63

At the Trafalgar Bakery

‘Penelope! Pe-nel-o-pe!’

For a moment the girl hesitated, arrested on the doorstep, in her hand a small suitcase and before her the suburban street running straight as a rule, straight as her intention, towards the railway station. The habit of biddability proved too strong for her. She went back into the house, put down the suitcase, and entered a room where a middle-aged woman was looking at a half-made dress.

‘Yes, Mother?’

‘I’ve been thinking it over. And these buttons definitely won’t do. They looked all right on the card, but they are too small. Now, do you remember those barrel-shaped glass buttons I bought at Selfridge’s—the ones on my blue taffeta?’

‘Barrel-shaped buttons?’

‘Barrel-shaped. When I say barrel-shaped, I mean barrel-shaped. When I say Selfridge I mean Selfridge. I want you to go there and buy me two dozen. But I see you don’t remember them, and ten to one you’ll bring back trouser-buttons, or glove-buttons, or hooks and eyes. So I’ll give you one to take as a pattern. I’ll just get the dress and cut one off, it won’t take a moment.’

‘I’ll go,’ said the girl, and was off in a flash. When she came back, she was panting.64

‘You look as if you’d run a mile for it,’ her mother commented. ‘I suppose you’re worrying about your train. If you miss it, I don’t suppose it will kill you. They go every twenty minutes, don’t they? And it’s not as if you had any particular appointment, the British Museum won’t fly away. Here’s the button. Two dozen, remember.’

The girl stared at the button as though she might read her fortune in it.

‘And if they haven’t got any, look about in some of the other Oxford Street shops. It won’t take up much of your valuable time, it isn’t as if I were asking you to go to Paris for it. Why are you looking at me so funnily? Is there anything wrong with me?’

‘Two dozen,’ said the girl. ‘Goodbye, Mother.’

‘Take care of yourself, pet. And bring back that button.’

There was a narrow full-length looking-glass in the hall, strategically placed where Mrs Ludham could take a certifying last glance before going out. As the girl picked up the suitcase, she caught sight of herself in the glass. ‘Goodbye,’ she whispered, pressing her lips to the lips of her reflection. Her clouding breath had not faded from the surface when she shut the door behind her. As the door closed, the whirr of Mrs Ludham’s sewing-machine began, it was as though the one noise had set off the other.