Free Winter Roses by Amy Myers Page B

Lilley and the Rector, not her. Her blood began to boil nicely on their behalf, but she managed to trap it behind tightly closed lips.
    ‘There is, as you must be aware, a Voluntary Ration Campaign, and the government warns of more shortages to come,’ her ladyship graciously informed her, as though she never read a newspaper.
    The tide of trouble was turning in her direction now, and Margaret waited with foreboding.
    ‘I am constantly told by Mrs Lilley,’ Lady Buckford continued, as though her daughter-in-law were in some distant land, ‘how well you manage on a limited budget in the kitchen. Indeed, I see it for myself.’
    Worse and worse. Flattery? Beware the snake that comes with forked tongue.
    ‘I therefore propose to organise cookery demonstrations and talks in the Rectory in order to instruct the village women in how to meet a budget.’
    Margaret didn’t take it in at first, nor at second, neither. Then she appreciated the full implications of Lady Buckford’s preposterous suggestion. Margaret’s mind rarely boggled, but it boggled now. She wanted to shout that village women had been managing their budgets for hundreds of years without any help from her ladyship, but with those black gimlet eyes staring at her the words wouldn’t come. Instead: ‘Who’s going to do the cooking?’ the Sussex oak in her asked. ‘You, madam?’
    ‘Naturally not. I assumed that you would wish to retain the prerogative of cooking in your own kitchen, and to undertake the task for patriotic reasons.’
    ‘In my kitchen?’ Margaret was felled at a stroke, having overlooked the obvious. ‘I couldn’t do that, madam, I’ve enough to do as it is.’
    ‘Yes, I understand – and indeed hear – that your new grandson is in the house. If you feel the work is too much for you, then you must say so.’
    This time the implication did not escape her. Margaret, her mind totally confused, took refuge in the only defence left to her, the one that never let her down. ‘I’ll have to speak to the mistress, madam.’
    Lady Buckford smiled. ‘Of course. However, my son can hardly object, since it is in our nation’s interests, and therefore his wife must agree too. Even the dear Queen is making sacrifices in her kitchens. Where she leads, we must follow.’
    Margaret spent the rest of the afternoon in a daze, waiting to see Mrs Lilley who had been closeted in the Rector’s study ever since she came in half an hour ago. When Agnes came back from her afternoon off, looking very pleased with herself, she was still waiting.
    ‘I think I’ve solved Lizzie’s problem, Mrs Dibble.’
    ‘Problem?’ For once her mind was not on her family troubles.
    ‘Where to live,’ Agnes explained, surprised. ‘Farmer Lake’s. He has a cottage free on the farm.’ She didn’t remind Mrs Dibble it belonged to a lad who had been reported missing at Loos a year ago and was now assumed dead. ‘IfLizzie likes to help out on the farm when she’s able, she can have it, and Mrs Lake will look after the baby.’
    ‘Look after baby Frank? My grandson?’
    ‘It’s for the best,’ Agnes pointed out. ‘You haven’t the time. And one child,’ she added bravely, ‘is enough in the Rectory permanently. I could still go, if you prefer, and take Elizabeth Agnes—’
    ‘No,’ Margaret was suddenly quite sure. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Agnes, and that’s a fact.’
    Agnes looked gratified. ‘Thank you, Mrs Dibble. Shall I tell Lizzie about it, then? You look rather tired.’
    ‘No, I’ll—’ Margaret changed her mind. ‘Yes, please, Agnes, if you’d be so kind.’
    For the first time in her twenty and more years at the Rectory, she had to admit she couldn’t manage everything, and she listened to Agnes’s footsteps marching up the servants’ stairs like the knell of destiny, proclaiming the end of her invincibility. ‘Nonsense,’ she told herself, taking a few gulps of tea. ‘Nonsense.’ It didn’t work its usual