I’ve been incredibly lovely to Silvie after learning all this. She still doesn’t say anything, but perhaps I wouldn’t if I’d gone through all that.
That evening I asked Mama what would happen to Silvie if her parents don’t make it here until the war’s over.
“Sadly we can’t keep Silvie here for long as Daddy wouldn’t like it. But she can stay for a while, until it can be decided where she would do well.” Mama wiped a tear from her eye. She wants Silvie to stay with us, but she has to do everything Daddy says.
When I saw Daddy later, I tentatively brought up the subject of letting Silvie stay, but he was as stubborn as ever.
“We can’t have little evacuees from Lord knows where staying with us, becoming part of the family and so forth,” he said. “What a ridiculous notion you have, Kitty, and your mother, too.” He stormed around the room picking up papers and books and slamming them down. “Do you know there’s a war on?” he shouted. “There are Nazi planes in our skies—one came down last week close to Dover, and the Local Defense Volunteers haven’t found the damned pilot yet. The country’s in grave danger, and all you can think about is a blasted evacuee!”
And that was that. Obviously I’ll have to think up some marvelous plan that will make him capitulate.
Another Fight with Venetia
Venetia is being completely intolerable. This morning she stormed into my bedroom in her petticoat, hands on hips, furiously looking around.
“Where’s my sky-blue dress, you thief?”
“It doesn’t fit you anymore, so I requisitioned it.” I gave her a sharp smile. “I know that Mama would have told me to do the same.”
“It does still fit me, you little twerp. All my dresses have gone missing, and I knew it was you,” she spat. “In any case, it’s courteous to ask before you take something.”
She had come right up to me, standing a foot away, putting her crazed, pursed-up face right into mine. I backed away.
“I only borrowed this one,” I said. “I don’t know where the others have gone. Maybe the maid’s been taking them. I needed this one for a picnic.”
“A picnic? With who?”
“Silvie and I went on our very own little picnic. I wanted to show her what it was like in the good old days. You know, before the war.”
“Remember the time we went to Box Hill with Henry?” She stood up straight again and seemed to forget the dress dispute for a moment, her mind flitting back to that July day. “That was the first time Henry proposed to me,” she laughed. “What a funny day that was! Do you remember how I—”
I cut in, feeling the blood gush hot into my face. “But he proposed to me that day!” I couldn’t believe what she was saying. “He proposed to me!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Kitty,” she smirked. “He could only have proposed to one of us.” She stood back, arms folded, laughing slightly.
“And it was me.” I stood firm. I think I might have been gripping my fists by my sides because I wanted to punch her ridiculous mouth.
“Ah, but now I remember, I declined his proposal, so perhaps you’re right after all,” she joked in a patronizing tone. “Perhaps he was saddened and desperate after being turned down, and then saw little you and felt sorry for you. We all know you’ve been infatuated with him for years.”
If I’d had Daddy’s shotgun with me right then and there, I would have taken it out and pulled the trigger straight into her vile, spiteful heart.
“But he asked me, and I said yes,” I fumed.
“He was only joking with you, Kitty.” She laughed. “Of course he isn’t interested in a stupid child like you. It’s me he wants, a real woman.” With this she did that ludicrous pouting with her lips, like a big wet salmon, and I pulled back in disgust.
“Whatever you’ve got, I don’t want it, and neither does Henry.”
“Of course he does, darling.” The look on her face was utter, determined domination. “He’s crazy about me.”
“So why didn’t you accept him if he proposed to you?” I demanded.
“Because I’m waiting for someone better.”
“Like that weasel Slater?”
“He’s not a weasel.” She looked away, and I glimpsed a flicker of uncertainty. “He’s worth a million of Henry.”
“Really, Venetia?” And I took out my trump card. “A black-market dealer is better than Henry?”
She unfolded her arms, and something in her posture crumpled.
“You know?” She didn’t seem shocked, just wary, treading carefully, trying to understand.
Now it was my turn to be smug. “I saw him in Peasepotter Wood doing business with a crook called Old George.”
“When?”