The Cardiff Bute Road station was crowded that afternoon because of some kind of conference occurring in the city; a lot of men in grey suits clutched their briefcases close as they pushed their way through the crowd, impatient to leave the station. Bowler hats bobbed up and down through crowd like buoys on a string; everyone wanted to go in the same direction, except for me. I was trying to get into the station so I could meet Jeannie at the platform.

I was late and my reason was stupid as ever: I had stapled a great number of important documents the wrong way, and Mrs. Morris made me stay behind to remove all of the staples and re-do the job, which also involved re-filing all the documents in the overstuffed cabinet. Jeannie's train arrived at half-past six, and it was already a quarter to seven when I pushed my way through the last cluster of businessmen to find Jeannie on the platform.

She was all the way at the other end of the platform, but we immediately recognized each other. I waved to her, and she waved back with an off-white gloved hand and, her carpet bag swinging in the other.

She ran towards me and we hugged.

"You look wonderful," I said truthfully. At that time, Jeannie always dressed like a fashion plate, and she pulled out all the stops on special occasions. "How are Mammy and Daddy?"

"Oh, the same," she said offhandedly. "Tell me my hair doesn't look absolutely horrid right now. The seat back was just at the worst possible height. It probably looks like a pancake from behind." She twirled around, her long, pleated skirt briefly flaring into an umbrella.

"It really doesn't," I said. "Do you want to go back and put your bag away right now, or go get something to eat?"

"I want to go see your house!" Jeannie insisted. "I want to meet your infamous matron, Mrs. What's-her-name—"

"Matrons, plural. And you really don't," I laughed. "Trust me. Why don't we drop off your things and then go for a walk?"

"Alright," said Jeannie, "I have a lot to tell you. It's awful not being in school anymore, there's no one to gossip with."

"Didn't you say you hated gossip?" I asked, with some amusement.

Jeannie batted at my arm. "Only when it's about me," she said, with a wink.

We spent the afternoon catching up on the patio outside a café. Jeannie ordered a hot cocoa and I ordered a coffee and paid for both of us, not so much because she was a guest as because she was my baby sister and it was just the way we were.

"Don't you want to hear about Ned?" she asked, trying not to smile.

"I only heard his name once..."

"Well, you're going to hear his name quite a bit, because he asked me to go steady two weeks ago," Jeannie said, with only a hint of smugness.

"What? You didn't say anything to me on the phone. Why I didn't I hear about this?"I knew Jeannie enjoyed the histrionics of my reaction.

"Well, I wanted to save something for us to talk about when I came," Jeannie said, sipping her cocoa. She left a red kiss-shaped imprint on her mug and put it down on the table. "And also, I didn't want to say anything when Mam and Dad were listening."

"I thought they liked his family," I said. Ned had a sister I had been friendly with in school; they were well-behaved and lived in a well-to-do neighbourhood. My father thought they were a good influence on Jeannie and I.

"They do," said Jeannie. "But I want a few more weeks to plant good ideas in their head about Ned before I tell them we're going out."

"They're going to find out anyways," I warned her.

"Don't worry about it," Jeannie said. "I know what I'm doing. Anyways, what else is new..." She leaned back in her chair, throwing her head up to think. Above her, a skinny elm tree swayed in the breeze. The sun glowed through yellow and orange leaves, winking through the canopy as individual leaves fluttered, overlapped and parted. I wished I was an artist and I could draw them; sadly, I only ever had any aptitude in drawing people; I was hopeless at natural subjects.

"Oh, yes," said Jeannie. "Flora's expecting, did you know that?"

"Really?" I leaned forward in my seat. "Didn't she only just get married?"

"It was a few months ago," said Jeannie.

"Still,"I said, wrapping my hands around my coffee mug for warmth, "it seems very soon. Maybe because she always looked so young..."

"Well, we went to a film together last week, and you should see her now," said Jeannie. "She's not really showing yet but her cheeks are all puffy and she has that look, you know? I could completely tell, even before she announced it."

Jeannie took great pride in predicting major events in other people's lives, and she had a knack for it; it was one thing to predict that a newly married couple might be expecting, but it gave us all a great fright when she said one evening that she couldn't explain it, but she had a terrible feeling about a certain famous actor, and the next day we found out that he had been killed in a motorbike crash. After that, my friends and I started taking her predictions more seriously, and she was right more often that not.

"A lot of people are having babies now," Jeannie said.

"I know. I mean, I can count on one hand how many girls in my year aren't married now."

"Don't feel bad," Jeannie assured me. "When you have babies, their childen will already be gawky and skinny and yours will still be chubby and cute."

"Jeannie! You can't say that—"

"Oh, Hope, don't take things so seriously." She laughed. "I'm just saying, there's no rush."

We gossiped about other people for a while as the shadows lengthened. A waitress came to take our plates and mugs away, and we began to walk home, Jeannie following in my footsteps. I noticed that she had not once mentioned Lyall yet, and this filled me with great dread; if she was saving the coming cross-examination for when we were in private, this meant it would be extremely thorough.

"Is this yours?" asked Jeannie, cocking her head up to take in the prominent Queen Anne house squeezed awkwardly between row houses of a drastically different architectural style.

"Mmhm. Shall we go inside? It's getting very cold."

Before I could unlock the door, Mrs. Owens pulled it open dramatically.

"Hello, ladies," she said. "Come in, take off your coats." She took Jeannie's coat and gloves from her and daintily hung them up in the closet. This was not a service normally provided to those of us who lived in Saint Dwynwyn's.

"I'm Jeanette Howell," said Jeannie, proffering a manicured hand. Mrs. Owens shook it and smiled broadly at her.

"It's lovely to have you as a guest in our home," said Mrs. Owens. I rolled my eyes behind her back; Mabli, who was coming up the stairs at that moment, caught my expression and raised her eyebrows.

