Free Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase by Louise Walters Page B

with a change of subject.
    ‘We always meant to say – didn’t we, Susan? – how sorry we were to hear about—’
    ‘These things happen. Don’t they?’ said Dorothy. She wasn’t certain if they were about to talk about the loss of Sidney, or Albert’s desertion of her. But she would not talk about any of it with these women. She would not.
    ‘But you must miss him,’ said Marjorie. ‘And we never see you any more. You do keep yourself to yourself, Dorothy, don’t you?’
    ‘I think it’s best.’
    Susan, more astute than her friend – and bored, or uncomfortable, or both – murmured that Mrs Sanderson had arrived and she should very much like to talk to her, and she and Marjorie excused themselves and returned to their side of the room. They whispered to their friends, among them the newly arrived Mrs Sanderson, Mrs Pritchard, Mrs Twoomey. Perhaps Mrs Compton was with them? But Dorothy had not noticed her. The women looked over at Dorothy from time to time, turning away hastily if she caught their eye. She was being talked about, she knew, but it didn’t matter. Let them talk.
    Perhaps she should give them something to talk about?
    Scanning the room, she smiled brightly at Jan Pietrykowski. He joined her, pulling out the chair recently vacated by Marjorie, and smiled back.
    ‘You are enjoying, no?’
    ‘No. Not much.’
    ‘I’m sorry. You are tired?’
    ‘It’s those women. Nosy things. I don’t like them.’
    ‘I shall sit with you now. And we shall eat. Can I get you some more food? Your plate is empty.’
    They ate. He asked her who various people were. That ugly woman in the grey dress? The group of girls looking daggers at Nina and Aggie and the other Land Girls?
    ‘The fat woman with … what you call? … jewels?’
    ‘Nearly. Jowls. She is not very nice. Another nosy parker, I’m afraid. The world’s full of them.’
    ‘You like very few people, Mrs Sinclair?’ said Jan.
    ‘Is it so obvious?’
    ‘Yes, I think so. Some of these people are probably very nice, if you give them a chance.’
    ‘I’ll reserve judgement on that, thank you. It’s not that I dislike people. You must not … please don’t think that of me. I’m just tired of it all.’
    ‘Yet I hate to see you so lonely,’ he said.
    She blushed and looked down at her hands. They lay twisted in her lap, fingers intertwined. The squadron leader apologised. He changed the subject, to music, to the dancing. They ignored the quizzical, envious looks from the villagers. Dorothy reflected, as he left her for a moment to replenish their teacups and choose a cake for each of them, that she was getting almost as many disapproving looks as the Land Girls. It didn’t do, she understood. A married woman, of a certain age, wearing a figure-skimming red dress (so
obvious
), and hogging the handsome Polish pilot to herself all evening. No. It didn’t do at all.
    … and her husband, poor Bert Sinclair, you couldn’t blame him for running off like that, could you? She couldn’t furnish him with a child, and no man deserves that. She couldn’t even furnish him with a smile, in the end. And she never joined in, did she? She was a loner, she was snooty. Not much company for any husband. Too wrapped up in herself, that one. Not one for friends. A cut above, she fancies herself. Jane Frankman’s niece, wasn’t she? That’s how she met poor Bert. They say her mother hasn’t spoken to her since she married him. Lives in the south, the mother, doesn’t she? Reading? London? Oxford? Must be lonely for Mrs Sinclair, in that cottage, and all that laundry to do. Doesn’t seem right, a woman like that taking in laundry. Still, it keeps a roof over her head. Goodness knows what might happen if Bert were to be reported missing. They’ll turf her out. Then where’ll she go? She has no friends round here. Is the mother still alive? Goodness knows. We’re not allowed to know anything, are we …
    This is what Jan Pietrykowski heard as he