Winter Roses by Amy Myers Read Free Book Online Page B

domain until the late afternoon when she suddenly remembered that Master George would shortly be back from school and was bringing one of his chums back to tea. She supposed she ought to stop thinking of him as Master George now he was becoming famous for his cartoons. The Rectory saw little of him, for at weekends he was off taking flying lessons at Brooklands, paid for by Sir John Hunney. What a rumpus there’d been about that. Master George had been so keen to join the Royal Flying Corps as soon as he was old enough at seventeen, but luckily they put the age limit up to eighteen. That would be in December, and meanwhile Miss Caroline had told her Sir John was keeping a close eye to make sure George didn’t jump the gun by telling a fib about his age. Death came quick enough to those in the clouds, so Joe said, and there was no need to bring grief to Mr and Mrs Lilley sooner than it might otherwise. That magazine Punch had taken several of his cartoons now, and Master George was as proud as anything when he talkedabout it – which wasn’t often, because he knew his father didn’t altogether approve – and a lot of his cartoons had been made into postcards. Master George never could wait to get good news off his chest, and, to her pride, he often popped into the kitchen to tell her first.
    ‘You’re the only one really interested,’ he had said ruefully to her one day, and she’d swelled with pride. ‘Caroline and Mother are too busy with their blessed farmers. Father’s out all the time, Phoebe isn’t interested, and Isabel – well, who’d want to talk to Mrs Misabel?’
    ‘Now, now, Master George,’ she’d said, ‘you speak respectfully of your sister.’
    Though why he should, when she herself found it hard to talk respectfully of Mrs Isabel, goodness only knows. In Margaret’s opinion, she was nothing more than a scrounger. Right from a little girl, she could twist you round her little finger, and didn’t she know it. She had been spoilt owing to Mrs Lilley having lost a baby in infancy. Marriage hadn’t changed Mrs Isabel. Even a big house of her own, and money didn’t satisfy her; she wanted parties and excitement, and the fact that her parents couldn’t afford it didn’t seem to enter her head. Luckily Miss Caroline had her head screwed on right and kept her in her place – most of the time. Poor Miss Caroline, she worked so hard, and what that girl had been through. That Mr Reggie was nice enough, but he was never worthy of her, and sooner or later she’d discover that for herself.
    Her speedy preparations for George’s tea were interrupted by the bell on the tradesmen’s door, and she sighed heavily, annoyed that scones must take second placeto anyone who happened to be passing. In this case it was probably only the evening post. Now if only Fred were here. He used to enjoy opening the door, she reflected wistfully.
    None of that, Margaret Dibble. Briskly she dried her hands and hurried to the door. To her surprise, it wasn’t the postman; it was Miss Phoebe.
    ‘I’ve brought your post.’ Phoebe’s hand shot out from behind her back with a bunch of letters.
    ‘Thank you, Miss Phoebe. That lazy lummocks Jim Curtis lost the use of his legs, has he?’
    ‘He’s been called up. He left yesterday.’
    ‘One of your jokes, is it?’ Even as she was speaking, Margaret noticed Phoebe’s armband and hat crammed over the mop of dark hair. She’d taken it for some kind of uniform in connection with her army canteen work at first. ‘Miss Phoebe, what are you playing at now?’
    Phoebe laughed delightedly. ‘I’m the new village postman. Isn’t it splendid?’
    ‘You don’t mean you’re delivering the post round the village like … like—’ Words failed her and this was rare.
    ‘Why not? I didn’t want to be serving tea all my life, and the YMCA people wanted to send me to a new camp, so I left. I thought about going into the new Women’s Army Forage Corps, but I decided I’d