"Mabli," said Mrs. Owens, who was facing completely away from the stairs and had only detected her extremely quiet ascent to the hallway through X-ray vision and/or ultrasonic radar, "This is Hope's sister, Jeanette. She is going to stay with us for a few days."

"Hi," said Mabli, sounding bored. She disappeared into the kitchen as quickly as any wizard I would ever see Disapparate.

Mrs. Owens patted Jeannie's shoulder with enough force that Jeannie involuntarily shrunk away from her.

"I'll introduce you to the rest of our girls tomorrow at breakfast. We all eat breakfast and dinner together, barring some occasional exceptions," she said, with an eye towards me. Jeannie followed me up the stairs, her heels clicking on the uneven wood steps.

I hadn't bothered to tidy my room in anticipation of Jeannie's company. There was no deceiving someone who has shared a bedroom with you since you were babies; Jeannie's standards of neatness were also considerably lower than my own. This had been the subject of many an argument in years past, and honestly I still don't understand how she could have borrowed my clothes and then left them on the floor near an open jar of nail polish, but that's actually not the story you came here to read.

"It's pretty," she said, trailing her fingers over the tufted detail on my bedspread. "Look how much light you get."

"I know. I like this room," I said. "And I don't mind that the ceiling is slanted. I don't really need that much height at the sides, anyways."

"No, the ceiling is charming," agreed Jeannie. She sat down on my bed and pulled off her shoes, kicking them unceremoniously aside before unclipping her garters and rolling down her stockings. "I like how you've hung the pictures over there."

I had tacked up a neat grid of pretty photographs cut from magazines; a colour photograph of Niagara Falls with a rainbow above it, an Art Nouveau-style illustration from a perfume ad, a picture of a Christmas wreath woven from wild brambles and laced with sprigs of heather, and several others. I had several photographs of family and friends that I kept in protective sleeves in my desk; I didn't want to punch holes in them, or get interrogated about the subjects by the matrons after they snooped through my room.

"You have to decorate your room," I murmured as I sat down. "Otherwise, all the walls are blank and the bed is hard and you lie in bed at night feeling like you're in a way station, and it isn't home."

Jeannie lay back on my pillow and said nothing. She took a tissue from my nightstand and wiped her remaining lipstick off. Then she rubbed her eyes.

"I'm actually really tired," she said. "Can we turn in?"

"Of course. I'll show you the bathroom so you can shower," I told her, but neither of us made a move towards getting off the bed. Beneath us, the floorboards muffled the sound of a comedy program on the radio punctuated by drawers slamming. Two girls were arguing; probably Val and Norah. The lace curtains shifted in the invisible breeze, beckoning the waning moon.


I wish I could gossip with her again.


We shared the little bed beneath the sloping attic ceiling. Jeannie wanted to be on the outside with me next to the wall because, in her words, "I get up to pee way too often." She used to wet the bed when we were little. She wasn't even embarrassed by it at the time, because our Mam used to make her feel very special about it. She said things like, "Jeannie only has accidents because she drinks all her milk, just like Mammy asks" or my personal favourite, "Some little girls only have room for very dainty little bladders because their hearts are so big." Now, I don't think children should be punished for wetting the bed because it's involuntary, but there does come a point at which you are actively encouraging them and my mother may have crossed that line several times.

"I miss this," Jeannie murmured, turning over to face me.

"Me too."

"No, really."

"I know."

I reached forward and felt for her gold-plated locket, trying to wedge my fingernail into the tiny catch.

"You always liked playing with that," she whispered.

"I wished I had one," I responded.

"I wished I had your pearl earrings."

We lay in the cramped space, our long hair merging into an indistinguishable mass. Jeannie's breath tickled my earlobes.

"I've decided I'm not going to ask you about him," she whispered. "Not until after I meet him. I know you won't tell me anything now, anyways."

"There's nothing to tell."

She ignored my dismissal. "After I see him and you in person, you aren't going to be able to lie to me."

"Why do you think I'm lying?" I insisted.

"Oh, come on, Hope."

"Why?"

"Hope," she whispered matter-of-factly, "You didn't mention any other friends in Cardiff."

"It's hard to meet people when you're not in school—"

"And you kept bringing him up. All summer, it was 'I went there with Lyall,' 'Lyall says this—' "

"I was only home for two weeks, so it couldn't even have been all summer!" I whispered fervently.

"Well, then you must have brought him up a hundred times over two weeks because it felt like all summer."

"I did not."

Jeannie giggled. "I don't know why you won't just admit it—"

"There's nothing to admit."

She emitted a very smug, "Mmhmm."

I felt my face become very hot and though Jeannie couldn't see me in the dark, she was probably close enough to feel the heat emitting from my cheeks.

"I don't like him."

"Then why are we going to see him next Sunday?"

I let go of her locket and crossed my arms over my chest. "I meant I don't like him that way."

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

"You're the one protesting," I pointed out quietly. "You keep insisting—"

"—and you keep denying it. Because it's true," said Jeannie. "And if it wasn't, then you know I would be able to tell when we meet him tomorrow, and that would be that. End of story."

"Well, it will be," I whispered, and fell silent. End of story. Wouldn't that make a fantastic tale, the one about the girl who kind of sort of liked someone, but he didn't like her back and that was that? The one without any magic, or any werewolves or flying carpets. Of course I didn't have the slightest idea about any of that, but I still felt a heavy sensation in my abdomen, something stony and uncomfortable.

If Lyall were interested in me, he would have asked me out by now. It had been a year since we met, and still he hadn't made any overtures towards extending our friendship to something more intimate. It was hard to imagine him asking anyone out, let alone me; he seemed so independent, so set apart from any of the boys I knew from home who were spotty and overeager, pushy at the cinema and grabby in the car park afterwards. Lyall was aloof; I felt (at that time) like he existed in a separate sphere from those of us who lived down on the ground.

Jeannie's breathing had deepened and slowed. She was asleep. I felt less annoyed with her now that she was only a warm body lying next to me, with silky hair intertwined with my own. I wrapped an arm around her and nestled close to her and the last thought I had before I drifted off was how nice it was to touch another person again.


