They both stared straight ahead, making what seemed a solemn declaration of friendship without once exchanging a glance. That would have been too much.

“I’ve just remembered, I’ve got something for Gretchen,” said Jean, taking Martha’s envelope from her bag and laying it on the dashboard. This seemed to break the spell and draw the conversation back to its proper sphere—Gretchen, Margaret, the story, work. “I met a friend of hers from St. Cecilia’s today. She wanted me to pass on a little gift.”

“What a nice thought,” said Howard. “She’ll be so pleased.”

Jean’s mother was keeping watch at the window as the car drew up outside, a pale, ghostly figure in the unlit room.

“That man brought you home again,” she remarked as the door shut. “I thought you were going to Chelsea.”

“I did. Look what I brought you.” Jean handed over the Peter Jones bag and smiled as her mother peered inside with a childlike delight in new things.

“A nightgown. Just what I need. Oh, clever you!” She held it against herself, extending one ankle and striking a pose as though modeling a ball gown.

“Very elegant,” said Jean. “You’ll easily be the best-dressed person in the house tonight.”

“Did you get yourself anything nice?” her mother asked and then a shadow of dismay clouded her face. There wouldn’t have been enough money for two such treats.

“Oh, I don’t need anything,” said Jean, still feeling somewhat raw and exposed from her conversation with Howard, and yet strangely exhilarated. “Anyway, Gretchen is making me a new dress, so I’ll soon be looking quite the thing.”

The feeling of euphoria lasted right through the reheated cauliflower cheese, hair wash and beyond, to the point that Jean even offered to read aloud from her mother’s library book, My Cousin Rachel. It was the most harmonious evening that either of them could remember.

11

Dear Dorrie,

I know we don’t do gifts but I was passing an antique shop in Chelsea the other day and I saw this exquisite little cigarette box and thought of you. I’m going to parcel it up with tissue paper and hope it makes it through customs in one piece.

We’re both well. No other news.

Love Jean

Alice’s Diary

July 12, 1946

M caused a little scene today. She does love a drama. We were hopeful that the antimalarial drugs might work where the antibiotics, injections and diets have all failed. But she has been roaring with pain. Perhaps it would have been better if she had been in a room of her own, but we thought the companionship would be good for them all.

Her mother came to visit this afternoon, bringing a gift from one of their well-heeled parishioners—a bag of four tangerines. Nobody has seen a delicacy like this in years. Sister Maria Goretti said she hoped M was going to share them with the other girls. She meant well but she speaks bluntly sometimes. M said no, she damn well wasn’t: B never shares a damn thing.