Westwood Read Free Page A

tall weeds, fluffy with withered seedlings, that brushed against her skirt. Margaret followed, and the gate slammed after them.
    ‘Are all these house blitzed, I wonder?’ went on Hilda. ‘No, there’s a chink in your next-door neighbour’s blackout. Phew! Doesn’t it smell of bombs! Got the key?’
    Margaret was already shining her own torch over the narrow front door, which badly needed painting, and fitting the key into the lock. It was nearly dark. Something so enormous, round and red that for a moment it was hard to realize what it was, was rising slowly between the black houses. Hilda glanced over her shoulder and exclaimed:
    ‘What a gorgeous moon!’
    ‘Ominous,’ said Margaret quietly, pushing open the door, which was stiff on its hinges. A little hall and a narrow staircase were revealed in the faint light. The floor was covered with a white substance.
    ‘So what? Whatever’s all that muck on the floor?’
    ‘Plaster,’ said Margaret, stepping inside, ‘I expect the ceiling is down.’
    ‘Never mind, ducks; you said we haven’t suffered enough; you’ll be able to have plaster every day in your powdered egg. Shall I shut the door?’ And she did so, with a bang. Some more plaster came down, but when Margaret flashed her torch upwards the light revealed only a small hole.
    ‘It could easily be repaired,’ she muttered.
    ‘Oh, I shouldn’t bother,’ said Hilda blithely. ‘What’s this? The dining-room? Oh, the ceiling is down here, Margaret!’ and she flashed her torch over a dismal mass of white on the dusky floor. ‘Gets better and better, doesn’t it?’
    ‘But it’s a nice little house,’ said Margaret, flashing her own torch over walls and fireplace. Her serious voice had a slight accent that was not London, nor completely southern.
    ‘Isn’t it wicked, though, ruining peoples’ places like this?’ demanded Hilda, going out into the hall again. ‘Look, here’s the drawing-room – oh, it’s got French windows into the garden – rather nice.’
    The increasing moonlight shone faintly upon canes of dead golden-rod, and clouds of feathery willow-herb gone to seed. A stone bird-bath stood up in the middle of the rank little lawn. Beyond the garden’s end a hill, covered in dim buildings and trees, ran up to a line of houses that were dark against the misty moonlit sky.
    ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ said Hilda, leading the way. Their footsteps echoed all over the house.
    There were two fairly large bedrooms and a little slip-room over the front door.
    ‘One for your father and mother, and one for you, and a spare room,’ said Hilda, going from room to room and flashing her torch into corners and cupboards.
    ‘Mother and Dad have separate rooms and we shan’t be having anyone to stay,’ said Margaret,going into the bathroom. Hilda made a rueful face to herself in the darkness, as if she were sorry she had spoken, but the next instant said half defiantly, ‘People can be quite fond of each other even if they do have separate rooms; my Auntie Grace and Uncle Jim do, and they’re quite a pair of old love-birds.’
    ‘Be careful how you flash that torch or we’ll have the wardens after us,’ was all Margaret said.
    ‘There’s a separate bathroom; good,’ said Hilda, opening a door and shutting it again. ‘Oh, Margaret – the kitchen! We must look at that; Mother says it’s the most important room in the house.’
    They went downstairs again. Moonlight was now shining in squares on the bare, dusty boards. The kitchen looked dismal, for the gas cooker had been removed by the outgoing tenants, and the ceiling was down, but there was a large larder (in the coolest part of the room, Hilda pointed out to the silent Margaret) and the sink was actually under the window.
    ‘Like they always have them in American films,’ said Hilda. ‘Oh, what an enormous spider!’ and she peered into the sink. ‘Do look, Margaret, I’ve never seen such a huge one. I suppose it is a