The next morning I awoke to the sound of a door slamming open violently. I sat up reflexively and bumped my head against the sloping ceiling, which made me hypersensitive and aggravated to begin with. Jeannie was already up and about, applying eyeshadow; she spun around from the mirror to see what was going on.

"What the hell is this?!" demanded Irene. She was standing in the doorway in her peach dressing gown, wearing high-heeled slippers that I had overheard the matrons privately refer to as "coquettish, and not in a good way." A flowered shower cap dangled from two pinched fingers; she held it before her as though it were a rotting carcas with a halo of flies.

"It's a shower cap," I said. "What—why are you barging in here—"

"Yes, I bloody well know what a shower cap is!" she said shrilly. "It's my shower cap, you know that perfectly well."

I sighed, anticipating some form of melodramatics; with Irene, there always were.

"I'm not referring to the shower cap," said Irene. "I'm referring to this—" she thrust the cap so close to my face that I could see what exactly she was referring to. It was a water droplet.

"Hope—" said Jeannie cautiously.

"What do want, Irene?" I said, ignoring her.

"There's water on this," she stated furiously. Her head itself looked like the flowered cap, with her round pin curls plastered all about her head like little rosettes.

"Okay. There's water on it."

"I did not take a shower this morning!" she insisted. "I didn't shower last night either!"

"So—"

"Somebody else used it! And I know it was you, Hope."

"I just woke up!" I said angrily. "You saw me, you were the one who woke me up, how do you know it wasn't someone else?"

"Hope," said Jeannie again. "Can we just—"

"Not now, Jeannie." I said. "I didn't touch your shower cap, Irene—look at my hair. It's not even done, why would I use a shower cap?"

"I don't know, and I don't care," she huffed. "I saw you go into the bathroom before me and after you left, I went in there to take a shower and there was water on my shower cap."

"I didn't use the bathroom this morning," I said. "Honestly, Irene—" I took a deep breath and tried to remain serene. "Please. You need to calm down. You don't even know someone didn't just accidentally flick some water on it when they got out of the shower, without even using it."

"I saw you do it," said Irene. "I saw you, you're going to tell me to my face that I'm a liar?"

"I didn't—"

"That's what you're saying, then," she said smugly. "You're saying I'm a liar."

"I didn't say that," I insisted through gritted teeth, though I knew for a fact, based on past experiences, that Irene was not only a chronic liar but a histrionic narcissist who deliberately started drama only to complain constantly about how much drama there was in her life.

"Oh, really?" she said, and flicked the shower cap, scattering several droplets of water onto my bedspread. Behind her, I could see Jeannie's arms crossed over her chest, face arranged into somber pout. "So I just made it up then, that's what you're saying, isn't it?"

"Irene, for the last time, I have no idea what happened to your—"

"I used it," said Jeannie coolly. Before Irene eruot, Jeannie added, "It was left on a hook on the bathroom door. I thought it was for people to share."

Irene looked from Jeannie to me, and then back to Jeannie. Her facial expression revealed what she was thinking: Actually, they do look enough like that it could have been Jeannie. No, this doesn't mean I have to be any less upset. Yes, I can actually use this to cause even more unnecessary drama than I had originally planned.

"You used it," Irene said, now facing Jeannie.

"Yes. I'm sorry," she replied, her voice icy but civilized. "Like I said—I mistakenly thought it was for common use."

"Well, it wasn't," Irene said slowly. "It. Was. Mine. And you just took and it used it. Now it's disgusting and I have to throw it out and buy a new one."

"There's no need for that," I said hurriedly, trying to smooth out what I knew would inevitably end in a volcano. "It's plastic, you can just wash out the inside and it'll be like new—"

"No, it won't!" she whined. "Is this what you do, then? You just go around using other people's things without asking, all the time?"

Before Jeannie could make things worse, I stepped in. "Look, I think this was all a misunderstanding—I told Jeannie the towels and the handsoap were shared, so she may have thought it was another one of those things, I'm sorry I didn't—"

"She won't even apologize!" Irene said.

"I just did," Jeannie cut in.

"Look—it's ruined" (it was perfectly fine) "and now you expect me to pay for a new one?"

"There's nothing wrong with it," said Jeannie.

"You wore it!"

"Irene, please. It was an honest mistake and Jeannie's very sorry. You know she's not used to this house—"

"Then it's your fault for not explaining any of the rules," Irene insisted. "I think it's only fair that you pay for a new one."

"I don't see as there's anything wrong with the cap, perhaps it's your head that needs replacing—"

"Jeannie!" I cut her off before Irene could mentally process what she'd heard. "Look, Irene, I'm really sorry that this happened, alright? But you knew you weren't supposed to leave your personal things in the communal area—"

"I can't believe this place!" she sulked. "I leave one thing in the bathroom even one time, and already people are stealing my stuff."

Despite my best efforts to control myself, I rolled my eyes. Irene made a regular habit of leaving her personal things out in common areas just so she could throw a temper tantrum when other girls inevitably touched her belongings.

"Nobody stole anything," Jeannie said. Her facial expression was most comparable to a granite statue of an ancient queen who has just found out her first-born son had been abducted by the enemy. It was an expression Jeannie normally used only on boyfriends right before a nasty breakup was to occur.

"How can you say that to my face right after you stole my shower cap and used it without permission?" Irene sneered. "That's against all of the house rules, you know. Maybe you aren't from here, but we actually have a certain way of doing things—"

"Girls!"

We all spun to face the doorway. Mrs. Winchfill was standing in it, wearing her flannel dressing gown and ugly slippers that barely concealed the veins all over her bony feet. Around her neck, she wore a cord attached to a pair of reading glasses, which she used to clip her toenails and read the Bible and whatever else she did for personal amusement.

"What in the world is going on in here?" she exclaimed. "There are other people in this house, you know!"

