Free Part of the Furniture by Mary Wesley

beauty? I’ve never known you not be there.’
    ‘Got better things to do.’
    ‘Oh, oh, I see ! The pups have arrived! Clever girl. How many?’ He looked up at Ann.
    ‘Two. Drink the whisky while it’s hot.’
    ‘It’s scalding. Are they all right? Dogs or bitches?’ Obediently he gulped some whisky. ‘Just what I needed. Thank you, Ann.’
    ‘One of each.’
    ‘Any clue as to the father?’
    ‘One’s brindled and one’s black and white.’
    ‘Smooth-haired?’
    ‘Can’t tell as yet.’
    ‘Clever girl.’ He stroked the dog. ‘All right, all right, go back to them now.’ The dog was anxious, torn between loyalties, flattening her ears and glancing towards the door. ‘She won’t want to leave them, will she,’ he said to Ann, ‘not for long, not for more than a few minutes at first. I’ll come to the kitchen in a minute,’ he said to the dog, and to Ann, ‘When were they born?’
    ‘Yesterday.’
    ‘Ah.’
    ‘And not in the kitchen.’
    ‘She didn’t have them in the kitchen? Did you move her basket?’ He frowned.
    ‘She had them in Mr Evelyn’s room …’
    ‘?’
    ‘On the chaise longue .’
    Robert Copplestone looked bewildered.
    ‘She’s taken a fancy to the young lady.’
    ‘What young lady?’
    ‘Who brought the letter from Mr Evelyn.’
    ‘Explain.’
    ‘It’s on the hall table. I’ll get it.’ Ann left the room.
    Robert drained the rest of his whisky. Ann returned with the envelope, carried so long in Juno’s bag. He took the letter, slit the envelope and read aloud, ‘Dear Father, Juno Marlowe needs your help. In my present state I can’t do much. I suspect you will find her rewarding, so over to you. Lovingly, Evelyn.’
    Ann said, ‘So that’s her surname.’
    ‘Is she here?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Where?’ His voice rose.
    ‘I put her in Mr Evelyn’s room. It was the only room with the bed made up and fire laid ready.’
    ‘But—’
    ‘She’s ill, sir, temperature a hundred and three. I had to do something quickly.’
    ‘I must go and see—’ Robert made to rise from his chair.
    ‘Asleep.’ Ann pushed him back. ‘Been asleep on and off since I put her to bed, she couldn’t even finish her soup—’
    ‘But—’
    ‘You can’t see her now. Come and have something to eat or we’ll have you ill too.’
    ‘The doctor—’
    ‘Couldn’t get here in the snow. I telephoned. He said aspirin and hot drinks, keep her warm. As if I didn’t know.’
    ‘Ah.’
    ‘Soup?’
    ‘In a minute, Ann. In a minute.’ Robert Copplestone read his son’s letter again, quoting aloud, “… in my present state I can’t do much …” Ann, do you think he knew?’
    ‘We all knew, didn’t we?’
    ‘Yes. Yes, we did.’ Robert sighed. ‘But we did not want to know, did not want to admit. Oh god, Ann! The doctor in London said he died in his sleep, his heart just stopped. It has been touch and go for years, but when it happens—’
    Ann said gently, ‘Surprise and shock,’ and whispered to herself, ‘That cursed gas.’
    ‘His next door neighbour found him. She had the key, used to take shelter with him, make soup, she said—she said, I think she said, he seemed very tired that night, exhausted—’
    ‘Come along, sir, have some hot soup now.’
    ‘Very well.’ Robert Copplestone got to his feet.
    ‘Your slippers.’ Ann held them out.
    Absently Robert fumbled his feet into the slippers. ‘Aren’t these Evelyn’s?’ His voice was high with pain.
    ‘Very likely.’ Ann waited. Father and son had always interchanged shoes and slippers. ‘Come on,’ she cajoled.
    He made an effort. ‘I’ll eat in the kitchen where it’s warm.’ (And where I won’t be alone.)
    Ann said, ‘It’s game soup. I gave some to the girl but she couldn’t finish it.’
    To please her, Robert said, ‘But I will finish mine, I am very hungry,’ too tired to have an appetite, but Ann was good, kind, had loved, did love Evelyn. He followed her to the kitchen, sat at the