Nightingale Wood Read Online Free Page A

even Cocktail Parties.
    Mrs Wither sighed. It was dreadful to feel that her own grief for Teddy was fading. Of course she had grieved; his death had been a shock, a great shock. But she had never felt as close to him as she did to Madgie, or even to Tina (though Tina was very difficult sometimes, spoke rudely, and laughed at things that were not funny). Mrs Wither knew that she did not get on well with men; they flustered her, and Teddy had been like all the rest. He had been a stranger to her, even when he was a little boy, though that was a dreadful thing to think. He had always liked talking to other Mothers and Nannies better than to his own; and when he grew into a man he would never tell her anything, and sometimes he was rather unkind.
    Here Mrs Wither interrupted her thoughts remorsefully, for she was on her way to meet Teddy’s widow, a young girl who (pleasure-loving though she might be) had yet loved Teddy so much that she had chosen him out of all other men (and some of them much younger, no doubt, than poor Teddy) to marry.
    There must have been a side to him, thought his mother, that we never knew. Well, of course, that was only natural. Parents cannot expect to know every side of their children.
    As for Viola, she may have loved Teddy, but there is no doubt, thought Mrs Wither, that she jumped at the chance of making such a good match, marrying into a comfortably-off family with a big house and a certain position in the countryside. That was a big step up for a little shopgirl in Chesterbourne. It would have been very surprising, even rather shocking, if Viola had refused to marry Teddy.
    The car stopped outside the station.
    Saxon opened the door for Mrs Wither and handed her attentively out, and she hurried through to the platform, for the train was in.
    And there was tall Viola, in one of the newest-shaped hats somehow looking not quite right, with her very pale, soft curls straggling under it. She came down the platform lugging a big suitcase in one hand and holding on to her new hat with the other, peering about for someone to meet her.
    ‘There you are, Viola,’ said Mrs Wither encouragingly, catching at her arm, and Viola stooped and gave her a clumsy kiss.
    ‘Hullo, Mrs Wither.’
    Her voice was a little deeper than most women’s; not much, but enough to make it admired had she moved in circles where such differences are noticed. Nevertheless she was no siren, but a would-be-smart girl of twenty-one, in a cheap black coat and skirt, a pink satin blouse, and gloves with fussy cuffs. She was pale, with narrow eyes of a soft grey, a childish mouth with small full lips half parted, and pretty teeth. She did not look quite a lady, which was natural; as she was not one.
    ‘Did you have a comfortable journey?’
    ‘Oh yes, thanks, ever so comfy.’
    ‘Your trunk has come.’
    ‘Oh, marvellous.’
    They walked out to the car, Viola towering a head and shoulders over Mrs Wither, and Saxon, touching his cap, took the suitcase. With lowered eyelids he settled the case beside the driver’s seat while the ladies got in at the back: and they were off.
    ‘Ripping the country looks,’ said Viola.
    ‘Yes, that’s all the rain. As I always say, it is tiresome at the time, but, after all, it does bring everything on so.’
    ‘Yes. It’s ever so pretty.’
    ‘And how are you, in yourself, I mean?’ pursued Mrs Wither dutifully. ‘No more colds?’
    ‘Oh no, thanks awfully. I’m quite all right again.’
    ‘And did you manage to settle everything satisfactorily in town – your flat, and the furniture, and the cats?’
    ‘Oh yes, thanks awfully. Geoff did it all for me, you know, Geoff Davis. My friend Shirley’s husband.’
    Mrs Wither nodded. She felt a little awkward. Not only had she not seen Viola since the funeral, and had therefore had time to let strangeness grow up again between herself and this daughter-in-law whom she had never got to know well, but the flat was an embarrassing subject. It