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Unencumbered by a mother, the heroine faced the future.
    Angel, who had never grieved about human beings and could not be interested in Mrs Baker’s Vera going to hospital with diphtheria of which she might die, now felt tears burning in her eyes for the woman in her story. At the funeral she mourned, not along with the tenants or even the family, but from a different plane: God’s, perhaps.
    When her mother had put out her light and said goodnight, she lay peacefully on her back, staring up into the darkness. She thought of the exercise-book hidden under her pillow, ready for the first of the daylight. It was the happiest evening of my life, she decided.
    The next day was Sunday and because the shop was shut Mrs Deverell sat in Angel’s bedroom by the little fire, doing her accounts. The bells of the old church in the Butts sounded muffled in the foggy air. It seemed a day sealed off from the rest of the week. In the early afternoon, it began to grow dark.
    â€œWhat would you like for Christmas?” Mrs Deverell asked. Angel had scarcely spoken a word all day, was lying there, fuming, frustrated by this intrusion.
    For once, she did not know what she would like. It was only a matter of time before she would have everything she wanted. As a famous novelist, she could buy herself both garnets and emeralds, a chinchilla wrap, a sable muff, her own carriage. All that separated her from such riches was the time it would take to transfer what was in her head to the pages of the exercise-book—time which her mother was now foolishly wasting.
    Suddenly, she saw that she would have to be bold and ruthless if she were to succeed. She could not afford to be secretive any longer, or concerned with other people’s opinions. Pulling the exercise-book from under her pillow she held it up for her mother to see. “I should like half-a-dozen of these,” she said briskly. “With marbled covers just like this one, if you please. I am writing a novel and one is not enough.” With a look of calm she opened the book, drew up her knees to make a rest for it and continued with her writing.
    Her mother blushed and gave her a quick, suspicious look. Then she frowned and keeping her lips tight went on with her work. She had nothing to say. The silence in the room was so oppressive to her that when she had washed up after tea she came back to the bedroom wearing her little feathered hat and her black cape trimmed with silk fringe. She was carrying a hymn-book. “If you don’t mind being left for a while, I thought I’d go to Chapel. It will be a breath of air,” she said.
    Angel nodded.
    â€œWould you like to get up for a little while this afternoon?” her mother asked her next day.
    Angel was afraid that this might be the first step towards sending her back to school and she decided that she was too ill. With extraordinary resilience, she had forgotten her original reason for not wanting to go to school. Now she was too busy. She would never again, she thought, be able to spare the time.
    â€œMy heart is no better,” she complained. She kept to her heart trouble because the food had improved since she gave up having nausea. “I get a pain there and it seems to flutter and miss beats.”
    â€œI’ll have to have the doctor again,” said Mrs Deverell in a worried voice.
    â€œGive it a day or two,” Angel suggested. She hadn’t time for the doctor, either.
    â€œI’ll send Eddie for him tomorrow if you’re no better. No use going on like this if there’s something wrong. I know your father had a tired heart and had to be careful. I think you ought to be lying down flat.”
    â€œAll right,” said Angel and lay flat. This saved time, as her mother then went away. As soon as she had gone, Angel sat up again and went on writing. Sometimes her back ached and she would stretch her arms and yawn. Her black hair was loose and spread over her