Abdication A Novel

Chapter FIVE





When May and Sam squeezed their way into the tiny front room in Bethnal Green they found three people waiting for them. A tall girl with wide-open grey eyes, rose from her chair beside the coal fire to greet the new arrivals. An older, balding man, his shirt buttons perilously close to detaching themselves from the straining fabric of his shirt, tucked his arm into the crook of Sarah’s elbow and smiled at May and Sam. His facial resemblance to Sarah was unmistakable.

The third member of the greeting party, a woman wearing a floral apron tied tightly over her cardigan, faced the visitors from her position in front of the fire. She had hitched up the back of her skirt almost to her waist and was warming herself on the coals. Releasing her skirt she bustled over to May and peered at her over the top of her glasses. May could smell something faintly farinaceous.

“Well now! Here you are. Nat’s cousins! And let me say we are very happy to have you here in Oak Street, aren’t we, Sarah? Aren’t we, Simon? Simon, are you paying attention to me?”

“This is Mrs. Rachel Greenfeld, my mother-in-law; Simon, my father-in-law; and my wife, Sarah,” Nat began.

“Was it rough on the boat?” Nat’s mother-in-law interrupted, her grey bun pinned in a graceful coil at the back of her head. “And was the coach on time? I hope your mother packed you both off with a lot of warm clothes and a nice flask for a hot drink. I expect you could all do with a nice cup of tea. Simon, put the kettle on at once, Simon. Did you hear me, Simon? These children are half-dead with thirst, I shouldn’t wonder. Now then, did your mother warn you that it’s very cold here in England? Did you tell your aunt to warn them, Nat?”

Rachel tapped her neatly laced shoe on the floor as she spoke, as if keeping time with the rhythm of her own speech. Her questions came like bubbles popping from a child’s blowpipe, with one bursting into the air only to be replaced at once by another.

“Well, tell me, May, what was the food like on the ship, Sam? Not enough of it by the look of you both! Well you won’t have to worry about quantity in this house!”

Sarah sat quietly, occasionally rolling her eyes at her father and husband as she watched two strangers encountering her mother’s inquisitive but affectionate volubility for the first time.

“You look peaky, Sam. Simon, doesn’t Sam look peaky? Come over here by the fire and warm yourself, my boy. You don’t look so bad, May. Got a bit of colour on you, I’m glad to say. Still, come over here near the heat. Now, is that kettle on, Simon?”

As Rachel continued to interrogate them, May noticed Sarah smoothing down the neat waistline of her dress. For as long as she could remember, May had watched the young women in the plantation fields, their pregnancies advancing gradually to a size that made it uncomfortable for them to bend their distended bodies over the sugarcane without splaying their legs. The absence of even the hint of a swell convinced May that Sarah was still dreaming of the day when she might have a child of her own.

The Greenfeld and Castor’s house was the showcase of the street. Number 52 had been one of the first to be connected to electricity, and the chrome plate warmer was displayed on the sideboard with as much fanfare as a cup awarded to the comeliest cow at a country show. The house was fit to burst with possessions accumulated over many years but it was neat, aromatic and well ordered, like a baker’s tray of buns. The front door opened directly onto the front room where an ironwork basket on the hearth of a blue-and-white tiled fireplace was filled with a hillock of coal, shining black-red with heat. Rachel had returned to her position on the hearth and May could see the lace edge of her petticoat peeping out from beneath her skirt. Arranged around the fireplace was a mottled leather three-piece suite and on either side were a couple of lumpy armchairs covered in a brown matte material speckled with pink flowers. A large chestnut wood wireless sat prominently on a low table between the chairs and on the wall hung two shelves full of books.

“Come and see the rest of the house while we wait for the kettle to boil,” Nat said, leading May and Sam next door.