"Hope's sister took my shower cap and ruined it," said Irene sadly, sniffing back a nonexistant tear. "Now I don't have anything to use for my hair."

"She left it out in the open and I thought it was for sharing, like the towels," said Jeannie. "And it's not ruined at all."

"Mrs. Winchfill, I don't think it's fair that I should have to have my things stolen just because Hope didn't tell her sister the rules here," Irene pouted.

"That's not what happened, Irene," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. I felt very exposed in my nightie with no robe on. "It was all a misunderstanding—"

"Well, my understanding is that there's other people in this house and they are trying to sleep, and this kind of noise is not acceptable at this hour of the morning," said Mrs. Winchfill. "And both of you girls know that we don't allow this kind of fighting here. Irene, go back to your room, and stop leaving your things all over the place. Hope, make sure your sister understands the rules of this house; that was your responsibility. I'm very sorry for this, dear," she said, placing a hand on Jeannie's shoulder. As she leaned closer to Jeannie, Jeannie reflexively leaned away. "This is an unfortunate incident not at all representative of our life here at Saint Dwynwyn's, I hope you understand that."

Irene shot me a death glare and thenspun around and left in an angry huff, walking downstairs as

Jeannie gave me a plaintive look.

"It's alright now," I assured Mrs. Winchfill. "I think Jeannie understands."

"Well—" she looked around the room, as though trying to find another person to get into trouble. "Please keep it down. We can't have this kind of noise at this hour of the morning, especially when poor Mabli isn't feeling well."

"Mabli's not well?" I asked.

"She'll be alright with some bed rest," said Mrs. Winchfill. "Must have eaten something funny at that mixer she went to last night." With that, she left, and Jeannie rushed to shut the door behind her.

"Well," Jeannie exclaimed, "that Irene certainly is a certified—"

"Shh! Don't say that in here," I whispered. "Sometimes people listen in."

"If anyone's listening, they'll have heard how bloody insane that—"

"Stop it." I wrapped my hand over her mouth, and she yanked it off of her. "Do you want to get me kicked out? Honestly—"

"Oh, relax," said Jeannie. "You saw what happened, I didn't do anything wrong."

"You should have asked about the shower cap," I said through gritted teeth.

"Are you honestly going to sit here and give me another lecture like Miss Uppity You-Know-What?"

"No," I sighed, "But what you did was not very smart, because I warned you that there were girls in here who get very particular about their stuff."

"If she's so particular, then why does she leave it lying around?" Jeannie asked smugly. She sat down at the chair before my desk and picked up her eyeshadow palette.

I tried to speak as quietly as possible. "Because that's what Irene does, Jeannie. She does it on purpose and she knows it—"

"That's ridiculous—"

"But either way, I have to live with her," I said. "So don't be a smart aleck."

"I'm not a smart aleck," she said sulkily, more to herself than anyone else. I felt her for, I really did. It seemed like anywhere Jeannie went, people wanted to stifle her and restrain her. She was creative in a city where nobody cared; she had a sense of humour, but was surrounded by humourless ninnies half the time; she was a wanderer with no money to travel. Later on, Jeannie would say, "I wish I was born ten years later," and I would agree with her. But of course, if she had been, we would have had ten fewer years to spend together.

Jeannie and I spent that Saturday window shopping. The temperature had dropped and it was windy out; dried-up leaves were starting to blow off of branches and scatter in the street. When it was too chilly outside, we wet out and splurged on hot cocoa and crumpets because neither of us felt like returning to Saint Dwynwyn's for lunch; I was also concerned that Jeannie might need more time to cool off before possible exposure to Irene.

Luckily, when we returned that evening for supper, Mrs. Owens announced that unforunately, Edith and Irene would not be joining us that evening as they had "other engagements elsewhere." This was no surprise, as Irene almost always had social plans on the weekend, but it was very surprising for Edith. We all gossiped and speculated on whether Edith might possibly be on a date, but Mrs. Winchfill sternly chided us for indulging in these trivialities.

"Edith is with her professor, preparing for examinations," said Mrs. Winchfill. "Her midterms are falling early this year. And I don't think a lot of this talk is appropriate," she said, even though Mrs. Winchfill was vulture-like in her ability to prey on any scrap of possibly scandalous information about us girls. She had asked me several times over the past year who "that young man" was, and why I went out with him so often, as though she had never heard of socializing in her life.

"Okay, the matrons aren't great," Jeannie admitted to me later, in the privacy of my room, "and Irene is a lunatic, but it's still nice to be away from home."

"But this becomes your home," I said, "and then all you want is to go visit Aberystwyth."

"If you hated it so much here, you would go home," said Jeannie. "Obviously, you must like it here because you're choosing to stay."

"I have a job here."

"You could easily move back home and find one there," she said. "You know that Mam and Daddy would be thrilled if you did."

It irked me because she was right. Of course I could move home if I wanted to; I could easily go home and live the way Jeannie did, but I didn't want to. But it was hard to describe what was keeping me in Cardiff without ceding to Jeannie's complaints about life at home unless I admitted what I really liked about Cardiff, which would involve an uncomfortable degree of self-reflection, as well as giving in to an awful lot of teasing.

On Saturday night, Jeannie and I went out to a dancehall. We both dressed to the nines just for the fun of it, and I made her promise that she wouldn't find some boy and disappear on me.

"Oh, Hope, why do you have to be a stick in the mud?" she complained, only half-joking.

"Because I promised Mammy that I would keep an eye on you—"

"Well, Mammy isn't here is she?" said Jeannie airily, as fished a dime out of her purse and popped it into the jukebox.

"Don't bother," I said. "The que's too long. It'll be tomorrow by the time your song plays."

"Then I guess we'll have to stay here all night," said Jeannie. She threw her heard back and laughed.

We danced late into the night, only stopping to grab drinks and go to the bathroom to reapply our make-up. Jeannie was tactful enough not to bring up Lyall all evening, though I knew it was only because she was going to grill me after meeting him the following day. We returned to the boarding house at midnight, which was long past curfew, but I knew the matrons wouldn't say anything so long as they were trying to attract another customer.

