Free A Silver Lining by Catrin Collier Page A

on no account to work for at least two weeks, and that’s in the house, let alone outside work.’
    ‘We’ll see how I feel, Mam.’
    ‘At least two weeks. He warned me of serious consequences if you don’t heed his advice, Alma.’
    To Lena Moore the words of ministers and doctors were sacrosanct. Both professions she placed in a social stratum only marginally lower than God.
    ‘I’d be bored silly at home all day.’ Alma forced a laugh. ‘You know what I’m like Mam; I can’t sit still for a minute.’
    ‘Well, for once you’re going to have to.’ Her mother opened the carrier bag and lifted out a clean nightdress. ‘Besides, there’s nothing for you to do at home. Mrs Lewis has seen to everything. The rent, the bills, the shopping –she even got that nice young man who works for the foreign butcher in the market –what’s his name?’
    ‘William Powell,’ Alma said suspiciously.
    ‘That’s him. She even got him to put a load of coals into the coal-house for me.’
    ‘And you let him? What did you pay him with?’
    ‘It’s all right Alma,’ her mother smiled. ‘Mrs Lewis is paying for everything out of the insurance you took out in work in case you got sick. She’s been collecting your full wages. And not just the café wages. It’s twelve shillings, the same as it would be if you’d been able to carry on with both jobs. Although no one from Goldman’s been near the house to ask after you. That’s not very neighbourly of them I must say. You see, you don’t have to worry about a thing. These last two weeks I’ve even been able to put a little aside. By the time you come out we’ll have a few shillings spare. Maybe enough to buy a length of pretty cotton so you can sew yourself a new summer dress.’
    Alma lay back on her pillows listening to her mother’s tales of how marvellous everything was at home, and saying little except the odd ‘yes’ or ‘no’. She knew her mother had been worried sick about her. Now, for the first time in almost three weeks, relief was evident in the relaxed lines of Lena Moore’s face and voice.
    The last thing she could do was shatter her mother’s illusions.
    She’d wondered just how Laura had managed to get her mother to accept charity. Now she knew. Insurance! How would her mother feel if she told her there was no insurance? That there never had been. That even if such a policy existed, she’d never had money enough to spare to subscribe to one.
    Bethan hovered at the ‘dining end’ of the one-reception, two-bedroomed flat, or ‘apartment’ as Andrew liked to call it. She checked the table in a desultory, absentminded fashion, straightening knives and forks that were already beautifully regimented, patting the bunch of violets she’d arranged in her smallest, prettiest crystal vase –a wedding present from Laura and Trevor –passing time while she waited, half in anticipation, half in dread, for the sound of Andrew’s key in the door.
    She’d taken a great deal of trouble with the table, using the best damask tablecloth that Andrew’s sister Fiona and brother-in-law Alec had given them as a belated wedding present. She’d spent half an hour that afternoon polishing the silver cutlery that Andrew’s parents had sent, along with a fine set of Doulton china, from Harrods. She could accuse them of antagonism towards her, but never meanness.
    Fiona, Alec, Laura, Trevor and Andrew’s parents –the only thing on the table she could honestly say was the product of their own taste was the posy she’d bought from the flower seller outside their block of flats.
    Andrew wouldn’t have approved of her going downstairs with the baby in her arms. It upset him to think of people looking at the child. One glance in the shawl or under the hood of the pram he’d asked her to keep raised in all weathers would be enough for anyone to see that something was wrong with little Edmund. Even the baby’s name wasn’t right. Before the birth they’d decided