17 Alma Road
The fifth section...
V
“What choice do we have?”
“Choice?” George looked at Florence, unsure if he had misheard her. With her meaning usually so easy to decipher through her tone of voice, he was momentarily confused by its flatness.
“Yes, choice. That Torrington woman says that unless we step into the breech they will be farmed out to some dreadful couple.”
“Did she say that: ‘farmed out’?”
Seeing her fuss with the kettle, George found more evidence that Florence’s normally peerless equilibrium had been upset by the situation in which Owen and Madeleine now found themselves — never mind the impact of the death of their parents, her brother.
“Not exactly.”
“Nor the notion of there being a ‘dreadful couple’ waiting to harvest them.” His tone was out of kilter with the situation; it he couldn’t help himself, it was soon evident that his attempt to help her relax via a little lightness had failed.
‘No, George, not that either.” Florence allowed the kettle to hit the worktop with an exaggerated bang. Then her tone softened as it edge closer to despair. “But you know what I mean.”
She had moved into a kind of over-drive since the news of the crash had broken (a one a.m. call from the police), rousting George along to drive to Augustus and Alice’s house to rescue their nephew and niece. Chastising herself for the noise she had just made, Florence looked up to the ceiling as if it might be possible to see through the plaster, joists and carpet, and into the room where the two children had eventually settled back to sleep. She had tried to make light of their late night rescue from the baby-sitter, suggesting that a visit to their aunt and uncle’s had been part of Mummy and Daddy’s plans all along. Although the children had been tired, it had proved a ruse which generated sufficient excitement for it to be carried off. If the truth had to be broken in some way shape or form later that day it was a prospect to which neither of them was looking forward.
“I do.”
“So why did you say ‘choice’ like that?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. As if you didn’t recognise that there was one to be made. Or as if having any kind of say in the matter was out of the question.”
“And isn’t it?”
“George, will you stop asking me questions back and give me a straight answer!” Florence couldn’t help but give vent to her frustration. It was a modest explosion but nothing more than that, over in a moment.