When we finally finished showering (sans Irene's shower cap, of course), Jeannie and I collapsed into bed. I had to shush her because she was unknowingly humming a song stuck in her head, and she kicked my cold feet off her legs, where I had placed them to try and glean some warmth. I was so tired that I didn't even feel any butterflies as I fell asleep, the way I usually did when I knew I was going to see Lyall the next day.


"I don't think you should wear that," I said to Jeannie. "The place we're going to is really much more casual."

She was dressed in a silk blouse with a hand-embroidered collar and a skirt that could only be dry-cleaned, along with what was obviously a brand-new pair of stockings.

"I don't do very casual," said Jeannie. "This is just what I wear."

"You're going to feel overdressed," I warned her as I twisted my hair into rolls and pinned them down. "Hairspray."

She handed me the canister, which she had obviously been using all week as it was quite a bit lighter than I remembered.

"Are you sure?" she teased. "Don't be jealous. You know, you could dress up nicely too."

"I'm not jealous," I said, a little more defensively than necessary. I shook the can and attempted to spray my hair; nothing came out. "And anyways, I couldn't dress up like you do, I don't have clothes like yours."

"I would lend you something," Jeannie said, with the air of a benevolent philanthropist addressing an impoverished orphan. I shook the canister even harder and it suddenly shot out a wet puddle of hairspray directly onto my scalp. Jeannie smiled as I patted it dry.

"I told you, you're overdressed. And I'm not jealous because I'm not going out with Lyall—"

"I didn't say you were going out with him, I said you fancied—"

"—and even if I did," I added, with a little more force, "you wouldn't be interested in him. He's not your type."

"Oh, really?" said Jeannie, sounding amused.

"Yes, really. " I managed to spray a manageable cloud onto my hairdo. "Now let's get breakfast, I'm starving."

"You're changing the subject," she sang tunelessly.

"This subject is stupid," I said. She followed me down the stairs, her heels clicking against the uneven wooden steps.

"We'll see about that."

We made our way past the second floor, where Mabli's room was located. I noticed her bedroom door open; Norahi was sitting on her bed next to her. She was crying.

"Is everything alright?" I asked. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," said Norah insistently. She was holding a box of tissues on her lap and Mabli plucked them to wipe her eyes and nose, one right after another

"Are you sure?" I said more softly. I felt Jeannie's presence behind me as she came through Norah's doorway.

"She's fine," said Norah. "Just under the weather. That's all."

Mabli sniffed. She blinked the tears away from her reddish eyes and looked at me, but said nothing.

"What's going on?" asked Jeannie.

"Nothing," insisted Norah. "We're fine."

Mabli didin't look fine. I knew she had been feeling ill several days before, but I had assumed she had a cold.

"Alright," I said cautiously. "Well...Jeannie and I need to go."

I stepped forward tentatively. "Mabli, if you need to talk—"

"It's okay," she sputtered, her voice sounding weird and thick. "I'm fine."

Jeannie's eyes were boring into the back of my head. I knew she was balancing her newfound curiosity about Mabli with her unrelenting desire to interrogate me about Lyall. Ultimately, Lyall must have won.

"Hope, we need to get going," she said. "We're going to be late."

"Alright." I turned around and followed her out, being careful to close Mabli's bedroom door shut behind me.

We dressed in our coats and scarves, Jeannie in her cream-coloured gloves.

"I love those," I commented, as we strolled down the street.

"Do you? I got them half-price at Bingham's," she replied. "I can get you another pair."

"Oh, that's alright." I laughed. "I couldn't pay you back."

"As a gift!" Jeannie insisted. "Really. You're only doing me a favour; they're having a buy-one, get-one half off."

"Maybe." I smiled. Jeannie earned more than me, and received tips as well. Because she still lived at home and had no rent or grocery expenses, she had a good amount of disposable income, which she disposed of rather liberally. Her major expense was clothing, followed by make-up, perfume and magazines. There was only one thing Jeannie refused to spend money on; the cinema. "Why would I spend my own money on that, when I could have a boy take me?" she always said. Jeannie thought I was very silly for going to the cinema by myself when there were more "economical" ways to see a film.

We arrived at the diner ten minutes later then we were supposed to.

"Don't worry about a thing," Jeannie assured me, though I felt guilty. "Men are supposed to wait."

"I'm not sure they know that," I said, as we entered the vestibule and hung up our coats.

"Ooh, is that him?" she whispered into my ear, and nodded towards a handsome man with a cigarette who was sitting alone at a table for four.

"I'm afraid not. Lyall doesn't smoke."

"Oh." Jeannie tried not to sound too disappointed. She peered around at the diner, a cozy restaurant decorated with framed and signed pictures of semi-famous locals who had eaten there. The booths were red vinyl and the tables an awkwardly mismatched coral. In those days, people didn't bring childrens to restaurants very often, but quite a few families took their kids to Malcolm's Diner, especially for Sunday brunch.

"Maybe I am a little overdressed," admitted Jeannie.

"Didn't I tell you?"

"Only a little," said Jeannie. "It's called dressing up for a reason."

I stood on my tiptoes and peered over the heads of booth tops, trying to spot Lyall. He was always punctual; given that we were late, there was next to no chance that he wouldn't be there. But I couldn't seem to find him anywhere.

"Where is he?" asked Jeannie.

"I don't know," I said. "Shall we have a look?"

She followed me as I awkwardly walked through the diner, dodging waitresses with enormous trays and spotty teenage busboys.

When it seemed as though we had walked past every table twice, Jeannie said, "See? I told you we weren't late."

"Maybe we're too late. Maybe's he's left," I worried aloud.

"I don't think he has," said a reedy voice somewhere by my elbow. I turned around, and there he was, sitting at a small round table, folding up a book and tucking it into his briefcase.

