This shadow-boy, this small disturbance of light, stepped into the kitchen, his eyes never leaving hers until he was out of sight.

Sara stood and followed.

35: Joy

35: Joy

Joy waited with the others, each at the foot of her own bed, to be allowed upstairs to prepare breakfast for the men. Mary’s chest still rattled with coughing fits, but she was almost back to the girl Joy knew. Noreen stood with her arms wrapped around herself, nails pulling at the sleeves of her dress.

“What are you going to say to him today?” Noreen asked.

Joy kept her silence.

“What are you going to do? I know you’re working on him. And if I can see it, so can Ivan and Tam. They won’t let you away with it. They’ll—”

“Shut up,” Joy said.

“They’ll put a stop to it. You wait and see. Just keep me out of it.”

“I said, shut your mouth.”

Before either of them could speak again, the door at the top of the stairs opened, Ivan’s stout silhouette blocking the light.

“Come on,” he called down to them.

Noreen went first, looking back over her shoulder at Joy, a warning in her eyes. Joy followed, taking Mary by the hand. Upstairs, they set about their appointed tasks. Mary cleared out the ashes from the stove first, then Joy got it alight, Noreen heating water in the kettle and fetching eggs from the larder.

When the men had been fed, and had finished their mugs of tea, George sat back in his chair and scratched at his chin.

“I need a shave,” he said, standing. As he went to the door to the hall, he spoke to Joy. “Bring me up some hot water.”

Joy filled a pot at the sink and brought it to the stove. Noreen came to her side, went to whisper something, but Joy stepped away. Ivan watched from the table as he filled his pipe. He said nothing. When Joy left the kitchen a few minutes later, holding the pot of steaming water, she felt both their gazes on her back.

She found George in his bedroom, standing at the dressing table below the window, a bar of soap, a towel, his shaving brush and his razor set out in a row. He grunted what might have been a thank you as she set the pot in front of him. She should have left him then, but instead she stepped back and watched as he took the soap in one hand, the shaving brush in the other, and began to create a thick lather with the water. He brushed the lather onto his face, working the bristles into his stubble, bending over so he could see himself in the mirror. Then he took the razor and scraped at his cheek, turning his face in the light.

“Here,” Joy said, taking the wooden chair from the corner and setting it behind him. “Sit yourself.”