The pool of St Branok

She stared at us. "When?" she said. " 'E done it. It was 'im, wasn't it?"

"Yes," I told her.

Her face was contorted with grief. I went to her and put my arms round her.

"I'll kill Mm," she cried. "I will, I'll kill 'im."

"There will be no need for that, Fanny. The law will do it."

She smiled. "Then they've got 'im."

"They've got him," I repeated.

"I wasn't there," she murmured. "If I had of been ..."

I held her head against me. "No, Fanny. It was as well you weren't there. She should have come to us."

"She would stay with 'im."

"It was what she wanted."

"She shouldn't 'ave."

"People have to make their own choices in life. She knew this could happen and she stayed with him."

Timothy had moved closer to us. He put his arms round us both.

"It'll be all right, Fanny," he said. "You'll be here. Ours ... completely now."

"You won't want me."

"Oh yes we shall."

"You got yer own ... both of you."

"We can always do with more," I told her. "We're greedy, Fanny, and we want you."

"Do you reely?"

"We do indeed," said Timothy fervently. "We want you to stay with us ... we want that very much."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because we love you," I said.

"Gam," she said. "Nobody never said that to me before."

"We're saying it now."

Then suddenly she was crying—the first tears I had ever seen her shed. She clung to me ... and then she reached out and included Timothy in the embrace.

At length she withdrew herself and dabbed angrily at her face. "Look at me. You'll think I'm daft."

"We think you are a very nice girl," said Timothy.

Then I could see the tears coming again.

"It's all right, Fanny," I said. "We all cry sometimes, you know. They say it's good for you."

She just lay against me while the tears rolled down her cheeks. I wiped them gently away.

"I love her," she said. "She was good to me. She was my mum."

"I know."

"I 'ate 'im. I always 'ated 'im. Why did she 'ave to? My dad was all right, he was."

"Life is like that sometimes," I said. "We have to take it and make what we can of it."

"I like it 'ere," she said. "I never thought you'd keep me. You're funny, you two. I ought to be scrubbing floors or something. I wouldn't mind. But I like being with the little 'uns. I like that Rebecca. She going to live here?"

Timothy pressed my hand.

"No, we live in London," I said. "We're just visiting."

"But you will live here, won't you? The two of you ..."

She was almost pleading.

"You together ... both of you. You're all right. I like you ... better even than Mrs. Frances. She's some sort of angel, ain't she ... but you two ... well you're just ... people. That's what I like, see? I want to be with you both ... and the children ... and that little Rebecca."

"It may well turn out that way," said Timothy, looking at me.

She said slowly: "I'll never see me Mum again. I can't believe it."

"It is terribly sad," I said. "If only she had come away ..."

"Will they hang him?" she asked.

"It seems likely."

"I'm glad of that," she said vehemently. "It makes me feel a lot better. He won't be able to 'urt nobody no more."

Then suddenly she turned to us and hugged us, first me and then Timothy.

He said: "We'll work it out, Fanny. Don't worry. I think we are all going to be very happy together."

He took her hand and then mine; he held them in his own.

I felt then that, in time, I should be here with them both.

The Diary

We were at breakfast next morning—my mother, Timothy, Janet and I. My mother had been glancing through the morning papers.

"Here is something that will interest you," she said. "This is a real scandal sheet. It's about Benedict Lansdon. It could mean that he is getting on so well in Manorleigh that he has got some people worried. It is scandalous the way they are allowed to print such things."

"What do they say about him?"