The Children's Hour by Marcia Willett Read Free Book Online Page B

hauls her up into her arms and staggers along with her. Josie, good-humour fully restored, beams down triumphantly upon Henrietta, who puts out her tongue.
    Soon, even the walk to the sea is too much for Lydia and she is confined to the garden and the house. Jenna, the young woman who helps to shop and clean, cycles over to Ottercombe most days to assist with the younger children whilst Georgie and Mina are at the local school. One morning, soon after the Easter holidays have begun, Lydia doesn’t get up at all; messages are sent to London and the doctor calls in his small, black Ford.
    â€˜I know a secret.’ Georgie sidles behind Mina, an eye on Jenna, who is spreading a picnic lunch on the rocks. Henrietta helps her to weight down the cloth with stones whilst Josie peeps hungrily into the large wicker basket. The house has been in confusion for several days: their father is down from London, bringing a woman in nurse’s uniform with him, and Mama remains in her bedroom. Georgie, who comes running down from the house to join the others onthe beach, is breathless. Her skinny chest heaves beneath the Fair Isle jersey she has been told she must wear, for the late April weather, though sunny, is cold. She gasps and presses her hand to her side.
    â€˜I’ve got stitch,’ she says.
    â€˜We were supposed to stay here until we were called,’ says Mina, who has been helping her younger sisters build a sandcastle. It is a splendid edifice with a moat, and its towers are stuck about with small paper flags. ‘Where have you been?’
    Mina knows that Mama is to have a baby but she is frightened. She was too young, when Henrietta and Josie were born, to understand about babies – but now she can see the baby growing inside Mama and she wonders how it will emerge. Mama is so calm and happy that, clearly, the ordeal cannot be too terrible. ‘It is a kind of miracle,’ she tells Mina, ‘but you are too young yet to understand. Later, when you are older, I shall explain it to you.’
    A miracle. Perhaps it’s like curing the man of the palsy or one of the other Gospel stories, and, after all, Mama has already had four babies . . .
    â€˜I know how babies come,’ says Georgie importantly, ‘but I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.’ But Mina doesn’t believe her.
    â€˜Is it Mama?’ asks Mina now, fearfully, her heart heavy and sinking, her stomach curdling with terror.
    â€˜It’s a secret.’ Georgie still has an eye on the group by the rocks. ‘Can you guess? I’ll tell you if you promise to be surprised later on when Papa tells us.’
    â€˜I promise,’ says Mina, shivering, her black hair whipping round her cheeks. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die. Is Mama dead?’
    â€˜No,’ answers Georgie scornfully. ‘Of course she isn’t dead, silly. We have a new baby brother.’ A pause. A cloudcovers the sun, shadows rippling over the sand, and the wind is chill on their bare legs. Mina is too weak with relief to feel the discomfort but Georgie stares at Mina, her pose forgotten, her eyes frightened. ‘A brother. Do you think Papa will still love us?’
    Lyddie closed the front door, paused to stroke the Bosun, who lay deeply asleep in the narrow hall, and carried the Jiffy bag up to her study. The bag contained the typescript for her next editing project – an historical saga by an author she’d copy-edited before – and she was looking forward to it. The editor, an old friend and a former employer, had already discussed certain points with Lyddie on the telephone.
    â€˜We’ve had to do quite a lot of revising so the new material might not quite gel with the original,’ she’d said. ‘Look out for the timing, will you?’
    She’d booked Lyddie for another project, for the first two weeks of December – a repeating author who wrote one thriller a year – had