Emma slipped into a pew at the back of Holy Nativity and waited for the service to end. She could see Mrs Clifton sitting in the third row, next to an old lady. Harry had seemed a little less tense when they’d met again earlier that morning. He’d been very clear what he needed to find out, and she promised not to stray beyond her remit. They had rehearsed every possible scenario several times, until she was word perfect.
After the elderly priest had given the final blessing, Emma stepped out into the centre of the aisle and waited, so Mrs Clifton couldn’t possibly miss her. When Maisie saw Emma, she couldn’t hide a look of surprise, but it was quickly replaced by a welcoming smile. She walked quickly towards her and introduced the old lady who was with her. ‘Mum, this is Emma Barrington, she’s a friend of Harry’s.’
The old lady gave Emma a toothy grin. ‘There’s a great deal of difference between being his friend and being his girlfriend. Which are you?’ she demanded.
Mrs Clifton laughed, but it was clear to Emma that she was just as interested to hear her reply.
‘I’m his girlfriend,’ said Emma proudly.
The old lady delivered another toothy grin, but Maisie didn’t smile.
‘Well, that’s all right then, isn’t it?’ Harry’s grandmother said, before adding, ‘I can’t stand around here all day chatting, I’ve got dinner to make.’ She began to walk away, but then turned back and asked, ‘Would you like to join us for dinner, young lady?’
This was a question that Harry had anticipated, and for which he’d even scripted a reply. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Emma, ‘but my parents will be expecting me.’
‘Quite right too,’ said the old lady. ‘You should always respect your parents’ wishes. I’ll see you later, Maisie.’
‘May I walk with you, Mrs Clifton?’ asked Emma as they stepped out of the church.
‘Yes, of course, my dear.’
‘Harry asked me to come and see you, because he knew you’d want to know that he’s been offered a place at Oxford.’
‘Oh, that’s wonderful news,’ said Maisie, throwing her arms around Emma. She suddenly released her, and asked, ‘But why didn’t he come and tell me himself?’
Another scripted reply. ‘He’s stuck in detention,’ said Emma, hoping she didn’t sound over-rehearsed, ‘writing out passages from Shelley. I’m afraid my brother’s to blame. You see, after he heard the good news, he smuggled a bottle of champagne into school, and they were caught celebrating in his study last night.’
‘Is that so wicked?’ asked Maisie, grinning.
‘Dr Paget seemed to think so. Harry’s dreadfully sorry.’
Maisie laughed so uproariously that Emma had no doubt she’d no idea her son had visited the club last night. She would have liked to ask one more question that still puzzled her, but Harry couldn’t have been more emphatic: ‘If my mother doesn’t want me to know how my father died, so be it.’
‘I’m sorry you can’t stay to lunch,’ said Maisie, ‘because there was something I wanted to tell you. Perhaps another time.’