"Oh. Hi." I blushed, for no particular reason. "Well...this is Lyall," I said, addressing Jeannie though I was looking directly at him.

"I'm Jeannie," she said gaily, extending her hand to his.

He glanced towards her, then me, and then back at her before shyly shaking her hand. I knew what he was thinking; people always did a double-take when they saw us together for the first time, for we looked so alike.

"You must be Lyall. Hope has said so many nice things about you," said Jeannie. I could have smacked her. Evidently, Jeannie had anticipated this thought, because she sat down in a chair just out of the range of my armspan as soon as she finished speaking.

"Oh," said Lyall softly. "Well." He looked down at the table, avoiding eye contact with me.

"I'm sorry we're late," I said, and sat down, slinging my purse across the back of the chair. "I must have lost track of time."

"It's alright. I didn't notice."

"Oh." Despite my previous guilt, I felt somewhat disappointed.

"Well, tell me everything about how you met," Jeannie said bubbly, breaking an awkward silence that had fallen between us. "Hope said you saved her life!"

Lyall smiled faintly and shook his head, still not looking up from the pink Mac-Tac of the tabletop ."That, er—it really wasn't that dramatic."

"It was very dramatic to me," I said.

"Hope said a man was following her and trying to kidnap her," Jeannie said. "She said you chased him off."

Lyall looked up from the table, opened his mouth and then closed it again.

"I suppose that's...one interpretation," he said.

Jeannie giggled. Lyall looked unsure of whether she was laughing with him or at him.

"Shall we get food?" I chimed in. "I'm absolutely famished."

"Me too," agreed Jeannie. "Let's see the menu."

"The portions here are very large, I'm warning you," I said, handing her a menu laminated in greasy plastic. "We could share something."

"I don't know," Jeannie mused, perusing the pages. "You don't like blueberry pancakes."

"What about the French toast with sliced bananas?" I said.

Jeannie pouted childishly. "But I want the blueberry pancakes."

"You won't finish them. I never finish anything here."

"Well, maybe you can share something with Lyall," Jeannie suggested, shooting Lyall a glance which he did not return.

"Oh, I don't know about that," I said. "Lyall likes to eat."

"But you just said the portions here are very large."'

"Well—maybe not that large," I laughed.

"Are you implying something?" said Lyall very quietly. For a moment, I thought he was serious, and then I saw the slight twitch of his eyebrows.

"Not at all," I said, smiling. "Maybe you do want to share something."

"I don't think that's going to work," said Lyall dryly. "Not at half-past eleven when I haven't eaten since last night.'

I turned to Jeannie. "Why don't we get French toast and you can have blueberries on the side? I don't want to spend twice as much if we aren't even going to finish."

"I guess," said Jeannie, not bothering to hide her disappointment. "Maybe I'll just get toast, then."

"It's alright," said Lyall. "Hope, you get what you like and your sister can have the blueberry pancakes. It's, er..." He grasped his fork suddenly and twirled it in his fingers, studiously eyeing the tines. "My treat," he added, his voice soft. We made eye contact for a brief moment, and then he looked back down at the fork in his hand.

"You can't," I insisted. "Jeannie's my guest and I'm paying tonight," I said. I felt a foot strike my ankle under the table—it was Jeannie, being unsubtle, as usual.

Lyall shook his head. "No, no—it wouldn't feel right."

"It's very kind of you to offer, but we can't impose like that, right Jeannie?"

"Well," said Jeannie, choosing her words more carefully than usual. "Lyall is being very kind, and I don't think it would be right to embarrass him by not allowing him to be a gentleman," she said, sounding very dignified. "Don't you agree?"

Before I could say anything in response, Lyall cleared his throat and said, "Well, that's settled." I decided not to protest any further. Jeannie flashed him a brilliant smile; in response, he quickly averted his eyes and looked slightly flushed.

Jeannie flagged a waitress down. After she took our orders—she must have memorized them, for she had no pen and pad, which was quite impressive, given the number of diners—Jeannie relaxed against the vinyl padding of the booth and asked Lyall what he did for a living.

"I told you, he does research," I said.

"Well, I wanted to hear from him," she replied. "I'm sure you know a lot more about it than Hope does."

"I suppose so," said Lyall.

"Hope says you study animals."

"I—" he paused. "I suppose you could put it that way."

"Lyall studies migration patterns," I said, trying to be helpful.

"Do you work at the University of Cardiff?" asked Jeannie, twirling a lock of hair around her fingers.

Just as Lyall shook his head, the waitress arrived to pour us coffee. Jeannie stirred two packets of sugar into hers; I added one packet of sugar, and enough milk to turn the coffee light caramel. I noticed Lyall watching me; when I looked up at him, he shook his head with mild disapproval. We had joked before about my coffee preferences; he believed I was ruining a perfectly good cup of coffee by soiling it with so much milk.

"So," said Lyall softly, as stirred one half-packet of sugar into his mug. "Do you work?"

"Yes, I'm a hairdresser," said Jeannie. "I work at a salon."

"She hates it if you call it a barber shop," I said cheekily.

"Aren't barbers for men?" said Lyall.

"Yes, exactly," Jeannie said. "Barbers only cut hair, but hairdressers style it. I'm a trained beautician," she said, barely concealing the pride she held in her newfound diploma.

"I'm afraid I'm...not very familiar with that line of work," said Lyall with the hint of a smile.

Jeannie laughed. "Ned said that too."

"That's her boyfriend," I said, and added, "Jeannie's a beautician."

"And what does being a beautician entail?" asked Lyall. "Other than hairdressing."

"Oh, it's all sort of things," said Jeannie. "Make-up, nails, waxing. That sort of thing."

"And what is waxing for?" asked Lyall quite earnestly, before taking a sip of coffee.

Jeannie and I looked at each other for a long moment. Holding in the laughter was nearly unbearable, but we managed to stay silent. A muffled crash sounded as several dishes broke in the kitchen.

I turned to face Lyall. "Just another beauty thing," I said brightly. "Well, I am so hungry, I could just eat a horse!"

