Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase by Louise Walters Page A

fond of you.’
    ‘Well, they give me a reason to get out of bed in the morning.’
    ‘Then it’s what I say. For them, you are a mother.’
    ‘Jan, I don’t wish to appear rude, but …’
    ‘You are tired?’
    ‘Yes. Rather.’
    Jan released his hold on the car and walked Dorothy to the cottage door, and he waited while she struggled to unlock it. The lock had been stiff for months, she explained. He said he would bring oil for it on his next visit. The kitchen was dark and warm and smelled of bread, fresh laundry and, faintly, of fish. Dorothy was struck by the smell, as if it were new to her, and she realised suddenly how much this cottage
was
her – not just her home, but her life. Solidly built of red bricks, with square rooms, neatly plastered walls, high ceilings. She felt as though she had betrayed the cottage by staying away for so many hours. She felt like a stranger standing in her own kitchen, listening to her clock on the mantelpiece – tick, tick, tick – and she resolved to reacquaint herself with her home.
    As soon as the squadron lead—
    As soon as
Jan
had left.
    He didn’t want to, she could tell. Probably he wanted a kiss. Possibly he wanted more. But she wouldn’t, and she couldn’t, do any of those things. He was a man whom she could imagine herself kissing and touching, enjoying his body. And the thought of doing that did not make her blush or feel ashamed. But she would not do any of it. And she could not tell herself why, because she didn’t know. It was certainly not a moral objection. It was not mere rectitude.
    ‘Goodnight, Mrs Sinclair,’ said Jan. ‘I will leave you now. I may visit again?’
    ‘Oh, please do. But my name is Dorothy. That is the name I would like you to call me. Now that we are on a more … friendly footing.’
    ‘Dorothy,’ he repeated slowly.
    ‘It’s such an awful name. I absolutely loathe it.’
    ‘No. A good name, very English, I think.’
    ‘Goodnight, Jan. Thank you for a lovely evening.’
    ‘It’s true. The British are so polite!’
    ‘Come for tea? Tomorrow, at four o’clock? I can’t promise a big spread, but … tea and sandwiches. Perhaps cake.’
    ‘English afternoon tea? Yes, I will be here. Thank you.’
    Jan stared at Dorothy, and she smiled at him, fixed, obtuse. He smiled back at her – resigned, she guessed – and he took his leave with a slight, stiff bow.
    After watching the car drive away, Dorothy roamed through her house, ignoring the marital bedroom, now the girls’ room, where her only child had been conceived and born. She entered her own small bedroom under the eaves and removed her red dress, her shoes, her stockings, corset, knickers and bra. She put on her nightdress and dressing gown, and with her cold cream she scrubbed her face free of its lipstick and powder.
    She returned to the kitchen and made cocoa, stirring the milk slowly, and then she sat and waited for the girls, who returned two hours later, breathless, dishevelled and drunk.

8
    ‘D orothea, your tea is different.’
    Jan had arrived at exactly four o’clock, on his bicycle. Despite the heat, he was unflushed, not even sweating. True to his word, he’d brought an oil can, and he oiled the lock, catch and hinges on the kitchen door. In preparation for their tea together, Dorothy had placed her wooden table and chairs under the shade of the silver birch trees in her back garden. The trees rattled and whispered in the warm breeze. She’d invited him to sit under them after his handiwork, while she prepared the tea and brought it out into the garden.
    ‘How is my tea different?’ she asked, sitting down at last.
    ‘It is very tea-like. Very refreshing. And you have a pretty … what is it?’ He gestured at the tea-strainer.
    ‘Oh, the tea-strainer? It belonged to my mother.’
    ‘She is dead?’
    ‘No. I took it when I left to marry Albert. I’m afraid I took some rather odd things from my mother’s house. It was rather sudden, you see. I