Free Not That Sort of Girl by Mary Wesley Page A

smaller house. Father is buying the Rectory from the Church Commissioners and putting it jointly in our names. He’s heard this will save death duties.’
    ‘Very thoughtful is Father,’ said Nicholas.
    ‘We are going to live in it, just us two,’ said Emily.
    ‘The real reason is he would find us an embarrassment in the Bishop’s Palace,’ said Nicholas. ‘Not that he actually says so.’
    ‘Why,’ asked Rose, bewildered, ‘should he?’
    ‘If you don’t know, we shan’t tell,’ said Emily in the tone of voice which would lose her many a friend through life.
    Nicholas sniggered.
    Rose wished fervently that she had not let her father work on her feelings. ‘Have you been to this winter tennis before?’ she asked dubiously.
    ‘Oh, yes, often,’ said Nicholas.
    ‘Several times,’ said Emily.
    Once, perhaps, thought Rose.
    ‘I hear Ned Peel is going to be there. I hope we shall like him as a neighbour,’ said Emily. ‘I plan that he shall be an asset.’
    ‘I quite took to him when I met him,’ said Nicholas, who had happened to sit next to Ned on the London Underground on a brief journey between Knightsbridge and Piccadilly and seized the opportunity to introduce himself. ‘I met him in London not so long ago. Of course, he never came down to Slepe before his uncle died.’
    ‘The old man was a recluse,’ said Emily, ‘never entertained. Ned hasn’t opened the house properly yet, let’s hope he’s not like his uncle.’
    ‘Oh, no, he’s not at all like the old man,’ said Nicholas, ‘he’s entirely different.’
    ‘All the old man liked was his garden, they say,’ said Emily. ‘He kept a full-time gardener but no proper servants. I bet the house is in a state.’
    ‘Supposed to be full of lovely things,’ said Nicholas, double de-clutching around a corner. The Morris, unused to such grand treatment, screeched its gears like a demented turkey and stalled its engine.
    ‘Poor old dodderer, outlived his welcome in this world,’ said Nicholas, re-starting the car. ‘High time there was some young life at Slepe.’
    What a lot they know, thought Rose, wondering whether the skirt of her dress was the right length, sure that it wasn’t, fingering her father’s racquet as it lay across her knees. It’s too heavy, she thought, it’s a man’s racquet, I shall never be able to play with it, I shall look a fool, I wish I had not come. Then she thought, Nobody will notice me, they never do, they will notice Emily who is so lively, she will hold her own, outdo the girls from London, why the hell should I bother? Then again, she thought, they will all wear white. I shall stand out like a sore thumb. My pink dress will make me obvious when I do something awkward, I don’t want to be noticed, and Emily does, they will notice Emily if only because she is wearing white and has a new racquet, I wish I had the nerve to ask Nicholas to drop me by a bus stop to find my way home. (There is no bus stop.)
    Nicholas drove the old Morris up to the Malones’ front door. ‘Here we are, girls, let battle commence.’
    They had arrived too early.
    George Malone, coming round the house from the stable yard, found them grouped on the doorstep waiting for the bell to be answered.
    ‘Hullo, hullo,’ said George, ‘you are early birds, we don’t start play until twelve, but do come in. Everybody will be changing. I bet some of the girls are not even up yet, there were faces missing at breakfast; we went to a party last night and got to bed in the small hours, but, tell you what, I’ll get Betty to take you round to the court, you’d probably like to knock up or something, get your eye in. Will you show them the way, Betty?’ said George to the maid who had appeared to open the door. ‘You haven’t been before, have you?’ he said to Emily.
    ‘It’s Rose who hasn’t been before,’ said Emily quickly, ‘I know my way to the court. Come on, Rose, I’ll lead the way.’
    George smiled at Rose and