Free The Monkey Puzzle Tree by Sonia Tilson Page B

waved her hand impatiently as if signaling Gillian to go away, but then beckoned her back. “This’ll pass.” She held up a finger. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me.” She coughed again and spat a chunk of thick khaki-coloured phlegm into the stainless steel dish Gillian held for her. “That’s good! I’ll be all right now. I’m getting the better of this. I’ll be out of here in no time.”
    Gillian studied her. She looked even thinner, but alert, bright almost, a faint mauve flush beneath the apricot rouge on her cheeks.
    “How’s my Tweetie-Pie? Did you give him a good brush as I asked you to? He needs to be brushed every day. I hope you remembered that.”
    Gillian forbore from showing her the scratches she had received as soon as she had laid brush on the cat. “He’s fine, Mum. I did everything you asked.” If she were to get anywhere with her, she would have to be patient and ignore her needling.
    To soften her up she had brought along photographs of Bryn, the grandson her mother had never seen; his attractive blonde wife, Carol, the pharmacist; and Alice, Gillian’s darling five-year-old granddaughter, with her joie-de-vivre and funny, loud laugh. Her mother would be bound to exclaim over Alice’s physical resemblance to Gillian at that age: the same hair, eyes, and build, a similarity that Gillian hoped might provide a lead-in to the subject of her own evacuation at around that age and then, with luck, to the crucial disclosure.
    “Oh, how unfortunate!” Her mother dropped the photograph of Alice face-down on the bedspread. She put her face in her hands for a moment and gave a little shudder, before looking up with a forced smile. “I see she has your hair.” She gave a little laugh. “Although I must say, Gillian, in your case it seems to have worn well. You can hardly tell if you’ve gone grey or not!” She snatched up another photo. “Now this must be Bryn! He’s a handsome young man, certainly. He has a look of me I think. See the eyebrows? And there’s something about the mouth, don’t you agree?”
    Gillian gave up. There was no point in going on with her project now, since her mother seemed excited and perhaps feverish. She would try again when her mother was calmer. She gathered up the photographs and changed the subject. “Have you seen anything of the other women here, Mum?”
    “There’s a woman in the next room.” Her mother lowered her voice. “She came in to see me last night.” She leaned forward. “I think she’s Jewish.”
    “So?” Gillian turned her head sharply, chin up.
    “Oh, not that I have anything against Jewish people! I had a good friend once who was Jewish. Gilda Rosenberg. She kept the dress shop down the hill from us. Lovely woman! You probably remember her.”
    Gillian looked narrowly at her. “I remember Mrs. Rosenberg very well. She was indeed a lovely woman, and seemed very fond of you.” She turned away, disturbed, as always, by her mother’s hypocrisy and by her own memories of the end of the war.
     
    W
     
    When the victory in Europe was announced, nothing turned out the way Gillian and Tommy had hoped. Everyone who had a say in it, which, of course, did not include them, had agreed that even though there could be no more bombings, and it was indeed safe for them to come home, they should stay where they were because of Gillian’s approaching Eleven-plus examination. The consolation offered was that they could go home for weekends.
    Gillian tried to explain to a sulking Tommy that she could not help what they thought, and that she was every bit as fed up about it as he was. They would just have to put up with it, she said, pointing out that it was already Wednesday. In two days’ time they would be home. He cheered up somewhat, but she still brooded. There were schools in Swansea, weren’t there?
    They adjusted, as usual, and from then on, every Friday after school, their grandfather put them on the bus for Swansea and they rode into town,