped for being fashionably late, as she’d been ready for an hour. As her guest entered the room, she stood, with her hand already extended to shake. Mrs Henderson ignored it and pulled her into a brief but heartfelt embrace. She had the smell of a woman of a certain age. Vivian didn’t quite understand the smell, but she was familiar with it. It sat amongst the clothes in her mother’s dressing room. It snapped bitterly at her nose and yet was comforting and welcome as she knew it was her future one day and she could not despise it.