Dr. Stewart Bamber

They met as before under the clock in the ticket hall at Charing Cross. Jean noticed with dismay that since their last meeting Gretchen had a new short haircut, which suited her but made her look a lot less like Margaret. For the purpose of a striking portrait of mother and daughter to accompany her story, dissimilarity was not ideal.

It took her a moment or two to subdue an attack of wholly unreasonable indignation that she had not been consulted. Howard had so thoroughly displaced Gretchen in Jean’s consciousness lately that she was almost surprised to be confronted with the origin and purpose of their meetings.

Since receiving Dr. Bamber’s puzzling letter, it had taken her an inordinate amount of time to bring matters to this point. Previously, appointments had been arranged by calling Howard at the shop; this time Jean preferred not to use him as an intermediary unless absolutely necessary. In any case, it was Gretchen she needed to talk to in order to discover what lay behind this fresh resistance to further tests. The only solution seemed to be to call on Gretchen uninvited and hope to find her at home.

Accordingly, at eleven o’clock on a Monday morning, an hour when Jean judged Margaret and Howard would be out and Gretchen most likely working at her dressmaking, she left the newspaper office and caught the bus from Petts Wood to Sidcup. It was late September; the trees still wore their summer colors and the fogs of autumn were only a distant threat, but the air was cool and damp. The Tilburys’ elderly neighbor was polishing the tiles of her doorstep with red wax; she sat up and nodded at Jean as she opened the gate.

“Mothers’ meeting?” she inquired, which struck Jean as an odd and rather rude comment, so she said, “Hardly,” and gave a thin smile in reply.

The side gate was locked, so Jean pressed the doorbell for just longer than was polite and waited, rehearsing various phrases of friendly concern, which turned to frustration as it became apparent that they would not be needed. Never without a notebook and pen, Jean wrote a brief message and posted it through the letterbox:

Dear Gretchen,

I called to see you this morning for a chat, but no luck. I will try again tomorrow at the same time. I hope there is nothing amiss.

Jean

She was at the end of Burdett Road, walking briskly to burn off her irritation at a wasted journey, when she heard her name. Turning, she saw Gretchen hurrying toward her, pulling a cardigan over her dress. Even now she looks lovely, Jean thought. You could call on her uninvited on a Monday morning and still not catch her with nails unpainted and hair unbrushed.

“I’m sorry,” Gretchen panted as she came within range. “I was in the bathroom and I came down to find your note.” She was holding the crumpled page in her fist. “Is anything the matter?”