Free The People on Privilege Hill by Jane Gardam Page A

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    â€œMac!” cried the dentist. “Bravo! Whatever would we do without you!”
    â€œThey’re our own apples from the back garden,” said Cis.
    â€œYes—but the suet! Where does she get the suet?”
    â€œI wonder what she gives the butcher?” said Miss Gowland, speaking for the first time.
    â€œI suppose there’s no custard?” asked Mr. Shaw, the Fine Artist.
    â€œI’ll go and see,” said Jim Smith, and picked up his plate and its helping of pudding, carried it to the kitchen and set it before the child.
    â€œThey are wanting custard,” he told the goddess.
    â€œNo. There is no custard.”
    The child sat staring amazed at her slice of pudding.
    â€œI don’t like pudding,” lied Jim Smith and the child smiled. He went back to the dining room where conversation suddenly halted.
    â€œSorry,” said Jim Smith. “I’m allergic to suet.”
    Nobody asked what had happened to his plate but Cissie, sipping from a topped-up glass, said, “She has no ration book, you know. Not one we have ever seen. Neither mother nor daughter. The child’s not registered for orange juice. We took them in from the goodness of our hearts. I’m ill, you see.”
    â€œWhere’s the little girl’s father?”
    â€œAh, well,” said the dentist, leering, “we ask no questions. And she knows her place.” Miss Gowland was licking her spoon with a fat, pale tongue.
    â€œThey don’t sleep in the house now,” said Nell. “Not since the raids began. They go up to the shelter on the Common. Well, it’s none of our business.”
    â€œThere’s something she doesn’t care for here,” said Mr. Shaw.
    â€œThat’s why you’re having her room tonight,” said Nell. “That, and because Cissie’s so much better, of course. Tonight we all sleep at Hilly Mead in our beds.”
    â€œOr in the cage,” said Mr. Shaw, patting the table top. “The Morrison. I’m for the cage.”
    â€œThere’s more to fall on you in a basement,” said Cis.
    The goddess and her child now appeared at the kitchen door, Mac carrying bed rolls, a bag and a foreign-looking rag doll. The child clutched at her mother’s skirt. Mac surveyed the black table.
    â€œWonderful dinner, Mac!” said the dentist. “Wonderful, yet again. Good girl.”
    â€œWe are leaving for the shelter now,” said Mac, “but I need help. I am unable to hold her hand while I’m carrying bed rolls.”
    â€œI’ll carry them.” Jim Smith was on his feet.
    â€œMore sense for you to stay here,” said Nell.
    â€œMr. Shaw?” Mr. Shaw did not move.
    â€œYou can’t go, Jim. You won’t find your way back. What would your mother think of us? They’ll be here any minute now. We’re right on the flight path in Wimbledon. To the city. We’ve a very high death rate here but it’s kept quiet. We’re not much safer than the East End.”
    â€œYes, you’d have done better where you came from, round St. Paul’s,” Miss Gowland volunteered.
    The air-raid sirens began.
    Fat Miss Gowland slid off her chair and down inside the table cage, and Mr. Shaw joined her at once. Auntie Cis sat frozen and stared at the dentist, who took her hand and said, “Cis—down we go. Or up. Whichever you want.”
    â€œCome,” said the goddess to Jim Smith, “take the bed rolls,” and she lifted the child in her arms and left the room. Jim followed up the basement steps, Nell running behind him with a tin hat.
    â€œTake this. Put it on. Where’s your gas mask?”
    Mac was striding ahead up the hill in full moonlight and the child’s bright face over her shoulder staring back at Jim.
    â€œYour mother will never—”
    â€œCome with us,” said Jim all at once. “Come with us Auntie Nelly.”
    But she said,