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Nelly Piggott missed seeing Molly by a mere half hour, as Albert pointed out.

Nelly had been shopping after her bout of housework, and her first attempt to cook lunch for the three sisters.

She was hot, tired and cross. Her corsets were too tight, and so were her shoes. She took scant notice of Albert's remarks, as she filled the kettle at the sink, and Albert resented it.

'I said that our Molly'd called,' he repeated loudly.

'Your
Molly, not ours,' replied Nelly. 'She's nothing to me.'

'No need to be so white and spiteful,' grumbled Albert. 'Specially as she said how nice the place looked.'

'No thanks to her,' rejoined Nelly, struggling to take off her shoes. 'Fat lot she does for her old Dad, I must say.'

'They sends me money, don't they?' demanded Albert. 'Regular.'

'And where does that go? Down your throat, the bulk of it. I tell you straight, Albert, I shan't be stopping here long if you don't give me more housekeeping.'

'Well, you've left here before, and I shan't stop you clearing off again. When you gets into these tantrums I'd sooner see the back of you, and that's that!'

Nelly reached for the teapot. Things were going a little too fast for her.

'Want a cup?' she asked, more gently.

'May as well.'

'Don't strain yourself,' said Nelly tartly, spooning tea into the pot. She set out cups upon a tray, and poured the tea. They sipped in silence.

Albert was weighing up the pros and cons of life with Nelly, an exercise which he undertook frequently.

Nelly was reviewing the situation which she had taken on at the Lovelocks'. Could she, she asked herself, continue for six whole weeks, albeit only twice a week, in the present frustrating circumstances?

It was the
meanness
of the three ladies which infuriated Nelly. It was one thing to find that the dusters provided consisted of squares cut from much-worn undergarments, but quite another to be denied the tin of furniture polish.

Miss Violet had undone the lid, selected one of the deplorable squares, and scooped out abouta teaspoonful of the polish upon it.

'That,' she told Nelly, 'should be
quite
enough for the dining-room.'

Seeing Nelly's amazed countenance, she had added swiftly: 'Come to me again, Nelly, if you need more, although I hardly think you will find it necessary.'

She had swept from the room, tin in hand, leaving Nelly speechless.

All the cleaning equipment was handed out in the same parsimonious style. A small puddle of Brasso in a cracked saucer was supposed to cope with the many brass objects in the house. Vim was handled as though it were gold-dust. Washing-up liquid was measured by the thimbleful. It was more than Nelly could stand, and she said so.

Her complaints brought very little improvement, and Nelly retaliated by cleaning all that she could, and leaving the rest as soon as the rations for the day ran out. But she resented it bitterly. She
liked
to see things clean, and never stinted cleaning agents in her own home.

However, she comforted herself with the thought that it was only for six weeks, maybe less. Surely, she could stick it out for that time, especially as nothing else had cropped up to give her alternative employment?

The memory of the lunch she had been obliged to cook made her shudder. Nelly respected food, and always chose the best when shopping. It was no good being a first-class cook, as she knew she was, if the materials were poor. You might just as well try to paint a portrait with creosote.

When Miss Bertha had fluttered into the kitchen that morning, and had asked her to cook that day's luncheon, Nelly's spirits had risen. She had visions of rolling out the lightest of pastry, of whipping eggs and cream, of tenderising steak or skinning some delicate fish cooked in butter.

'And you will stay to have some too, Nelly, I hope.'

'Thank you, ma'am,' said Nelly, envisaging herself at the kitchen table with a heaped plate of her own excellent cooking. Albert had been left with a cold pork-pie, some home-made brawn, strong cheese and pickled shallots, so Nelly had no qualms on his behalf. She had told him that she intended to shop in the afternoon. Really, things had worked out very well, she told herself, and this would save her going to the Fuchsia Bush for a cup of coffee and a sandwich, as she had planned.

Miss Bertha vanished into the larder and appeared with a small piece of smoked fillet of cod. It was the tail end, very thin, and weighed about six ounces. To Nelly's experienced eye it might provide one rather inferior helping, if eked out with, say, a poached egg on top.

'Well, here we are,' said Bertha happily. 'If you could poach this and share it between three, I mean,
four,
of course.'

'Is this all?' enquired Nelly flabbergasted. 'Why, our cat would polish that off and look for more!'

Miss Bertha appeared not to hear, as she made her way back to the larder, leaving Nelly gazing at the fish with dismay.

'You'd like poached eggs with this, I take it?' said Nelly.

Bertha put two small eggs carefully beside the fish.

'We prefer scrambled eggs, Nelly. These two, well beaten, should be ample for us all.'

'There won't be enough,' said Nelly flatly.

'We add a little milk.'

'Horrible!' protested Nelly. 'Should never be done with scrambled eggs. Butter's all you need, and a little pepper and salt.'

'Not
butter
!' gasped Bertha. 'We always use margarine in cooking.
Butter
would be
most
extravagant!'

Nelly began to see that she would certainly need to visit the Fuchsia Bush to supplement the starvation diet being planned.

'Vegetables?' she managed to ask.

'Plenty of spinach, Nelly, in the garden, and I thought some rhubarb for pudding. There is still some growing by the cold frame. I will leave out the sugar for you.'

'Very well, ma'am,' she said as politely as her outraged sensibilities would allow.

She finished drying the breakfast things, and went, basket in hand to fetch the spinach and rhubarb. On her return, she found half a cupful of granulated sugar awaiting its union with the rhubarb, and about half an ounce of margarine.

Nelly left the spinach to soak, and wiped the thin sticks of rhubarb. They were well past their best, and showed rusty marks when she chopped them.

