“Times—when I was ’ere on me ’ol’days. An’ more, now that I’m ’ere for good. But ’e’s never looked at me, ner any other woman ’cept ’is mother. ’Ow I used to watch an’ listen! So did she.”
“Years an’ years!” Mrs. Fettley repeated. “An’ where’s ’e workin’ at now?”
“Oh, ’e’s give up carterin’ quite a while. He’s workin’ for one o’ them big tractorisin’ firms—ploughin’ sometimes, an’ sometimes off with lorries—fur as Wales, I’ve ’eard. He comes ’ome to ’is mother ’tween whiles; but I don’t set eyes on him now, fer weeks on end. No odds! ’Is job keeps ’im from continuin’ in one stay anywheres.”
“But—just for de sake o’ saying’ somethin’—s’pose ’Arry did get married?” said Mrs. Fettley.
Mrs. Ashcroft drew her breath sharply between her still even and natural teeth. “Dat ain’t been required of me,” she answered. “I reckon my pains ’ull be counted agin that. Don’t you, Liz?”
“It ought to be, dearie. It ought to be.”
“It do ’urt sometimes. You shall see it when Nurse comes. She thinks I don’t know it’s turned.”
Mrs. Fettley understood. Human nature seldom walks up to the word “cancer.”
“Be ye certain sure, Gra’?” she asked.
“I was sure of it when old Mr. Marshall ’ad me up to ’is study an’ spoke a long piece about my faithful service. I’ve obliged ’em on an’ off for a goodish time, but not enough for a pension. But they give me a weekly ’lowance for life. I knew what that sinnified—as long as three years ago.”