A schoolroom table, covered with a dark green velvet cloth with thick fringed edges, was laid for tea at one end while neatly arranged at the other were the tools of Sarah’s trade. Several pairs of polished scissors, a collection of pink hedgehog-spiked rollers, a variety of different size hairbrushes, a silvery tin marked “bleach” in handwritten letters and a couple of razors were all laid out in precise lines. Along the back of one shelf was a display of beautifully coiffured wigs, waiting for their owners to come and reclaim them from their wooden stands. A small mirror fixed at eye level to the wall opposite a comfortable-looking chair with armrests completed Sarah’s salon. The whole effect smacked of efficiency. The source of Rachel’s elegant hairstyle was obvious.

Nat took May and Sam through the tiny passageway to the back of the house where an unplumbed bath sitting on decorated metal feet had been squeezed into one corner. A cake of pink Lifebuoy soap in a saucer balanced on the edge. Outside they were shown a tiny yard with a meat safe, the shed that housed the privy, and an earth-filled wooden box in which some bedraggled sprouts clung to life. Ducking under the line of washing May could just make out a door leading into the back alley.

There were two bedrooms upstairs, one for Nat and Sarah, light and sunny and dominated by a pretty bed piled with cushions and brightly coloured shawls from beneath which something lacy and feminine peeped. Nat paused at the second door.

“This is Rachel’s boudoir,” he said, laughing at his use of the fancy word for the only room in which clutter had got the better of orderliness. A large dresser took up most of the opposite wall, its shelves crammed with Russian icons and gilt candlesticks, the wax of the half-melted candles arrested mid-drip. Beside the dresser was a full-length mirror with faded photographs and postcards stuck all around the frame. A small bookcase hung just inside the door, supporting, instead of books, a row of flower and coronet embellished mugs, each one bearing the portrait of a British king or queen. There was Edward VII and his queen, Alexandra, on their coronation day, his son George V and Queen Mary on theirs, and the same regal couple again on the occasion of their silver jubilee only last year.

“Only one more room to show you,” Nat said as he moved a ladder into position and began to climb.

Stacked along one side of the attic from ceiling to floor were dozens of bolts of material, the overflow from Simon’s workshop, Nat explained. But on the other side was a child’s brass bed with gleaming copper knobs at each corner. A coal fire was already lit in the corner grate but May’s attention went at once to the skylight. By standing on the bed and craning her neck a little she had a terrific view right up the adjoining Cyprus Street towards the war memorial.

“Auntie Edith always said you were trim,” Nat said, clearly delighted by May’s pleasure at the room. “So we hoped you would be able to squeeze in here. At least you will have it to yourself. I am afraid that Sam will have to stretch out on the sofa downstairs.”

A room of her own, whatever size, with a ladder leading nowhere except to a door of her own was something May had always longed for. At home in Barbados, despite the comfortable size of the house, she had always slept in her old childhood room, which led through a connecting door to her parents’ bedroom on one side and down to the stairway on the other. She had never liked the sense of being within earshot of her parents and their ineffectively muffled arguments, but out of habit, she had never thought of asking to move.

The house in Barbados had once been a splendid dwelling with its elegant Jacobean proportions, curved staircase, British-designed cornices and beautifully carved wooden doors. But the West Indian sugar export business was no longer thriving as it had in her grandparents’ day. Financial strain following the Great Depression in Britain and competition from other sugar-growing countries had eroded the demand and May had been conscious of the necessary economies her parents had been forced to make. In the past few years the number of household staff had dwindled from a dozen servants down to a couple of maids who came in to clean and dust and to help Bertha, the rotund and cheerful cook. Bertha prepared all the meals for the family as well as lunch for the plantation workers. Her pillow of a shoulder was famously available for any member of the community to lean on or weep on whenever they wished. Bertha’s husband, Tom, completed the complement of staff, a man whose strength lay in his head for figures as he organised the weekly accounts with impressive precision. The ancient plantation chauffeur had died two years ago and it had been Duncan’s idea to replace him with his own, unpaid daughter. Even the Rolls-Royce, for so long the pride and joy of May’s grandfather and father, had begun to show irreversible signs of age, no matter how much time May gave to the polishing of its green paintwork.

