Free The Second-last Woman in England by Maggie Joel

matter if he did?
    In another moment the cloud had passed and the sun came out again as brilliant, if not more brilliant, than before. But Jean remained where she was, in the shadows.
    She could hear voices downstairs, a door opening and closing. The family were up, then, and she couldn’t very well hide in her room any longer. She must present herself to Mrs Wallis. And get the children’s breakfast. Or would Mrs Thompson do that? At Mrs McIlwraith’s she had done everything from making the children’s meals to queuing up for the meat ration. But Mrs McIlwraith was their neighbour, Jean had known her all her life. And that was Malacca Row, Stepney—there had been no housekeeper, no Mr McIlwraith and no Latin prep.
    There had been nothing at all like this.
    For a moment she couldn’t quite catch her breath and she sat down heavily on the bed, a hand pressed against her chest. She had left Mrs McIlwraith’s familiar four-room terrace, a house as familiar to her as her own. If she could go back—
    But there was no going back. She had made her choice and she would stick to it. You couldn’t avoid your responsibilities forever, not when God had finally shown you the way.
    She stood up and smoothed down her skirt and blouse and patted her curls with a glance in the small hand mirror. Lipstick? No, that was the wrong look. Instead she straightened the seam of her nylons and left the room.
    ‘Nanny! The new nanny is here!’ shrieked Anne as Jean descended the stairs to the lower floor. The child stood rooted to the spot in the middle of the hallway, her arm stuck out before her, pointing a long, pale finger as though she were witnessing a supernatural phenomenon.
    Jean arranged her features into a bright smile. ‘Hello, Anne.’
    ‘Nanny Peters used to come down those stairs just like that !’ the girl exclaimed, dismay writ large on her pale face.
    ‘What, one step at a time, you mean?’ said Julius, appearing in a doorway. ‘What would you have her do, Anne? Come down backwards? Or perhaps you’d prefer her to slide down the banister?’
    Mrs Wallis appeared from another room wearing a cream silk dress that clung to her shoulders and bust and flared out over her hips.
    ‘Miss Corbett. How delightful of you to join us.’
    She was wearing scarlet lipstick and shoes that were so white they had surely never been worn before, and Jean felt a moment of dismay. Was this how she—how they—dressed for Sunday breakfast? For church? Mrs Wallis looked as though she was on her way to a Buckingham Palace garden party.
    She came over and smiled and Jean’s dismay slowly receded.
    ‘I do hope you have settled in all right?’
    ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Wallis. I—’
    ‘Good. Now here is your list of duties,’ and she handed over three neatly typed sheets of paper. ‘Please come to me directly if you have any queries. You’ll find us quite informal on Sundays. Julius will complete his homework in the morning and Anne will need to practise her piano. The children ought to get some fresh air, so perhaps you’ll take them to the park this afternoon? Mr Wallis and I have a luncheon engagement so Mrs Thompson will do you and the children something cold in the kitchen, then we generally have tea at five.’ She turned to go back downstairs.
    That didn’t sound ‘quite informal’ to Jean.
    ‘And will the children be attending church this morning?’ she asked.
    There was a moment when everything in the house fell quiet.
    ‘Oh, I rather doubt it,’ replied Mrs Wallis, pausing halfway down the stairs and producing a cigarette from the folds of her dress. She smiled suddenly, disarmingly. ‘Not unless they stumble into one by accident, that is.’
    After she had gone there was a silence and Jean realised both children were watching her. Their expressions quite clearly said: this is interesting; what will the new nanny do next?
    Julius stuck his hands in his pockets and sauntered over. ‘We are not a church-going family,