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which she affected, and Christine drew a stealthy breath of relief and looked affectionately at the ivy sprays.

Chapter 5
     
    MRS. BENSON’S MANNER had become ever more condescending as the days drew on towards her lodger’s departure. Such time as she could spare from the pursuit of Bingo and harrying Mr. Benson (who harried back with all his might and main; no one need sigh for Mr. Benson) was given to the tolerant questioning of Christine; how had she got on today, there was always plenty to do, moving, wasn’t there? Those old places, they often had the dry rot, give her a Council house any day—and on the last evening, as Christine was letting herself into the house about nine o’clock, she said, laughing with her head on one side: “I’ll be paying you a visit one of these days, up in your little nest, you see.”
    “That will be the day,” Christine retorted robustly, feeling that their mutual dislike could be brought into the open now that they were about to part, she heartily trusted, for ever.
    “Yer off tomorrow, then,” Mrs. Benson said, after a pause, shocked and surprised.
    That stuck-up toffee-noses never answered back was one of the foundations of the Benson creed. Decent pretence of neighbourliness must always mask spite, nay, courtesies must be exchanged, like those taking place between two knights about to knock each other silly in a tournament.
    “Yes. They’ll be here in the afternoon, about three, with … the … stuff.”
    “I’m sure I don’t know where I’m going to put it all. I was saying so to Stan last night. Still, I’ve said I’ll have it and I will. I stick by my word. My sister always says, ‘Ruby’d never let you down, she’s that sort.’”
    “I hope it will be … useful,” was all that Christine could force herself to say. The thought of the furniture had come upon her again, in fullest force.
    “Oh, I daresay it’ll do upstairs—don’t matter what you give lodgers—they’re all so-and-so’s.” She darted a glance up the stairs. “Don’t suppose we’ll be here long ourselves, anyway, now. We’ll be off to a Council flat. These places are coming down—hadn’t you heard? Making room for one of those big blocks like they got up the Archway. Offices and that. Good thing too—dirty old holes they are—I’m sure it’s not worth the trouble cleaning the place, it’s as bad again in half-an-hour.”
    “I’m just getting out in time, then.” Christine nodded and escaped to her room with “See you” shrieking in her ears.
    So the graceful old row was to be demolished. The thought was painful, and linked in some way with her memory of That Day. She knew that Mrs. Benson had told her because she had divined, by the instinct that led her unerringly to any weakness in another human being, that Christine liked Iver Street, and for a moment her detestation of the woman glowed into real hatred. Oh, well. Only one more night under the same roof.

     
    She left well before eleven o’clock the next morning. Mrs. Benson had rushed out on some errand, announcing that she wouldn’t be half a tick, back in time to see the last of yer. But Christine, knowing that Mrs. Benson’s ticks were of the expandable kind, snatched up her case and was gone for ever.
    She did glance once down to the end of Iver Street. The houses, small, grubby-white, stared placidly at the sun, children skipped and shrilled, a few poor Spring flowers glowed in the little front gardens, all under the benevolent eye of old green Parliament Hill; but of the van with The Furniture, of course, there was not a sign. But, unsuspecting and complacent, The Furniture would arrive that afternoon, grandly secure in the belief that it would shortly be entering some new version of Forty-Five Mortimer Road and then … Bensonia. Don’t be mental, thought Christine crossly, riding in the bus up to the Village. Furniture isn’t like people.
    “Hullo!” Mrs. Traill called gaily, through the open door