Mrs. Macready had determined well in advance of picking them up at the railway station that she would resent the presence of the children. There they were standing on that pitiful little platform, which always looked to her as if the roof had been torn off by an unexpected typhoon. They had a look of being lost in the world, understandable in the circumstances. They were well-scrubbed and attractive too. The little girl was undeniably adorable. Mrs. Macready should have felt an affinity for them. After all, she had herself dropped down here in the middle of nowhere six months ago, a wrenching change after years of life in London. Mrs. Macready knew that this was small minded of her. It was fine and good of the Professor to take in evacuated children as his duty to King and country—and it was good, that went without saying—but she was nearly at her wit's end playing housekeeper these months. Patience was not one of her strong points.
Ah, well, it was an insignificant sacrifice to make for the good of the nation. She told herself she was a woman of high principles. She should jolly well feel ashamed of herself if she didn't button her lips and put up with it. But what was she expected to do about these children? Heaven forbid that they be allowed to run wild! Was she to play governess as well? Hadn't she already done her bit to nurture the future of the British race? Of course, she only had one son. "Oh, you have one son," the village women said, as if one son was, after all, better than nothing.
"I thought we'd be riding in a horse-drawn buggy," piped up the younger of the two boys.
"We live in the country, we don't live in the nineteenth century!" she replied sharply. There, that would put a touch of frost on the beginning of the relationship.
"Sorry." He didn't look particularly sorry. More annoyed, she thought.
"He meant no offense, ma'am," his brother added helpfully. The younger boy frowned at him. He did not like apologies to be made on his behalf.
Nineteenth century, indeed. That was when most of the house's plumbing had seen its best days. Mrs. Macready allowed herself a slight smile, knowing that she was not being observed. She was a product of the nineteenth century too. Hopefully those were not her best days.
At least she didn't have to do the extra cooking and cleaning. Betty could do the extra laundry and Margaret, the cook, was sheer brilliance at handling the old stove. Mrs. Macready thought of her own mother wrestling with that black iron dinosaur of a range in their house. Cooking with that reminded her of stoking the engine of a locomotive. She could still picture her mother, her pale face shiny with sweat, and the smudges of flour on her temples or her cheeks, like ghostly fingerprints.
And here, in the countryside, one was expected to do one's own baking just as her mother had. Not that there was anything wrong with my baking, Mrs. Macready thought, or my cooking. Gerald and Ian had never complained. Of course, her son Ian had a stoic way about him. She couldn't remember him singing the praises of her cooking, either. He expected to have his supper on time, and didn't think there was anything further to be said. He had a good, reliable appetite. Gerald, on the other hand, had his tongue loosened after a meal, even without any beer. It wasn't so much her cooking, she knew. Almost anything would set him off chattering. If no other topic of conversation crossed his mind he could always extoll the virtues of a good insurance policy. He had a happy relationship with the rest of the universe that needed to find expression.
Mrs. Macready likened herself to a tiger at the zoo these days, as it paced back and forth. The inactivity of the last three months was weighing on her. Nothing had been achieved in that time. All she had done was wait. Nothing, as far as she could tell, had happened. It only compounded her exasperation to know that Gerald had, predictably, adapted so well to his new surroundings. She had known that country living came naturally to him. She wasn't quite prepared for the enthusiasm with which he would embrace life in the village. Or the enthusiasm with which the village would embrace him. She, on the other hand, had grown up alongside Gerald in Granthorne, Somerset, but thought she had no particular affinity for one place over another. Gerald was well on his way to becoming a widely admired and well liked citizen. Dozens had shown up at his birthday party, the neighborhood ladies bringing home-made pies and pastries. He was president of the local opera appreciation society and a member of the choir. If they stayed a year he would run for village council and win. His wife on the other hand, well, she was a bit of a killjoy. That was the whispered consensus. A flinty old nag. No doubt many felt sorry for Gerald. Mrs. Macready snorted. The children stole shy glances at her.
As the tires of the Daimler sedan made a satisfying crunch in the gravel driveway of Professor Kirke's mansion she wondered how she had gotten into this predicament. At times she could scarcely believe she had decided to come here. It had started, or at least her involvement had begun, with that business of the werewolves in the tube station.