May followed Nat back down the creaking Oak Street ladder thinking how happy her mother and Bertha would be to know of the extent of Nat’s welcome and of the excellent character of Gladys’s only boy. May had heard all Edith’s stories about her adored sister, a passionate campaigner for the vote for women who had been locked up in Holloway Prison before the war for hurling bricks through government office windows. Edith had stayed in touch by letter with their son Nathanial after Gladys’ death, and when the news of Nat’s marriage to a beautiful Jewish girl reached Edith she felt happier than she had for years.

To her knowledge, May had never met a Jewish person and she and Sam had been fascinated by the written accounts of Sarah and his new family that Nat sent out to Edith in Barbados. His great-grandparents-in-law had moved from Russia to live and work in London’s East End in the middle of the last century where they raised half a dozen children. Rachel’s grandfather had been a tailor and his five sons, including Rachel’s father, had all joined the same trade. A talent for needle and thread had evidently been ingested with their mother’s milk. Rachel, the only daughter of the family, had fallen in love with Simon Greenfeld, the son of her father’s partner, and that marriage had produced one child. Rachel had suffered horrible complications at Sarah’s birth, making her incapable of conceiving again, and while there had been some hand-wringing over cups of consoling tea at the news that there would never be a son, the disappointment was soon forgotten in Rachel and Simon’s devotion to their daughter.

Beneath her nagging outer shell, Rachel was committed to the care not only of her daughter but of her husband too; she fussed over Simon night and day. She was anxious to prevent him from developing an excessively fatty heart like their neighbour Mrs. Cohen’s husband. Mr. Cohen had reached such a size that his coffin would not fit through the front door. He had been carried out of the house, stiff as a poker, with the whole neighbourhood watching. It was an undignified scene, especially as Mrs. Cohen, in her distress, had failed to dress her husband in his best suit and Mr. Cohen attracted some comments as he left Oak Street for the last time wearing a pair of striped woollen pyjamas.

Food, whether too much or too little, was not Rachel’s only preoccupation. Rachel fussed and worried about everything. When her daughter began walking out with Nat Castor, a gentile apprentice in Simon’s workshop, both her parents were cautious. Marrying outside the faith was not to be encouraged. But the vigorous and charismatic young man won them over and by the time the young couple announced their engagement Simon showed as much pride in Nat as he would have done in a son of his own. Nat had written a funny letter to his aunt Edith describing the conversational convolutions that had led to his marriage.

“Of course there will have to be a conversion, Nat, and all the trimmings, if you will forgive me putting it that way,” Rachel had declared. “I am afraid it might be a bit painful, but God wants you to know in no uncertain terms, Nat, that you are promising to trust in Him. Isn’t that right, Simon?”

In the Jewish tradition Simon invariably gave way to his wife’s running of all matters relating to the house and the family. If the truth were known, he enjoyed spending time in his own company at the workshop, or with his friends down in the Bethnal Green Road bookies where he could find some respite from Rachel’s incessant chatter. It was therefore a shock to Rachel when her deferential husband announced that the surgical knife would not be necessary prior to Sarah and Nat’s marriage and that no religious conversion would be taking place either. There would be none of the customary sitting shiva, the weeklong period of mourning observed when a Jewish girl marries a gentile. So long as any children, God willing, were brought up in the Jewish faith, Nat could hang on to his God-given genitals intact. Nat had proved himself to be a good Jewish boy in all but name and that was good enough for Simon.

Privately delighted by Simon’s rare display of assertiveness Rachel came out fighting, demolishing every bit of street gossip on the matter.

“Look here, Mrs. Cohen,” she said, her arms folded in defence across her flowery bosom, “Nat’s not Jewish but at least he’s a tailor and that’s a good profession. My daughter has a good husband who can provide for her. That’s all that matters.”


