She was wearing one of her own creations—a cotton lawn sundress with a gathered skirt in a bold poppy print. Jean, who had inferred from the invitation that manual labour and tree climbing would be required, was dressed in twill trousers, a short-sleeved shirt and gym shoes.

“I feel a bit of a mess,” she said. “I thought I’d be shinnying up tree trunks.”

“Oh, I always leave that to Howard and Margaret,” said Gretchen. “But you look fine. Aunt Edie’s very informal.”

Margaret wandered in, clutching two tennis rackets and looking whey-faced and queasy; quite unlike her ebullient self. She watched her mother’s preparations for a minute or two without enthusiasm.

“I can’t find any tennis balls and I’ve got a tummy ache,” she said.

“The balls are in the cupboard under the stairs,” said Gretchen. “I saw them there the other day. Are you all right?” she added, taking in her daughter’s wan expression. “You’re very pale.”

Margaret responded to this inquiry by dropping the tennis rackets and bolting from the room with a hand over her mouth. The sound of pounding feet on the stairs was followed moments later by distant retching.

The two women exchanged looks of alarm and Gretchen hurried to investigate, leaving Jean standing in the kitchen feeling upset. The outing would surely not go ahead now, postponed for another day, requiring another favor from Mrs. Melsom, pushing Jean’s level of indebtedness even further into the red.

Howard came in from the driveway holding out hands smudged with grease.

“All set,” he said. “Tires pumped. Oil and water topped up. Tool kit in the trunk. How are things coming along in the catering division?”

“There’s been a setback,” said Jean. “I think Margaret’s been sick. She said she was feeling poorly and then rushed upstairs.”

“She didn’t eat her breakfast this morning,” said Howard. “I thought that was odd. Poor old Maggie.”

Gretchen rejoined them, looking harassed. “Well, she’s not going anywhere,” she said.

“Poor thing,” said Jean, trying to master her own disappointment at the cancellation of the trip, in the face of Margaret’s greater misfortune. “Is she all right?”

“An upset tummy, I think. I’ve put her to bed. What a pity—it’s such a lovely day, too.”

“I’d better run down to the phone booth and see if I can get hold of Aunt Edie,” said Howard. “Postpone for another day.”

“Oh, you can’t let her down at the last minute,” Gretchen protested. “She’ll have been to all sorts of trouble. And the apples have got to be picked. You two go—I’ll stay here with Margaret.”

“But that’s such a shame for you, Gretchen,” said Jean. “Why don’t I stay with Margaret?”

She felt she knew the little girl quite well enough by now to make this offer. Since the trip to Simpson’s they had had two subsequent outings—once to the swimming baths at Beckenham, where Jean had shown a commendable willingness to get her hair wet, and once to the Swinneys’ house, where they had made cinder toffee. Both events had passed off successfully and even Jean’s mother, initially suspicious of any new acquaintances, had conceded that Margaret was a “dear little thing.”