Heat Wave by Penelope Lively Page A

past.’
    ‘I suppose you and Luke might be let off.’ Maurice lays a propitiating hand on her shoulder. ‘Go and buy yourselves an ice-cream.’
    ‘Count me out too,’ says Pauline.
    James and Carol elect to go with Maurice. The three of them vanish in search of the queue for the Model Village while Teresa and Pauline wander up the main street.
    ‘Not ice-cream,’ says Pauline. ‘A nice cup of tea. In some superior joint with tablecloths and tea strainers.’
    Worsham is doing good business. Raking it in. Each of these visitors will spend something, presumably, if only on refreshments and a postcard. Quite a few will fall for a pot of allegedly home-made chutney, or framed assemblage of dried flowers, or a patchwork cushion. Acquisition is one of the purposes of a day out, after all – the acquisition of new sights bolstered by something a bit more tangible. And Worsham has centuries of marketing experience – it has been a trading centre all its life, though traditionally for more essential commodities than dried flowers. Never mind – at least it has demonstrated economic flexibility along with an exemplary capacity to cash in on its assets. The limestone buildings that line the High Street are perfectly groomed; there are no offensive contemporary intrusions. Worsham knows quite well what it is selling.
    ‘Horrible place,’ says Teresa, arranging Luke in the elegant pine high chair supplied by the tea shop. ‘I’d rather live in Brixton.’
    ‘Hush,’ says Pauline. ‘You’ll get us thrown out. Shall we go the whole hog and have anchovy toast and home-made Dundee cake? Actually,’ she goes on, ‘I’m afraid you rather suit the surroundings.’
    Teresa is wearing a calf-length dark red dress with sleeves and high bodice which she made herself from a pair of curtains she bought from an Age Concern shop. This, along with her hair tied back into her nape, gives her a vaguely Victorian look. She seems in striking contrast to most of the other young women around, who wear trousers, T-shirts, cotton skirts and tops. Carol is dressed in beige linen shorts with a sharp crease and a matching waistcoat worn over a white shirt. Teresa has always bypassed fashion, going
for clothes that she has contrived herself or come upon accidentally – she is a frequenter of market stalls and jumble sales. This is not so much thrift as a rejection of standard fare; she prefers to pick and choose and come up with an effect which is
sui generis.
Also, she has a passion for esoteric textures and patterns. The red curtains were a nubbly raw silk, which was the initial attraction.
    Pauline’s comment has disconcerted her. She looks at her reflection in the window of the tea shop, and then into the street beyond: a Kate Greenaway girl floating above a line of Beatrix Potter shop façades. She pulls a face.
    Pauline is contrite. ‘Only in the superficial sense. I shouldn’t have said that – now you’ll be put off that dress, which I happen to like.’
    Their tea arrives. Luke discovers a taste for anchovy toast. He falls silent, absorbed in this new sensation. The women can indulge in unfractured talk. Pauline wonders if maybe Teresa should get into the local craft scene. No way! replies Teresa indignantly. Pauline points out that anything goes, so far as one can see. ‘People will apparently buy whatever is there. Why should they be restricted to a diet of oven gloves and hand-thrown mugs? All they want is something they don’t actually need. You’ve turned out some very appealing junk, in your time. What about those papier mâché birds you did for that Selfridges window display?’
    ‘They took hours and hours,’ says Teresa. ‘I haven’t got an hour a day, with Luke.’
    Pauline concedes that this is true.
    ‘And anyway by the autumn we’ll be in London again.’
    ‘It was a fleeting thought,’ says Pauline. ‘Forget it. I’ve been infected by all this getting and spending and feel we ought to join