Within minutes of May and Sam’s arrival on Oak Street, and even though it was a little late for tea, a shop-bought cake still in its box was brought to the velvet-covered table, an extravagance usually reserved for the birth of a new baby or the coronation of a new king. Covered in pale creamy brown icing, with a few flicked-up sugar peaks skipping across its otherwise smooth surface, the cake boasted a single halved walnut that had been placed smooth side down in the middle.

“You can always tell a Fuller’s coffee cake,” Nat whispered, shushing his chattering mother-in-law as he cut into the soft icing. A tiny sound, and the barest of visible agitations of the surface as the sharp knife made contact with the glazed sugar, caused those sitting around the table to moisten their lips in anticipation.

“Not a noise you get from any other cake,” promised Nat, as he gently pushed the knife on down until it made contact with the china beneath.

“What about a lemon bun?” Rachel said, handing a plate round.

“Have a drink, May. Help yourself, Sam,” Nat added, indicating six miniature, flower-patterned glasses, brimming with liquid.

May closed her hand around the delicate stem with care. The honey-coloured wine was sweet, but not sickly.

“L’Chaim!” Nat, Sarah, Rachel and Simon cried in unison as they raised their thimble glasses in welcome to the new arrivals.


The next day May and Sam’s cousins took them to the Trocadero at Piccadilly Circus, the most famous of all the white- and gold-painted Lyons Corner House teashops. A Jewish tobacconist had founded the company nearly forty years earlier, Nat explained, and some, the proud Greenfelds among them, considered the restaurants to be the height of luxury.

May watched, impressed, as one of the Lyons’s “nippies,” the black-and-white uniformed waitresses popularly named for their agility, nipped between the packed tables, balancing trays of teacups, teapots and plates of curranty scones and jam. Across the other side of the huge dining room was a “trippy” threading her way cautiously through the closely packed chairs, clumsily clearing away the dirty crockery onto her trolley, looking forward to the day when she stopped tripping up and became eligible for nippy status.

Rachel was already ordering a second round of chips, belching gently but unapologetically as she instructed the nippy to be sure the next serving was extra hot and generously salted. May traced the rim of her plate with a tepid chip but she could not actually bring herself to eat it. She had smelled the same smell on her coach journey from Liverpool, mingled with the stench of cigarette smoke inside the coach, and it had made her nauseous. Even so, May longed to have the money to pay for the tea. May had arrived in London with twenty pounds that her mother had given her. “I wish I could afford to give you more, my darling,” her mother had said. The sum had seemed to May like a lot at the time, but the cost of everything in London meant that the twenty pounds was fast running out.

Hanging on the walls of the restaurant were a series of framed posters from Lyons’s long-running advertising campaign featuring a fictional character called George. The gag was that George was never where he was expected to be. George was never at home, never in the office, never appeared on the railway platform to join his wife waiting to catch a train, never turned up to watch the Punch and Judy show with his children, and consistently failed to arrive on the golf course, his golfing plus-fours pictured hanging limply over the frame of a scarecrow instead.

“The trouble with George,” Nat explained, “is that he has always ‘gone to Lyonch.’”


Three days after May’s arrival in England she was sitting in one of the brown armchairs in the front room, looking through the small collection of books on the shelves and wondering what had happened to Sarah. Simon and Nat were in the tailor’s shop, and Sam had gone down to the headquarters of the Royal Navy to investigate how he might join its voluntary service. In a corner was a tailor’s dummy dressed in the half-finished wedding suit Nat was making as a favour for a best friend. After the excitement of arrival, May was at something of a loss to know what to do with herself. Everything, the cold weather, the food, the traffic, the clothes, all proclaimed how different life was back home. She felt as if she had been turned upside down. She had considered going up to her attic bed but as she had passed the ever-open door to Rachel and Simon’s room she had caught sight of Simon standing in front of the mirror, his back to the door. He was juggling his huge stomach from one hand to the other while chanting to himself loudly enough for May to hear “wobble wibble, wibble wobble.” He was stark naked. May did not want to attract his attention by climbing the squeaky ladder and instead silently retraced her steps downstairs.

