Westwood by Stella Gibbons Read Free Book Online Page A

and glancing critically about her.
    ‘You seem to remember! That’s helpful, I must say. Mrs Wilson telephoned while you were round at the shops to see how we were getting on, and said she might look in with Hilda this evening. Why people want to come round and see you on the first night after a move is more than I can make out.’
    ‘She meant it kindly, Mother.’
    ‘I expect your father got something solid for his lunch in town,’ went on Mrs Steggles. ‘What are you having?’
    ‘Oh – bread and cheese – anything,’ said Margaret indifferently, going into the dining-room, where the pictures were still leaning against the walls, to lay the cloth. She was not interested in food, and regarded people as rather low if they were; she herself ate quickly and without comment anything that happened to be provided.
    After supper, to which Mr Steggles did not return, the front-door bell rang and Margaret answered it, as her mother was annoyed and slightly worried by her father’s absence, and did not want to leave the sorting and tidying with which she was working off her feelings.
    Two romantic figures stood there in the starlight, with smiling faces and lace scarves over their heads. Mrs Wilson was as slim as Hilda, and almost as pretty. She had a good deal of innocent coquetry, and carried on running verbal flirtations, some of which had been in progress for years, with the better-looking among the tradesmen where she shopped.
    ‘Hullo, Margaret! Why, haven’t you got it looking nice! Are you nearly straight?’ she exclaimed, stepping into the hall and gazing round.
    ‘Looks a bit different from that first evening, doesn’t it?’ said Hilda, unwinding her scarf.
    ‘Mother, here’s Mrs Wilson and Hilda,’ said Margaret, opening the drawing-room door. ‘We aren’t quite straight in here yet,’ she added.
    Mrs Steggles was on her knees in front of a large box by the electric fire, and gave her visitors a brief smile as she got up.
    ‘Good evening. We’re still at it, you see,’ she said.
    ‘Well, it’s a shame to come in, really, and I expect you’re calling us all sorts of names!’ cried Mrs Wilson, tossing the scarf away from her clear pink face, ‘but we really came to see if we could do anything for you – you know, tell you anything about the neighbourhood, and that.’
    ‘Do you want a reliable doctor and a good dentist?’ interrupted Hilda, waving a piece of paper. ‘Dad wrote you down the names and addresses of two – oh, and the chemist’s telephone number in case you wanted some Sloan’s or Aspro. Isn’t he a scream, though!’
    ‘Well, he thought it might be useful,’ explained her mother, laughing too. ‘You know what he is – prevention is better than cure is his motto.’
    ‘I’m sure it was very kind of Mr Wilson,’ said Mrs Steggles reprovingly, taking the paper from Hilda.
    ‘Margaret, will you write down these addresses in the book straightaway, before we forget it. Please sit down, Mrs Wilson, and Hilda; make yourselves comfortable. I’m afraid we’re still in a bit of a muddle in here.’ She moved books and boxes to make room, thinking the while what a mad thing it was to come out in the cold with those bits of lace round their heads.
    ‘Are you admiring our headdresses?’ asked Mrs Wilson cheerfully, catching her look. She was a kind and happy woman, but neither she nor Hilda let themselves be disapproved of without showing fight. ‘I expect you think I’m getting on a bit for this sort of thing!’ (As this was exactly what Mrs Steggles was thinking, she looked conscious.) ‘Hilda looked so nice in hers, I thought I’d try how I looked too!’ and she gave a gay little nod, smiling steadily at Mrs Steggles.
    ‘I think they’re lovely,’ said Margaret, too emphatically.
    ‘Rather cold, I should think,’ said Mrs Steggles, in whom old dreams and pains had been revived by the sight of the scarves. ‘But they are pretty,’ she added, and Mrs Wilson’s