The Victory Garden(55)

“Only the cat is already out of the bag,” Mr Bryce added. “If you know, Marjorie, then probably the whole world knows.”

“You are not insinuating that I’m a gossip, are you?”

“Of course not, my dear. I am merely saying that whoever told you has told other people, and you know the way word spreads in rural places like this.”

“Anyway, I shall have to cut them from our social list,” Mrs Bryce said.

“I don’t know why they’ve been so lenient with the girl,” Mr Bryce snapped. “Her father should have shown her the door, cast her out completely. That’s what I would have done.”

“And what will become of the child?” Emily asked, proud of the way she was staying so composed.

“Adopted, one presumes,” Mrs Bryce said. “Or else an orphanage. The Morrisons certainly won’t want anything to do with it.”

Emily looked down at her plate, at the now-congealing white sauce, and swallowed back bile. She felt as if she could vomit at any moment. Well, Alice had told her to see which way the wind was blowing, and now she knew. It was not in her direction.

Emily wasn’t sure how she got through the rest of the day. She stood in the pleasant sunlight of her room, taking in every little familiar aspect: the silk eiderdown that she used to snuggle under at night; the picture of a Swiss lake on the wall; the dolls still sitting on a shelf, observing her with their stiff, haughty expressions. How could she possibly choose what to take with her? How did you pack a whole life into a small suitcase? Be practical, she told herself. Only things you really need. She spent the afternoon in her room, going through her wardrobe and drawers and wondering which items she could wear in the future. She realized her fashionable dresses were all made to wear with a corset. Even without a spreading waistline, she doubted she could ever fit into them again. But she chose a serge two-piece and a couple of plain dresses that could be altered, as well as petticoats, stockings and warm jackets. Then she looked at her bookcase and ran her hand over the dear, familiar titles from her childhood. Of course, she couldn’t carry books with her.

But she would take her jewellery. She had been given some nice pieces for her twenty-first, and had inherited a couple of family pieces, too. She might have to sell them one day. She took them out of the jewel case and tucked them into the toe of her slipper.

She wondered if her parents would send her things on to her if she ever found herself settled somewhere. She realized now that she could never tell them. She’d have to make some kind of excuse. Another kind of war work that was sending her abroad—to Belgium or France, maybe, to help with the repatriation of refugees when the war ended. Yes, that would do nicely. And she’d be moving around. She’d write when she could.

But she couldn’t say that lie to their faces. Instead, she played the dutiful daughter all through the dinner of steak and kidney pie, which she found horribly rich. The thick red gravy and pieces of kidney were almost impossible to swallow.

“Lost your appetite, have you?” her father asked. “I should have thought work in the fields would have given you a healthy appreciation for food.”

“Oh, I’ve been eating lots, Daddy,” she said. “It’s just that I’ve never liked kidneys, and now I’ve been working on farms and have seen animals slaughtered, I’m afraid it’s rather put me off.”

“Absolute nonsense. Kidneys are good for you. Lots of iron. Eat up.”

She forced herself to chew a few bites, then hid the rest under her cabbage. The apple crumble and custard went down more easily, and the glass of port after the meal did settle her stomach a little.

The next morning, she made the excuse of having to meet the other women at the station to get a ride back to their hostel. She had asked Florrie to bring down a suitcase from the attic and she carried this with her.

“What’s this?” her father asked as she carried it out to the motor car. “Planning for a long stay?”

“No, Daddy. Just some of my own clothes for days off and some of my books that I miss reading. It’s awfully boring in the evenings.”

“I imagine it would be. I can’t see that those farm girls would have much in the way of conversation. Still”—he patted her knee as he climbed into the car beside her—“it will all be over soon, won’t it? And I’ll start fishing around for a proper job for you. You should definitely learn to operate a typewriting machine. Lady secretaries will be in demand, I suspect. And after your stint in the fields, you shouldn’t find the typing too taxing.”

They pulled up outside the station.

“Goodbye, Daddy,” Emily said, and kissed him on the cheek. She stood watching as he drove away, then she followed the porter out to the platform.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

When Emily arrived back at the farm and was carrying her suitcase upstairs, Miss Foster-Blake appeared in the hallway below her. “A word with you, please, Miss Bryce, when you have deposited your things.”

Emily’s heart lurched. What could she have done wrong? She was back in good time. She had had permission to go. She deposited her suitcase under the bunk, hung her mackintosh and hat on the peg and stuck the hairpins back in her hair before going downstairs.

Miss Foster-Blake was sitting at her desk in the little room that served as her office. She motioned Emily to pull up a chair. “You had a pleasant visit home, I take it?”