"Me too. I am famished!" Jeannie declared, and with that, we both burst into uncontrollable giggles, leaving Lyall to sit awkwardly, with a bewildered expression, wondering what exactly he had done.


We parted after brunch, leaving Lyall to "take the bus" back to his place. He offered to get us a cab back to the house, but I assured him we were well within walking distance. Usually after one of our outings, Lyall and I would shyly dance around the subject of our next meeting, until one of us would finally ask the other to go out again. This time though, we parted without mentioning it.

"Thank you for breakfast," said Jeannie. "It was delicious."

"Yes, it was excellent," I said. "I'm sorry I didn't finish—"

"Quite alright," he murmured, looking at the ground. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"I did." Our eyes met briefly and I saw my reflection in his pupils; my cheeks were already turning rosy from the cold. He suddenly seemed to realize we were standing very close together, and took a step back.

"Have a nice time with your sister," he said quickly.

"Thank you." I could feel Jeannie's eyes boring into my side.

As soon as Jeannie and I had walked out of earshot, I decided to get it over with.

"Well. Aren't you going to give me your impressions?"

Jeannie paused for a moment, and then we stepped apart to allow a woman pushing a baby carriage to pass between us. There were so many, in those days; I remember, during the war, when you never saw babies anywhere.

"Does he really not know what waxing is?" Jeannie blurted.

"He doesn't have any sisters," I said with a giggle.

"But he has a mother, doesn't he?"

"I don't think his mother would do that sort of thing in front of him," I said. From the little I knew of Lyall's family at that time, it seemed as though his sense of propriety was as much learned as it was innate.

"Hasn't he had a girlfriend?"

"When would you ever talk to your boyfriend about that?" I said incredulously. "Nobody brings that up with their boyfriend."

"No, I guess not."

"Anyways," I added, "he definitely didn't know what it was, because I know Lyall and he never would have mentioned it if he had known what it was."

"Yes, he does seem that way, doesn't he?" said Jeannie. "Maybe that's why you haven't made any progress."

"There's no progress to be made."

"Oh, please, Hope. You know I'm not stupid," Jeannie insisted, as we rounded the corner and spotted the chimney of Saint Dwynyn's peeking out above the shorter rooftops down the street.

"We aren't like that."

"You're exactly like that."

"No, we aren't!"

"So you're saying you don't like him?" said Jeannie cynically.

"I'm saying that's—it's just not how things are. We're just friends. People can be friends."

"No, they can't," she stated. "And you aren't, anyways."

"Yes, we are!"

"Hope," she said, sounding exasperated. "Don't you know some boys like for you to make the first move?"

"What makes you so convinced that I like him that way?" I countered, fishing for my house keys in my purse. Up ahead, on the front porch, I noticed a slim figure smoking a cigarette. It was either Norah or Irene; Val was much too busty and the other girls too short.

"Well, for one, you get much too sensitive when I bring it up."

"Maybe that's because you're too insistent, and you're driving me crazy with trying to make a romance novel out of everything!"

"I just—" Jeannie suddenly stopped talking as we reached the front porch and realized it was Irene standing there. Her coat was draped over her shoulders, but her arms were not in the sleeves; one hand was tucked around her waist for warmth, the other dangling a smoldering cigarette over the railing.

She eyed Jeannie disdainfully and her cherry-red lips parted to exhale a white cloud.

Please don't say anything, I silently pleaded to Jeannie.

My sister seemed to have heard my prayer, for she kept her head down and silently climbed the steps and passed Irene, waiting for me to unlock the door. I could feel Irene's eyes boring into the back of my head as I hastily turned the key. Jeannie followed me in and we climbed upstairs, heading to my room.

On the second floor landing, a soft, slightly muffled voice called my name.

"Hope? Hope, is that you?"

It was coming from behind Mabli's door, which was just nearly closed. A ray of light spilled from the tiny opening, illuminating the dusty rose-patterned carpet of the landing.

I carefully opened the door and peered in. Norah was still sitting on Mabli's bed, just as she had been that morning. I noticed a tin kidney dish on the floor next to her. Mabli was no longer sitting and crying; she was pacing back and forth, riffling through a tiny address book.

"Can you come in for a moment?" asked Norah.

"Er...my sister's here—"

"It's fine," said Mabli flatly. "I don't care. I don't see as it matters much, anyway." When she looked at me, I noticed she wore no make-up; though she was dressed in day clothes, her puffy face and bare feet gave me the impression she had just gotten out of bed.

Jeannie walked in behind me and gave my forearm a gentle, inquisitve touch, like a question mark. I subtly shook my head.

"We—we wanted to know if you could help," said Norah quietly.

"Help how?"

Norah and Mabli looked at each other plaintively.

"Close the door," Mabli said hoarsely.

Jeannie shut the door quietly. Mabli looked at her with a challenging expression and crossed her arms over her chest. Her blond hair was lank and unstyled; she had pulled it back into a haphazard half-ponytail, but pieces had drifted down and framed her face asymetrically, like tattered lace curtains.

Norah spoke up. "Mabli's...Mabli's in trouble."

"In trouble with who?" I asked.

"Hope," Jeannie chastized me, sounding as though she knew more than I did.

Mabli and Norah looked at each other again.

"A boy got her into trouble," Norah clarified.

"...oh."

We all stood in silence for a moment, Jeannie and I awkwardly waiting without any idea of what to say or do.

"It wasn't my fault," said Mabli. "It's..." she sniffled, "It's a long story."

"You have to promise you won't say anything to anyone," said Norah. "Mabli could get kicked out. Or worse."

"I won't," I promised.

"Don't say anything to Irene, or Val or anyone else. You know they won't keep a secret," she added.

I knew. Val was too stupid to keep a secret, while Irene was constitutionally incapable of not using other people's secrets against them.

"What are you going to do?" I asked. "Will he marry you?"

Mabli shook her head sadly. "He says it isn't his, but I know it is."

