Lost for Words: A Novel Read Free Page B

ducks.’
    ‘I’m on my way,’ said Jane.
    ‘Roger that,’ said Grove.
    Well, Jane reflected philosophically, she may not have the reassuring weight of the IPX370 in her hand, but she still had her handbag (it wouldn’t be the first time she’d used that as a weapon), her common sense and, above all, her professionalism.
    *   *   *
    The word ‘professionalism’ stung Penny with guilt about the previous night. She was meant to be baby-sitting for Nicola, but had quite simply forgotten until it was too late. Nicola had always reproached Penny for being a neglectful mother, and now she was going to have ‘neglectful grandmother’ added to the list of her crimes. Whatever her daughter might think, when push came to shove, she had a strong maternal side. Nevertheless, she was the first to admit that public service had taken the lion’s share of her attention. Nicola had become a latchkey kid, travelling on the Underground to school at an early age, letting herself in and making her own tea, putting herself to bed, booking her own holidays and going off with other families to unknown foreign destinations. It hadn’t been ideal, but at least it had helped to make the her independent.
    The night before Nicola had been planning to see Chitty Chitty Bang Bang , a ritual she repeated on the anniversary of the occasion that Penny had promised to take her but had been forced to let her down. President Reagan had just invaded Grenada, or at least sent some Marines to invade Grenada, and Penny had felt that she simply had to stay at her desk to help draft the Foreign Office response. Even then she had been a writer, although a team of specialists handled the actual wording.
    Penny couldn’t help wincing from the memory of last night’s telephone call to Nicola.
    ‘Don’t worry, darling, I’m on my way,’ she reassured Nicola when she suddenly remembered what she was supposed to be doing.
    ‘Don’t fucking bother,’ Nicola shouted. ‘I’m going to miss the show again anyway.’
    ‘I don’t know if it’s escaped your notice,’ said Penny, ‘but I’m part of the team that’s been put in charge of English Literature this year and, whether you like it or not, that’s a pretty big responsibility.’
    ‘Oh, piss off,’ said Nicola and hung up.
    Penny’s own childhood had taken place during the Second World War. Her earliest memory was of sitting in her nursery one afternoon, playing with her favourite toy, a lovely doll’s house with a pretty red and white chequered tablecloth in its kitchen, and a little kitten sitting curled up by the fire in the living room. Suddenly, with a dreadful screeching sound, a hole appeared in the floor only a few inches from where she was sitting, and her doll’s house disappeared. A bomb had dropped straight onto her house, ripping through the roof, the nursery, her parents’ bedroom, the dining room, and finally getting lodged in the basement, unexploded.
    Nowadays that would mean instant counselling, but in wartime Britain you picked yourself up, avoiding the gaping hole in the middle of the room, and carried on. And what’s more, you remembered to count your blessings. Yes, there was an unexploded bomb in the foundations of your childhood home, undermining its rental value and putting your parents under considerable financial strain, but you never forgot that if there was one thing worse than an unexploded bomb, it was a bomb that did explode.
    All her life Penny felt that showing emotion was a sign of weakness. Emotions were what other people were allowed to have. She was there to help, and although she might not have all the answers, or even a very clear idea of what people were talking about when they talked about their feelings, she could make sure that the kettle was on, or the gin and tonic ready to hand, so that things would start to look better for those who were struggling.
    Penny scrolled down to her latest paragraph. She wanted to get at least a thousand