Free Westwood by Stella Gibbons Page B

light from the window shone on her brown hair where it was swept up from her white nape.
    ‘Margaret Steggles,’ said Margaret. She thought that her own voice sounded self-conscious and dull, and hated her name more than ever.
    ‘Good-bye, Margaret Steggles, and don’t murder my children. Good-bye, honeybunch,’ said Mrs Niland, addressing the baby. Margaret smiled and tried to sound gay as she said, ‘Good-bye!’ A second later she heard the front door slam. At the same instant the baby burst into tears.
    ‘Oh, good heavens – this won’t do – come here, darling –’ muttered Margaret distractedly, picking up the shaking little body. Tears were literally spurting from the tightly shut eyes. Margaret put her own cheek gently against the wet warm one, but the baby only roared the more.
    ‘She hates Mummy going out,’ observed Barnabas in a detached tone. ‘She always does that.’
    ‘What’s her name?’ demanded Margaret.
    ‘Emma.’
    ‘Emma, don’t cry – here –’ Margaret picked up the tin and rattled it. ‘Has this got a name?’ she demanded of the unforthcoming Barnabas, holding up the tin.
    ‘It hasn’t got a name, really .’ For the first time he glanced across at her. ‘It were called Weeny.’
    ‘Emma – look, darling, here’s Weeny. It hates to see you crying. Love Weeny, then.’
    Emma hiccoughed, and was suddenly silent. Her wet grey eyes gazed up solemnly and reproachfully at Margaret while two tears ran slowly, slowly down.
    ‘Oh, you darling –’ whispered Margaret, gazing into the tiny face, red as a japonica flower.
    ‘Her nose is running,’ remarked Barnabas, and scrambled to his feet and came across with the handkerchief. ‘It’s all right. She hasn’t got a cold. It’s crying.’ He wiped Emma’s nose, and she gave a loud short snarl and wriggled away from him. ‘She hates having her nose wiped,’ he added, and wiped his own. ‘It’s all right. I haven’t got a cold, really. It’s only a snuffle, Grantey says,’ and he returned to his coals.
    Emma now scrambled briskly off the divan and crawled away across the floor. Barnabas watched her warily until she had shuffled past his house and established herself amid a pile of bricks in a far corner; then he returned to his building with a quiet sigh of relief.
    ‘Bick!’ crowed Emma, smiling radiantly and holding up a brick to Margaret.
    ‘Yes, darling. Lovely!’
    Emma was silent for a little while, burrowing in the box, and Margaret, breathing more freely now, took her opportunity to look round the room.
    A little indignation mingled with her dazed admiration for the surprising Mrs Niland. She would have liked to say to some imaginary listener: ‘The poor little mites; she just walked out and left them like that with a total stranger and the room hadn’t been dusted for days and the fire wasnearly out’ – but in fact the few pieces of old furniture gleamed like satin, and the red carpet was well brushed. The panelled walls were painted a strange bluish-green, and instead of pictures there were vases of white Italian pottery hanging at intervals, filled with bouquets of violets and white hyacinths which deliciously scented the warm air. A low fire burnt in the basket-grate, but Margaret thought that the house was centrally heated. The one small window, at which hung curtains of yellow Chinese brocade, looked over a gravel yard with a fountain in the middle and some bushes of Portugal laurel in blue tubs, but beyond this, as is often the case in Hampstead, there was a dismal view of blank walls and ugly roofs. The red carpet, on which toys were scattered, fitted closely to the wainscoting, and there were no draughts; the children, the many books on their white shelves, and the luxurious flowers silently breathing forth their perfume seemed enclosed in a hushed, warm cavern hollowed from some deeply coloured jewel, while the chilly world of autumn sunlight outside seemed unreal. Margaret remained quite