Signs for Lost Children by Sarah Moss (top ten ebook reader TXT) 📕

the outline of the whole island is laid out. He takes the clean handkerchief from his pocket, one of the ones on which his mother embroidered his initials when he first went to university, bows to one of the scowling gods and knots the linen square firmly around its neck. He resists the urge to back away from their presence as he leaves the temple.

A B

ASKET OF

B

LACKBERRIES

She is trying to decide whether to light the range when someone knocks on the door. With her shawl, she is only a little cold, nothing a brisk walk wouldn’t remedy, and no one needs tea when there is good clean water to drink. But the laundry has been hanging damp in the house for two days, and she has learnt that on the third day clothes begin to smell of mildew and by the fourth it is necessary to wash them and begin the cycle again. She must not use the requirements of efficient housekeeping to justify or excuse her self-indulgent desire for the pleasure of warmth. If you had done the laundry earlier in the week, Mamma would say, if you had not made tiredness an excuse for procrastination on Tuesday, it could all have dried outside on Wednesday morning and you would not find yourself wishing to waste Tom’s money on coals now. Oh be quiet, she thinks. She bores herself, sometimes, with these spirals of guilt and obligation, with the waste of time and effort. She remembers Aunt Mary telling her that Mamma is a difficult woman, that Ally and Tom’s happiness will depend on Ally’s ability to exercise her own judgement rather than deferring to Mamma’s ideas. And she has exercised her own judgement, has she not? She has married Tom, and here she is in Falmouth. Listening to the ravings of madwomen instead of helping those whose need—whoever it is, he or she is coming round to the back door, over the loose drain-cover in the passage way. The seagull squatting on the roof tiles above announces her. A plump woman in mourning, a stranger.

‘Mrs. Cavendish?’ The woman rests her umbrella against her shoulder and holds out her right hand. She is older than Ally, dark hair brindled with grey tucked under a black straw hat, her black skirt darkened by rain. Her hand is warm and dry. She smiles. ‘I am Mrs. Cummings.’

Mrs. Cummings? Ally’s Falmouth acquaintance is so small that it is scarcely possible that she has forgotten someone.

‘The vicar’s wife. Miss De Rivers suggested that I should call on you, and indeed I have tried several times. You are often from home.’

A charitable visit. She is to be the object of concern. Of Miss De Rivers’s concern. She does not usher in Mrs. Cummings.

‘In that case it is kind of you to persist. I work in Truro most days.’ She does not wish to mention the asylum.

Mrs. Cummings nods. ‘You are a trained nurse, Miss De Rivers tells me.’ Rain drips from her umbrella onto Ally’s skirt.

‘A doctor.’ Ally pulls herself together. ‘Mrs. Cummings, if you wish to shelter from the rain you are most welcome to come in, but whatever Miss de Rivers may have suggested, you need not add me to your doubtless onerous list of parish visits. I am sure you have many more serious demands on your time.’

Mrs. Cummings looks away, at the water running along the channel in the slate paving at her feet. ‘Indeed, Mrs. Cavendish, there is much need in Falmouth and that is part of the reason for my call. It is not my habit to press myself upon those who worship elsewhere. But I wished also to tell you that there are many wives, from all walks of life, living alone in this town while their husbands are away at sea, and therefore many societies and clubs where you would find a warm welcome and much sympathy for your position. Either I or Miss De Rivers would be pleased to furnish you with introductions, should you care for them.’

Ally must look to them like an ordinary woman, like someone who can join a club and find things to say to other people.

‘You are kind to think of me, Mrs. Cummings. You and Miss De Rivers. But in truth I have no gift for such gatherings, and find my time quite filled by my professional obligations.’ She swallows. Here, in Mrs. Cummings, is the straight road to the work she once promised Mamma and May that she would do. Here is what her sponsors always expected of her. Welfare work. Healing the poor and helpless. ‘But Mrs. Cummings, should you ever find in your parish work that there is urgent need for medical assistance, perhaps where there is no means to pay, you may always call upon me.’

Mrs. Cummings turns her umbrella. ‘Do you mean to say, Mrs. Cavendish, that you are really a doctor? That you are qualified to practice? I have read, of course, of women students, but I had not thought—well, it is a surprising idea.’

Ally steps back. She will, she thinks, light the fire after all. And make herself a pot of tea. ‘If there is ever need, you may summon me. Good afternoon, Mrs. Cummings.’

The rain blows up the river, leaving the air washed under a pale sky. Warmed by Aunt Mary’s lapsang souchong, Ally rearranges the clothes on the airer, closes the range and sets out for a walk. Wasting your time in self-indulgence, hisses Mamma. But she has not been sleeping well, she argues, and outdoor exercise would always be the first prescription for insomnia. She takes the basket, in case of blackberries. If she goes out around Pendennis Head, along Invalid’s Walk and then right along the coast to Maenporth, by the time she comes home it will be falling dark, the questions about how to use her time solved for another day. She will write to Tom, who will like to hear about the coast and the hedgerows,