She had hoped to find Sarah there, but then remembered how her cousin had packed up her rollers and hairbrushes before setting off to give a shampoo and set to one of her richer clients, one of several, bored, indulged wives who were only to happy to fill the vacant hours by having their hair curled and styled. May had learned quickly that hard work was the habit of the Oak Street household. Simon and Nat’s buoyant tailoring business brought relative affluence to number 52, and between them the family tried their best to ease a little of the poverty that surrounded them. The neighbourhood was a poor one, with unemployment and the resulting deprivation often leading to desperate behaviour. Petty thieving was rife, even within Oak Street itself. Only the other day, after a pair of prized racing pigeons disappeared from the back yard at number 73, a delicious smell had come seeping from under the Smith’s front door at number 54. There were ten children in the Smith family and the elder ones wore shoes with a hole punched into the side, a warning sign to pawnbrokers that these shoes were the property of the local school and only out on loan. The children tried to hide the hole from their friends by stuffing an extra sock in the side but no one else was fooled. Simon and Nat would pass on cast-off coats and waistcoats that came their way, Rachel was forever popping next door and into other houses in the street to see if they could do with a bit of leftover pie and Sarah cut the neighbours’ children’s hair and helped them with their letters and numbers, in exchange for the occasional bantam’s egg supplied from the backyard coops.

Apart from Simon wobbling away in his bedroom, the house was empty. Glad for the rare chance to be alone, May went into the parlour where a two-day-old newspaper was lying on the leather sofa. Nat was fascinated by politics and had heard long ago that The Times was the paper of the educated classes. His neighbours, if they were interested at all in reading the news, got their daily information from the Daily Worker. But Nat had become friendly with a butler, a customer from a big house in the West End, for whom Nat had made a smart black working jacket and matching pair of trousers. Each morning, the butler would collect the previous day’s copy of The Times from his employer’s smoking room, have a quick look at the sports pages and then pass the paper on to Nat. They would meet at the bus stop on Bethnal Green Road when the butler was on his way to work or at Goides, the Whitechapel café where Jewish intellectuals went to discuss politics and literature over small cups of thick Turkish coffee and glasses of lemon tea.

May turned the pages of Nat’s secondhand paper, looking for the names of the latest winners of the Littlewoods football pools. Sam had suggested the pools might make their fortune.

“Every day someone wakes up to a morning of good news,” he argued, “and to a means of escape from a hard life. Maybe one day it will be me. Then I will buy a yacht,” he promised, “and we can sail round the world like kings and queens.”

But May could find no reference in the dog-eared newspaper to anyone celebrating a windfall. The first few pages were covered with columns of boxed-in advertisements. The front page carried notices from financial advisors, personal advertisements from spiritualists promising to “restore confidence” for those living in uncertainty, and details of a sumptuous antique Persian tapestry for sale at a bargain price of two hundred pounds. The second page was devoted almost exclusively to educational positions in boys’ schools but on the third she came across the columns reserved for domestic situations. Most required skill in the kitchen and May’s culinary expertise was based on little more than watching Bertha preparing huge mounds of rice and peas for the plantation workers’ lunch back home.

May tucked the paper under her arm and went upstairs, passing Simon’s now closed door, climbing the complaining ladder to look through her skylight from where she gazed yet again at the memorial stone with its poignant message of sacrificing life for duty. She began to wonder what sort of occupations would have awaited those young men had they not lost their lives before life had barely begun. A man’s world had been on offer for those boys, but it had been replaced by one top-heavy with women.