"Can you go somewhere—stay somewhere—"

"I don't know," Mabli sighed. She stopped pacing and leaned against the wall, throwing her head back. A strand of hair stuck to her sweaty forehead. "I thought Norah could help, since she's a nurse—"

"I'm not a nurse yet—" interrupted Norah. "And anyways...I don't know of anyone." She looked at me. "That's why we're asking you.

"Well, I...I don't know," I said, feeling helpless. An orphan with no family, Mabli couldn't simply go stay with relatives. "Maybe you could go back and stay at a home for unw—for people like you."

"No!" Mabli exclaimed. "No. I can't."

"They'll be furious," said Norah. "There's no way."

"It's not that," said Mabli. "I just—I don't want this. It. I don't want to have it."

Jeannie stepped forward. "You could get a procedure," said suggested, her voice quiet and solemn. "My friend had one. Maybe I could get you a telephone number."

"Jeannie, that's illegal!" I chastised.

"I'm only saying."

"You could get in a lot of trouble for that," I said. It concerned me that she would even know of such a person off the top of her head. It made me nervous to think she might have even gone with her friend for the procedure. In those days, you never knew about those doctors. Sometimes it was just a scam for money; other times, it was far worse. Getting arrested wasn't even the worst that could happen.

"That's what I want," said Mabli. "But I don't know how much it would cost. I probably couldn't afford it."

"Maybe he'll pay for it," said Norah.

"I told you, he swears it isn't his!"

"You could tell him if he doesn't pay then you'll try and take him to court for support," said Norah.

"He'll never believe I could," Mabli said glumly. "If I can't afford this, how could I afford a solicitor?" Her eyes were shiny with fresh tears.

"They might take the money in installments," said Jeannie. "I mean...all the girls they see are in your situation, they must have some kind of arrangement for that."

"Not all of them," said Norah. "A lot of married women do it too, and they have the money."

"My friend wasn't married, and she didn't have a lot of money either," said Jeannie.

"Please," begged Mabli. "Can you...get me something? A phone number, an address—something?"

"It will probably be in Aberystwyth or around there," said Jeannie.

"Hold on," I said. "Step out with me for a moment," I whispered to Jeannie.

"Do be quiet!" warned Norah. "Please."

Jeannie looked resentful, but followed me through the door. I closed it behind us.

"I don't like this," I whispered forcefully to her.

"I'm only trying to help!"

"I don't want you involved in this."

"I only made a suggestion," Jeannie insisted.

"Giving a telephone number for a—a you-know-what is more than a suggestion. It's helping her. And this isn't even your business."

"Why are you so opposed?" she countered. "What else is Mabli supposed to do? Have the—have it all by herself with no husband and no money?"

"Whatever she does, I don't want you risking your own hide over it. She isn't even your friend. And this isn't even your home, and I promised Mam and Daddy I would look out for you."

"I didn't do anything wrong," she sulked. "And I'm not risking anything. Nobody is going to know. All I'll do is give the telephone number here to my friend and she can speak to Mabli and handle the rest. That's it. I won't even know anything, not really."

I paused, thinking it over. I felt shaken over the whole affair; the immediacy with which Mabli had transformed from a housemate with considerably more social clout than I to an object of pity. She wasn't the kind of girl who I would expect to find herself in this kind of trouble; maybe Val or Irene or Norah, but not her. Mabli wasn't the most well-behaved of girls, but she wasn't stupid, or deliberate seeker of drama. I knew she had had a boyfriend, but I had never seen him; I only knew when she was going out with him because she would leave the bathroom in a dense cloud of steam and perfume, her hair curled to within an inch of its life.

"Alright," I said. "You can give her your friend's number, but I don't want you involved in anything else."

"You're really being bossy again, Hope," she whined. "What gives you the right to tell me what to do?"

"You're in my house and this is my housemate!" I whispered as loudly as a person can whisper.

"You don't own her."

"No, I own the responsibility to not let you get into trouble with the law over someone else's problem!"

Jeannie and I came to a terse agreement, after which we returned to Mabli's room and Jeannie wrote down her friend's telephone number with Mabli's pink fountain pen.

"Remember," said Jeannie, "Just say you're a friend of Glynis and you want to talk. Don't mention...you know..."

"Of course not," Mabli snapped, "I'm not utterly stupid."

"You're welcome," retorted Jeannie with some contempt.

"Don't mind her," Norah assured us, "she's just...emotional, you know."

When Jeannie and I finally made our way to my room, neither of us were in good spirits, nor were we getting along very well. We spent a few hours relaxing and reading, not wanting to talk much. When we went to attend supper with the other girls, Mabli was not present.

That evening, Jeannie warmed up to me again and we chatted about the week. She didn't ask me about Lyall again, nor did I bring him up. Nobody wanted to talk about boys after Mabli's predicament. The whole topic seemed morbid and saddening.

For the first time in a long while, I went to sleep without thinking of Lyall at all. Instead, I dreamed about nuns with long black habits and bony fingers; they were taking a baby away from me and it was crying. The nuns were putting him in a cot that looked like a jail; bars went over the top of it. Then the nuns were somehow nurses as well, and they all had white gloves on and they surrounded me; there was a lot of blood. Was it mine, or the baby's? I was lying on an operating table and I looked to my side; Jeannie was lying next to me in a bikini; she was sunbathing next to a transistor radio playing a popular song, something about the light of the silvery moon. I kept asking her where they had taken my baby, but but she mouthed something I couldn't hear. The baby was still howling, though I couldn't see it, and the song became louder and louder, as though to cover up the crying.

I awoke in the middle of the night drenched in a cold sweat, feeling very disturbed. Being careful not to wake Jeannie, I tiptoed out of bed and went to wash my face in the bathroom. There was Irene's shower cap, right next to the sink. I gazed idly at my pale face in the mirror, still feeling the insistent urge to search for my phantom baby. I've spent many years now looking, and I still haven't found him.