‘Wait! Just one more thing,’ said Mrs Yarwood, and she bustled over to her cool box. She produced a jug from which she scooped a dollop of cream into each of the soup bowls and sprinkled it with parsley.
Essie lifted her spoon to her mouth. The soup was thin, slightly salty from the ham and sour from the cider, sweetened and softened by the lentils. The cream thickened the soup and the caraway seeds left a warm hint of anise on her tongue.
‘The caraway’s gone to seed already in my garden.’ Mrs Yarwood pointed to where the plants feathered among the neat lines of carrot tops and tomatoes in her backyard plot. ‘It’s been so unseasonably warm … Here, have some more, Miss Maggie.’
Mrs Yarwood swooped on Maggie’s empty bowl and refilled it, again adding cream and parsley.
Essie frowned a little at Maggie. ‘Careful, don’t be greedy—’
‘Nonsense! I’ll have none of that. These girls have hollow legs that need filling. Don’t you Gertie, dear?’
Gertie looked up from stirring her soup; she had been lost in a daze, studying the pattern of the cream melting into the broth. ‘Thank you, Mrs Yarwood,’ she said. ‘This is better than anything King George is being dished up, I’m sure of it.’
‘Eat up, Gertie-girl. There’s plenty more where that came from.’ She patted Gertie on the shoulder then leaned over to Essie and whispered, ‘I put a little extra pinch of the caraway on account of the girls. It’ll warm their heads and their tummies and hopefully help to drive away those nasty coughs.’
Mrs Yarwood acted as the neighbourhood’s unofficial dispensary. Everyone knew that if you were going through hard times and couldn’t afford to visit a doctor or hospital, you could send to Mrs Yarwood for some thyme and myrrh powder to ease a sore tooth, a liquorice and calendula liniment to ease a rash, or a bitter cough syrup sweetened with cinnamon so the little ones would swallow it by the spoonful. Sometimes Mrs Yarwood would keep the child at her home for a day or two until a fever had passed.
Made lively by the hearty meal, the girls were chattering excitedly around the table. Gertie’s cheeks were flushed as she recounted a ballroom scene from a play she was studying with Miss Barnes, describing the silk ball gown, billowing skirts of Juliet as she linked arms with a dashing intruder and danced at the grandest ball in Verona.
‘Can’t you just imagine a place where all the floors and walls are made of marble, and the women can wear silk gowns in any colour they like?’ she enthused.
‘I’d choose a ruby red,’ Flora declared.
‘I’d choose purple,’ said Maggie. ‘And Essie would choose blue. Bright blue.’
‘You know me too well,’ said Essie. ‘But don’t forget my diamond earrings and gold buttons—’ Essie stopped. Gertie’s button. What had she done with it? More importantly, what could they do with it? Freddie had mentioned a pawnbroker who did the rounds of the building sites. Stony someone, that was his name. She made a note to ask Freddie as a plan started to form in her mind. It might not lead to silk dresses, but it was a start.
‘I’d choose white, with green and purple ribbons,’ said Gertie with a set jaw, making Mrs Yarwood chuckle. ‘I’m sure you would, Gertie-girl!’
When they’d had their fill of soup, Mrs Yarwood carved thick slices of beef and served it with roast potatoes and fresh peas and carrots from her garden. She put another plate aside and covered it with a cloth.
‘For you to take home for Freddie. Poor fellow … all those long hours he works.’
‘Thank you. You spoil us, Mrs Yarwood,’ said Essie, grateful that her brother would not miss out on this delicious treat.
The girls devoured their meals with gusto. When they were done, Essie stood to help clear the plates, but Mrs Yarwood gently pushed her back into her chair.
‘Just you rest your feet now. I’ll take care of this washing-up when you’ve left; it will give me something to occupy myself. Mr Yarwood will be halfway through his crossword and won’t thank me for interrupting him before he’s finished!’
Mrs Yarwood smiled fondly as she gestured up the hallway and, in that moment, she was the same dreamy bride whose likeness graced a silver frame on the wall near the entrance to the kitchen. Mrs Yarwood caught Essie studying the picture and flushed slightly.
‘Thirty years next month. Posting a letter, he was. Right near the Victoria station. We both reached towards the postbox at the same time and, gentleman that he is, Mr Yarwood stepped back and allowed me to post my letter first. Our eyes locked and, well …’ Her face was as red as a beet now, and she wiped her hands on her apron.
Flora giggled and Maggie looked up at Mrs Yarwood from under her long lashes. Mrs Yarwood reached out and tickled Maggie under her chin.
‘It’s not much of a story, I know. Silly, isn’t it? Meeting at a postbox. But I could tell right in that moment that Mr Yarwood was a good man. A kind man. He came for tea at my parents’ house the following Wednesday. He then came every Wednesday, before he went to his night accounting class. We went on like that for months. Sometimes on a Saturday we’d go out for a walk around the Serpentine, followed by an ice cream. Vanilla. Or strawberry …’
Mrs Yarwood stood and picked up her plate.
‘I’m carrying on. We’re no Romeo and Juliet, but we’ve been happy enough. Saved our pennies for a year until we could marry. Made a down payment on this little place, then the garden flat where you rent. We didn’t need all the rooms in the end, since we weren’t blessed with children. So we are pleased enough to see a good family in it.’
Essie would be forever grateful the Yarwoods had rented their garden flat to the Murphys, otherwise they’d be with the rest of their kind in the slums over the lane—or, worse, the workhouse. Both families lived in an old terrace, divided into two. The Yarwoods had the bigger half, with the majority of the garden, and the Murphys had the smaller flat with a garden just big enough for a chook shed and a few rows of vegetables. The sun’s last rays were beaming through the window, bathing the kitchen in golden light. Essie sighed and ran her hands over the neatly pressed tablecloth. Leaning back in her chair, she imagined eating all her meals at a table like this, surrounded by the girls and Freddie. And Ma, of course—when she was sober.
In the mellow light she thought of Edward Hepplestone, the man with the green eyes. The wrinkles around his eyes when he smiled. His full lips. There had been something in the look between them … Should she respond to his note?
She was still pondering this question when Mrs Yarwood placed the last of the dirty plates in the sink with a clatter and turned back to face her guests. ‘Now, I wonder if you little mites have a bit of room in your tummies for pudding?’
Maggie’s eyes widened and she looked to Essie to see if this was a trick.
‘I have here a little left over from Mr Yarwood’s afternoon tea: apple cake. His favourite.’
She cut four thick wedges and transferred them onto pretty blue plates with scalloped edges.
As Flora reached for two plates to pass them along, Mrs Yarwood cried, ‘Wait!’
The little girl withdrew her hands smartly as if they’d been smacked.
Mrs Yarwood smiled and produced a small bowl. ‘You don’t want to be missing the best part. Clotted cream! This won’t keep until tomorrow so you’d best all have a double scoop.’