A man’s world … snippets of a conversation with Nat the day before began to reform in her mind. Nat was proving quick to notice anything that interested her. On the morning after their arrival the Greenfelds, the Castors and the Thomases had gone for a brisk walk in nearby Victoria Park and as they crossed the road May had been conscious of Nat studying her face.

“Tell me, May,” he had asked, “am I mistaken or do you have a secret passion for these smelly machines?”

May blushed at his observation but nodded, admitting to being mesmerised by the sight of so many beautiful cars.

“Why not look for a job as a chauffeur?” Nat said. “Loads of women drove cars professionally in the Great War. Women wore the trousers in those days. And many still do,” he said, darting a look in Rachel’s direction. “Even though there is talk down at the workshop of another war,” Nat continued, his eyes meeting Sarah’s, who was nodding in agreement, “none of us think it will come. Even Mosley and his fascist thugs are losing power in this country and anyway, Baldwin will do everything in his power to prevent it.”

Nat did not sound optimistic.

“But whatever happens there is no reason for women drivers to wait for another war to give them a professional role. Especially if they have a real skill for it.”

“What sort of car would I drive?” May asked. “And who would be inside it?”

“Well, they say the test to drive a London taxi is a hard one. You have to know all the streets of London backwards as well as forwards. They call it ‘the Knowledge’ and it is said to be more difficult to pass than the exam to get into Oxford or Cambridge!”

“She’s a quick learner,” Sam interrupted with brotherly pride.

“I am sure she is,” replied Nat, “but it might be an idea to see if any private work is advertised in the paper. Perhaps a Times reader would be looking for her in the same way that she’d be seeking them?” he suggested.

May sat on her bed and opened the newspaper once more, beginning again with the third page. She ran her finger down the situations-vacant columns. With the cutting back of numbers of servants since the Depression, even the grandest houses were looking to double up on staff roles. That day the advertisements for “cook-generals” outnumbered all the others, a euphemism that according to Nat disguised something closer to general slave labour.

“You would never have found such a job advertised before the war,” he had said.

Even so, a parlour maid was required for a family in South Kensington and a head housemaid was needed to head a team of four other servants near Southampton, the advertisement assuring all applicants that the employers were a “titled family.” Neither position sounded at all what she was looking for. Further down the page, however, May drew in her breath a little. Her finger hovered for a moment and then, putting her hands in her lap, she read the few compact lines slowly.



Discretion is an essential qualification for the successful candidate who applies to work as chauffeuse, with additional general secretarial duties for a busy member of Parliament, based both in London and in Sussex.

Flexibility, a willingness to work hard, a head for bookkeeping, a smart appearance and an impeccable driving record are all requirements.



May circled the advertisement with a pencil, went downstairs and waited for Sam and Nat to come home. She planned to seek their advice even though her mind was already made up. Later that evening, she rang the number printed in the newspaper from Nat’s workshop telephone, and an arrangement had been made for May to take the train from Victoria down to Polegate station where she would be met and driven to Cuckmere Park. She had been told by the housekeeper, who in a deep voice introduced herself as Mrs. Cage, that Sir Philip Blunt would be at the house and would be pleased to interview her himself.

“He needs to be certain of getting the right one this time,” Mrs. Cage had said. “And he’s not the only one here at Cuckmere who doesn’t want any more balls-ups, pardon my French,” she continued. “Spent too much time abroad with men and their bad ways with language, I have. Mind you, a woman might cause a bit of attention behind the wheel. I hope you scrub up nice and smart,” a note of warning in her voice as she replaced the receiver.

Nat had made Sarah a warm coat for the winter in thick tweed. Sarah insisted that the coat was ideally suited to May’s neat figure and would be perfect for impressing Sir Philip. She also leant May a pair of cotton stockings. May, who had never worn such things before, pulled the stockings up and clipped them to the suspenders just as Sarah showed her. She did not know that legs could experience claustrophobia, even though Sarah assured her the stockings would soon expand and wrinkle at the knees and ankles. At the last moment Nat had produced a striped, battered box from which he lifted a small black velvet hat with a jaunty feather on one side.

