Free The Second-last Woman in England by Maggie Joel Page A

you see, Nanny,’ he explained. ‘Not due to any deep-seated principles of atheism, you understand. No, it’s more a sort of—’ he paused to consider, ‘… general apathy, really.’
    ‘I attend Chapel every Sunday,’ Jean said.
    ‘I should like to go too! Will you ask Mummy if we can come too?’ begged Anne, her eyes bright as though someone were proposing a day at the seaside.
    ‘Yes, Anne. I don’t see why not. If Mrs Wallis thinks it’s all right.’
    ‘Oh, she won’t mind,’ said Julius. ’As long as Anne remains an interested observer. Mummy won’t like it if she decides to sign up and become a nun, you know. And that’s exactly the sort of thing she does do,’ he added in a low voice, giving Jean a significant nod.
    ‘I would make a beautiful nun,’ said Anne dreamily, wasting little time in adopting this new role.
    Jean had a sense of things getting away from her.
    ‘Well, we don’t really have nuns at Chapel, Anne.’
    ‘Oh, what a shame,’ said Anne, sinking down onto the floor under the weight of this devastating blow to her youthful ambitions.
    ‘Now, have you both had your breakfast?’ said Jean briskly and was rewarded for her briskness by Anne leaping up and running down the stairs.
    ‘That means no,’ explained Julius, leading the way downstairs. ‘On Sundays Mrs Thompson usually has breakfast ready at nine-twenty. Housewives’ Choice is on at nine so we get our breakfast at twenty past. We’ve tried writing to the BBC, but they refuse to move it,’ and he went into a room at the rear of the house.
    Through the half-open door Jean could see a large table at which Anne and Mrs Wallis were seated. She couldn’t see the far side of the table, but she heard distinctly the voice of Mr Wallis.
    ‘… go into the office this afternoon, Harriet. We’ll go to the Swanbridges’ for lunch as arranged, then I’ll pop in afterwards. Anne, I am quite certain Nanny Peters did not encourage you to eat your egg in that manner. You are not dissecting a corpse.’
    Jean turned away. She was fairly certain a nanny did not join the family for Sunday breakfast. Or indeed for any meal aside from tea with the children and the cold something in the kitchen to which Mrs Wallis had earlier alluded.
    Instead she continued down to the ground floor, then down an uncarpeted flight of stairs to the only part of the house she had yet to visit, and found herself in the doorway of a large, white-tiled basement kitchen. A vast dresser filled one side of the room displaying an astonishing array of china plates and other crockery on its various hooks and shelves. Two huge chipped enamel sinks and a long wooden draining board stood on the opposite side and in the centre of the kitchen was a wide wooden table at which sat Mrs Thompson, cigarette in hand. Before her was a magazine, she had a cup of tea near her elbow and the radio set was switched on within reaching distance.
    ‘…hymns from Kings College. And to start this morning’s programme, here is the choir of St Martin-in-the-Fields singing “Jerusalem”.’
    ‘There you are, Miss Corbett,’ said Mrs Thompson, putting down her cigarette. ‘Let me pour you a nice cuppa.’
    ‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ said Jean, sitting down. ‘Are you listening to the Sunday service, Mrs Thompson?’ she asked, nodding hopefully towards the radio.
    ‘Lord, no, there’ll be some nice light music on in a minute. Can’t abide all that hymn singing. But it’ll be over soon enough. How d’you take your tea? Sugar?’
    ‘Yes. Sugar, please,’ Jean murmured and felt a rush of something—guilt?—swirl dizzyingly about her head. You never had sugar in your tea at home, you saved it for other things. Often you gave your whole ration so that a cake could be baked or a custard as a special treat if it was someone’s birthday. ‘Oh, I’ve brought my ration books,’ she added and held them out.
    Mrs Thompson nodded but seemed in no hurry to take them,