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puddings instead of the steak or juicy pork chops he’d been promised. Very particular about promises being kept was Dexter, whether it be a decent lunch, a good hand at poker or a bit of how’s your father. On this occasion he’d been promised all three; Gertie always being willing to spread her favours if necessary. But then she knew full well that keeping Dexter happy was vital, or he might start to tot up just how much in his debt Eddie actually was. And that would never do.
    Eddie also made sure that Rose knew nothing of these all-night card parties, or how much of their joint wages vanished on the back of a card.
    Gertie’s muffled voice emerged from beneath the covers though no head appeared this time. ‘It’s a wonder we ain’t all bleedin’ clucking. I’ll wake up and find I’ve turned into a flippin’ hen meself one of these days.’
    As ever, fears for his own skin spilled over into annoyance at Rose. ‘Gertie’s right. I know I should be grateful when the rest of the world gets only one egg a week but I’m not in the least bit grateful, Rose. I’m simply fed up to the back teeth with your complete incompetence. And they’re not my friends! How many times do I have to tell you. They’re colleagues, business colleagues. Useful contacts. Associates !’
    ‘Of course. Sorry, I keep forgetting.’ Seeing his face darken with fresh irritation, Rose began to feel hot and flustered, anxious to escape his censorious attitude. And really she never fully understood what business it was, exactly, that he was involved with. Nor dare she ask, her thoughts flying back to the lunch and an urgent need to inspect the kitchen garden for vegetables. It was all very well saying vegetable pie but there was no guarantee there’d be anything exciting in season, and Eddie always expected the very best. The celery certainly wasn’t ready, nor the leeks. Perhaps she might find the odd remaining courgette in the glasshouse.
    ‘I just wish you’d try to be more imaginative with the meals you choose to serve, as well as better organised,’ he told her crossly, just as if all the pantries and larders in Clovellan House were still stacked with the best of fare, and the servant’s quarters awash with people to cook it. ‘And you’re forever on the last minute. How many times have I told you to plan properly?’
    ‘I do my best. For goodness sake Eddie, there is a war on.’
    ‘I’m sick of the bloody war.’ With one furious gesture he swept the egg to the floor and Rose flew to pick up bits of shell before the spilled yolk ruined the rug. Gathering up the remains of his breakfast, she edged towards the door. ‘Would you like more toast instead?’
    He ignored the question. ‘Other people cope, and so should you. Think ahead, why don’t you?’
    It seemed the last straw for he was constantly reminding her to be careful with the budgeting, saying how difficult it was to make ends meet. ‘Other people don’t have a house the size of Clovellan to manage, even if it is only the west wing, and all without the help of a decent housekeeper.’ She raised her voice to make sure Gertie could hear beneath the blankets. ‘Or a brother who thinks he’s Lord Muck and insists on holding grand luncheon parties he can’t afford. You should cut down on this socialising of yours, Eddie. What with the war and everything, we all have to make sacrifices.’
    ‘As I’ve explained to you a dozen times, my little soirees are essential to our survival, to my business plans and to your future security. Why are you so stupid ?’
    For once Rose stuck to her guns. ‘Because I only have one pair of hands. Why doesn’t Gertie help more, that’s the question?’
    ‘I helps a lot, I do,’ came the mumbled response from beneath the bedclothes.
    ‘Gertie has other duties.’
    It was as if something inside of Rose snapped. ‘And we know what those are, don’t we? She’ll lift her skirt for anyone but never lift a finger to help me.