“Mum would be honoured to think of the daughter of her favourite sister wearing her best hat on such an important day. This is the only piece of clothing the prison returned to us after Mum died. All her other clothes had been burned because she was too thin to wear them.” Nat’s voice faltered. “But Mum didn’t mind. ‘Anything for the suffragette cause,’ she always used to say. I always wish she had lived on just a bit longer to see women given the vote and Lady Astor taking her seat in Parliament. Then she would have known the fight was worthwhile.”

“Well, I want to try and do Aunt Gladys and her hat proud,” May said, reaching up to give Nat a kiss on his cheek. “So here comes a woman aiming for a man’s job.”

Placing the hat on May’s head, Sarah pronounced it a perfect fit.

As May sat on the train in her third-class carriage she passed innumerable back gardens and yards. The scene passing her eyes was as strange as anything she had seen at the pictures. Some of these tiny patches of horticulture were pristine in their winter tidiness, the flowerbeds turned and forked with the care given to the potato topping of a meat pie, paths swept of leaves and the still stark trees forming a skeletal silhouette against the sky. Other gardens were overrun with weeds, and sometimes, just visible in the thick mist, the train passed an abandoned swing settee, its seat rotting in the damp, a reminder of summers past. Most of these small plots were devoid of life, although as the train slowed down for a station, May spotted a sleepy cat curling itself around the back fence of a house and a bent-over figure emerging from his potting shed, probably escaping the demands of domesticity in the house. And yet this unlikely jigsaw of semi-tended earth, despite the apparent mismatch of the pieces, slotted together to form the overall effect of a satisfying collage.

As the London suburbs gave way to the muddy greenish-brown of the Sussex winter countryside, a thin white frosting covered the fields. May had never seen snow before. The pictures illustrating Hans Christian Anderson’s icy queen in her white fur coat were the closest she had come to such a sight. There was no one in the empty railway carriage to whom she could show her excitement. Sam had wanted to come with her but that day he had an appointment on board HMS President, the huge ship permanently moored at King’s Reach near the Law Courts at the Embankment. She wondered how he was getting on. His hope that the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve would take him on as a rating was a long shot but even so Sam was confident that he would soon be wearing a jacket with the volunteers’ herringbone stripe at the cuff.

Nat had also offered to come with May on the journey, but she assured him she would manage fine on her own. Just at that moment she felt deliriously independent. The train made its way through the frozen landscape, the bosomy undulation of the South Downs rising into view as if the backdrop of a theatre had just been changed for a new scene. May tried to count the number of flint churches with pencil spires that pointed upwards towards the grey skies and felt the return of an old tumble of words from a poem that her mother used to read to her when May was very small, the rhythm of it dependably sleep-inducing even if the words did not then mean much.



Faster than fairies, faster than witches,

Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;

And charging along like troops in a battle,

All through the meadows the horses and cattle:

All of the sights of the hill and the plain

Fly as thick as driving rain



As the painted stations of the Sussex Downs whistled past her window, May only just had time to read the letters on the wooden signs announcing the successive towns of Plumpton and Lewes, Glynde and Berwick, until at last the train began to slow down and a ripple of nerves overtook her. Sarah had suggested she might suit a bob cut, and had offered to give her a shining blond Jean Harlow–style, with a little help from her infallible tin of bleach. May had resisted the offer but wondered whether she had been right to do so. Now she could only hope that her hairpins would hold their place.

A man in overalls was standing at the far end of the platform, holding a tweed cap. He raised a hand to May in greeting. She waved back. A sharp gust of wind lifted off her black velvet hat and, bending to retrieve it, the pins that she had carefully tucked into her hair two hours earlier slithered out onto the ground. They will never take me seriously now, she thought, as she stood up, juggling hair, hat and pins and made her way towards the man who was standing beside a beautiful car.