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About the Author

Mary Wesley was born as Mary Farmar in 1912 to an upper-class family and grew up a rebel who believed that she was her mother’s least favourite child. Like many girls of her background, she married for escape and her first marriage, to Lord Swinfen, was brief. In 1944, she met Eric Siepmann, an unsuccessful writer whom she adored. Their relationship, which was mercurial and bohemian, lasted until his death. Having taken the pen name Wesley from the family name of Wellesley she published her first novel when she was seventy years old and went on to write a subsequent nine dazzling bestsellers, including The Camomile Lawn. She was awarded the CBE in the 1995 New Years honours list and died in 2002.

Also by Mary Wesley

ALSO BY MARY WESLEY

The Camomile Lawn

Harnessing Peacocks

The Vacillations of Poppy Carew

Not That Sort of Girl

Second Fiddle

A Sensible Life

A Dubious Legacy

An Imaginative Experience

Part of the Furniture

Jumping the Queue

Mary Wesley

1

ALL WEEK GUS had been fussed by Matilda’s unusual activity. He stomped round the house peering in through the French windows, craning his neck through open doors, eyes bright, head to one side, listening. She could hear his feet slapping on the brick path as he moved from the kitchen door to the window. Soon he would leap onto the garden table, look in, try to catch her eyes. He did this inelegant jump flapping his wings, hitting them against a chair as he strained for the table. His blue eyes met hers.

‘Gus, I have to make this list, it’s important.’

The gander throttled gentle anxious noises in his throat, flapped his wings, raised his head, honked.

‘Shut up.’ She tried to ignore him, concentrating on the list: any trouble with the pump Peake’s garage they know its vagaries. For ordinary electric work Emersons in the High Street, telephone in book in kitchen table drawer.

Gus honked louder, slapping his feet on the wooden table.

‘Shut up!’ Matilda shouted without looking up. Butcher, baker, post office, garage, doctor, dentist. They won’t want those. Vet – they won’t need him, solicitor, bank, police. They would perhaps only need these. She checked the telephone numbers, put down her pen and went to the window.

‘Oh Gus.’

He nibbled her ear, making crooning noises as she stroked his cool neck sliding her hand from his head to his breast, feeling the depth of his feathers, their beauty and strength, parting them with her fingers until they touched the warm breastbone. Affected by her touch Gus excreted onto the table.

‘What a way to show love.’ Matilda moved away to the kitchen. Guessing which way she was going the bird jumped off the table and half ran, half walked to the kitchen door where he stood peering in, knowing he was not allowed inside the house.

Matilda ran water into a bucket. The telephone rang. Gus honked.