For the rest of the morning Nelly seethed over the appalling ingredients which were to make a lunch for four people.

'Not enough for a sparrow,' she muttered to herself, as she went about her chores. 'And all windy stuff too. If those old scarecrows is doubled up this afternoon, it won't be my fault, and that's flat!'

She cooked the food as best she could. It grieved her to be using margarine instead of butter, but there was nothing else to use, and mighty little of that.

Miss Violet had set the table. The heavy Georgian silver gleamed, the glasses sparkled, and handmade lace mats lay like snowflakes on the polished mahogany.

Nelly carried in the dish of fish and scrambled egg and placed it before Miss Ada at the head of the table. Her face expressed scorn.

'I took the liberty, ma'am,' said Nelly, 'of picking a sprig of parsley to garnish it.'

Miss Ada inclined her head graciously.

'You did quite rightly,' she said. 'It all looks delicious.'

Nelly returned to the kitchen and surveyed the teaspoonful of food upon her plate. At that moment, the cat leapt through the window.

'Here,' said Nelly, handing down the plate, 'try your luck with that.'

Delicately, with infinite caution, the cat sniffed at the food. A rose petal tongue emerged to lick the fish tentatively, then the cat shuddered slightly, and turned away.

'And I don't blame you,' said Nelly. She threw the scraps out of the window, and watched a gaggle of sparrows descend upon them.

'What I could do to a nice fillet steak!' mourned Nelly, preparing to carry in the dish of sour rhubarb, unadorned by any such rich accompaniment as cream or custard.

Later, when Nelly had washed up and had been complimented upon her cooking by the three old ladies, Nelly tried to forget the whole shocking experience. Never again, she told herself, never again! Not if they went down on their brittle old bended knees would she be party to such a travesty of cooking! It was more than flesh and blood could stand.

It was hardly surprising that Albert found her exceptionally snappy that evening. Nelly had suffered much.

Part Three

Safe Arrival

17. Living Alone

MISS WATSON's enforced rest gave her plenty of time to think. Not that she did not think in her normal state, but this was thinking at a different level.

She was a healthy busy woman, who ran her school and her home with competence. Her mind was always occupied with such diverse matters as ordering fresh stock, arranging a parents' evening, supervising the new probationer-teacher, as well as remembering to order an extra pint of milk because the Henstocks were coming to coffee, to send the spare-room bedspread to the laundry, and to ring the hairdresser to see if she could fit in a permanent wave on a Saturday morning.

These day to day activities left little time for such things as general reading, although she conscientiously tried to keep abreast with present-day writings on education. She rarely visited the theatre in term time, and her travels had been limited to less expensive areas in Europe. She kept up with a few old friends, and saw Ray and Kathleen several times a year, but this was the first occasion when she had been thrown upon her own resources and had experienced solitude, without activity, for hours at a time.

In this present vague post-operation daze, she found reading irksome, and radio and television equally tiring. She was content to lie back and let her mind dwell upon a great many aspects of life which, until now, she had largely ignored.

It was something of a shock to realise that one was not completely self supporting. So far in her life, she had managed her affairs without needing to ask for any help, other than such specialised aid necessary for coping with tax affairs and other money matters, or the occasional legal problem which dear old Justin Venables in Lulling managed with easy experience.

She had never before suffered such physical weakness as now engulfed her, and it was unnerving to find that she needed help to cope with such everyday matters as bathing, dressing and moving about the house. She felt confident that she would be back to normal in a few weeks, but then how could one be sure that other similar accidents might not occur, as one grew older? It was a sobering thought. If the present mishap had occurred when the school had closed, and she had been alone, how long, she wondered, could she have lain there unattended?

Thank heaven for dear Agnes! It would have been impossible to return to her own home without Agnes's help. She dwelt now upon the sterling qualities of her staunch assistant. Her presence in the house, particularly at night, when she felt at her most vulnerable, was wonderfully consoling, and although she had been careful not to disturb Agnes's much needed slumber, it was a great comfort to know that she was there if the emergency arose.

Soon, of course, she must face the fact that Agnes would return to Mrs White's. But need she?

Miss Watson toyed with the idea of inviting dear Agnes to share her home permanently. It would be to their mutual advantage, she felt sure. The only thing was the uncomfortable fact that Agnes might not want to give up the independence she so much enjoyed.

Miss Watson turned over the problem in her mind, with unusual humility. What right had she to expect Agnes to want to live with her? She had been more than fortunate to find a friend so unselfish that she was prepared to look after her for these few weeks. It was asking too much of her to expect that she would want to remain.

And yet Agnes would be the perfect companion! She grew fonder of her as the years passed. She was a fine person, loyal and kind, much more noble, in every way, than her headmistress, thought Dorothy sadly.

No, it would not be fair to ask her, she decided, with a sigh. Agnes might well agree simply because she felt that she was needed to help, ignoring her own feelings.

She was so unselfish. It was very uplifting to live with a saint, but it had its problems.

Next door, Harold Shoosmith was also in a state of turmoil. Isobel would soon be arriving, and he hoped that he would be able to greet her without showing the real depths of his feelings. It was quite alarming to find how often his thoughts turned to her, and he was beginning to fear that the observant residents of Thrush Green might guess the cause of his preoccupation.

He was about to cross the green one morning, to mow the grass at Tullivers, when Dotty Harmer appeared, looking even more agitated than usual.

'You haven't seen Flossie, by any chance?' she called, hastening towards him.

'Flossie?' queried Harold.

'My dog. My little spaniel. She's run off, you see.'