Josie Under Fire by Ann Turnbull Read Free Book Online Page B

shy. But it seemed rude to refuse, and she was hungry; and it would be interesting, she thought, to see Miss Rutherford’s flat.
    “Yes, please,” she said, and scrambled down.
    She followed Miss Rutherford up two flights of stairs. There was a telephone on the midway landing, and a bucket of sand and a stirrup pump; and more fire-fighting equipment at the bottom of the attic stairs.
    “Have you been in the attics?” she asked shyly, peering up. She had a fascination with attics; she liked their sloping roofs and little low windows.
    “Good heavens, yes!” said Miss Rutherford. “They’re not locked, and all the clutter has been taken away. Had to be, under the Clearance of Lofts Act, in case of fire. We had incendiaries through the roof one night last year.” She caught Josie’s look of interest and said, “Run up and see, if you like. I’ll unpack and put the kettle on.”
    Josie climbed up into the empty rooms, her footsteps echoing as she moved from back to front of the house. The back view from the small gable window was one of crowded rooftops, but from the front you could see right across the river and beyond.
    She went downstairs and found Miss Rutherford in her small kitchen.
    “I’d love to sleep up there!”
    Miss Rutherford laughed. “I think of attics as a place for maidservants to sleep.”
    “Do you think maids did sleep there?”
    “I know they did. I had a maid here myself before the last war.”
    Josie was surprised. “Have you lived here all that time?”
    “No. But I used to live in this flat when I was younger. I rented it from a relative. Last year, when I was looking for a flat in Chelsea, he told me it was empty again. So I came back.”
    She began cutting bread, and nodded towards the living room. “Make yourself at home. I’ll bring things in. Luckily for you, I went shopping on my way home from work and bought some fresh bread.”
    Josie went into the living room, which was surprisingly large and comfortable. Somehow, when Edith had described Miss Rutherford as “spinster”, she had imagined someone living a mean, cramped existence. But Miss Rutherford had expensive-looking furniture, a soft brown patterned carpet, paintings on the walls, and shelves of books.
    Josie went to look at the books. There were poetry books, a few novels that looked rather long and dull, several books that seemed to be about politics…
    “Nothing much to interest you, I’m afraid.”
    Miss Rutherford had come in with a tray of tea cups, milk and sugar, which she placed on a low table.
    “I like your paintings,” said Josie. “That one especially.”
    It was a picture of Miss Rutherford when she was much younger, but you could still see that it was her. She wore a pale green dress and there was a glass vase of roses on the table beside her. It was a summery picture that made Josie think of life before the war.
    “A friend painted that,” said Miss Rutherford.
    Josie was impressed. “Someone famous?”
    “He never had the chance to become famous. He was killed in the trenches in 1917, aged twenty-three.”
    Josie absorbed this information. She wanted to ask, “Did you love him?”, but didn’t dare.
    Miss Rutherford had returned to the kitchen, and now she came back with tea, bread, a pot of jam and even a small dish of butter.
    “My mother made the jam. It’s excellent. Now, where do you want to sit?”
    “May I sit on this?”
    “This” was a long seat, like a sofa but more upright, with a wooden padded back that curved around one end. It was upholstered in faded green velvet and had two green and gold cushions.
    “Yes, of course! The chaise longue. I like that too.”
    “Chaise longue?”
    “It means ‘long chair’. You’re supposed to lounge on it – though not when you’re drinking tea! You put your feet up and lie along the length and read a book and eat chocolates.”
    “Chocolates!” said Josie blissfully. She had not seen any for a long time.
    “Mmm… Those were