I leave early on Saturday morning with a shoulder bag. Though the sky is overcast, it doesn’t look like heavy rain is on the way. There was some fog lingering when I went for breakfast, but that’s gone now. Down from the school and by the river, I take a right, heading towards Lottie’s house. At every intersection, I check for King Philip Street.

No, is it Baker Way? Baker’s Way? Third left… did I already pass it?

“Ellie!”

Oh thank goodness.

“Morning, Gwen,” I say and catch her as she runs into me. With a heave, I give her a bit of a swing, her scarf trailing behind. “How are you?”

Gwen busy giggling, I have to wait a couple of seconds for a reply. “I am well, and you?”

“So, so well,” I say, nodding my head.

Lottie catches up then, exchanging a much less exciting greeting with me. I mean, I could probably pick her up for a moment, but I doubt she’d let me.

We sort of settle at the river’s edge, us two lightly leaning on the low fence that separates the street from the river, while Gwen is on her tiptoes, watching a family of ducks out on the water.

“What brings you here?” Lottie asks.

“You know, I wasn’t really planning on coming to town this much, so I only have a few dresses, and they’re rather dull, right?” I say, naturally rambling as I speak my mind. “Ah, that reminds me, how should I wash them? There’ll hardly be enough sun now, right? I mean, they were originally curtains, so—”

Softly laughing to herself, Lottie interrupts me with a touch on my hand. “Just ask the maids at the dormitory to. Whatever they gossip, it would hardly reach any ears it shouldn’t.”

“Ah, yes, I suppose. It’s… part of my embroidery club activities,” I mumble to myself.

Lottie laughs again, but leaves me to collect my thoughts and return to what I was talking about.

“Anyway, I’d like something else to wear, something prettier. If it’s cheaper, I can sew it myself from fabric. But, well, I have a couple of shillings, does that buy anything pretty off the rack? Otherwise, I’m paid at the end of the month.”

Rather than answer right away, Lottie bends over a bit to peer at the seams of my dress. “You would be better off sewing it yourself. Though, when you’re paid, a coat would not go amiss.”

I don’t really feel the cold as long as I’m moving, but we have been standing here for a while. It’s only going to get chillier from here. “Could you show me some stores with good fabrics for the season, then?” I ask.

“Of course.”

“Thank you,” I say, smiling.

As we walk, I think. I don’t really know if things have changed between us since we met at the start of my school term. At times like this, it still feels like she’s merely putting up with me. But maybe it’s not that she thinks of me as her ex-employer’s daughter, maybe she’s just indulging me out of kindness. Is that any better?

Rather than depress myself with more of those thoughts, I ask, “How’s Mister Grocer?”

It’s hard to miss Lottie’s smile, a tender smile I’ve probably never seen before. “He’s well. Working hard. He feels bad making others come in on the weekend when it’s so quiet, so he looks after the store.”

“He’s not making you feel lonely, is he?” I ask, more guessing her feelings than hearing them.

She softly shakes her head. “During the week, he only goes in to open up and later on to lock up, and then sometimes there’s paperwork. I am… fortunate to see him as much as I do.”

Ah, her happiness is infectious. The gentle tone, her hands fidgeting, loving gaze following Gwen as she walks ahead of us (eager to show us she knows the way). Isn’t Lottie supposed to be a mature and elegant middle-aged woman? Wait, maybe this is how mature and elegant middle-aged women act when talking about their beloved husbands with friends. At least, I can certainly imagine my mother doing the same, never one to pass up the chance to dote on father.

Looking at Gwen, another question comes to me. I think it’s probably one I shouldn’t ask. Yet I also think Lottie knows me well enough that I can ask it and she would understand I’m being sincere. Ah, but isn’t that just another way of saying I shouldn’t ask it? Are we really close enough that I can ask a question that could well have a painful answer?

As if able to read my mind, Lottie asks, “What has your brow in knots?”

Or maybe I just show how I feel clearly on my face. Rather than tell her it’s nothing, I speak my mind. “There’s no little sister or brother for Gwen?”

Glancing over, I catch her making the sort of face I didn’t want to make her make. But it’s not an awful expression. Whether that’s because she’s not too upset or because she’s better at hiding her heart than me, I don’t know. There’s a lot about her I don’t know.

She speaks quietly, likely so Gwen doesn’t hear, and I listen well, leaning in a bit closer to hear that bit clearer. “It was… a difficult pregnancy for me. My mother said the first always is and the second would be easier, and his mother said much the same. However, for Greg, he said just one child was… a greater gift than he could have asked for.”

Pausing there, she rubbed the corner of her eye. After a deep breath, she continued.

“He cares for Gwen so much, you’d think she’s his first son after three daughters,” she says lightly, almost laughing as she does, and I chuckle along.

It’s a phrase I don’t think Ellie’s world quite had. Well, it’s pretty clear, right? Every father hopes to have a son, and that’s especially true if the first three kids are girls. A cherished child. And I guess it shows in Gwen, having a bit of a tomboyishness to her once you get past her shyness. The way she practically tackles me when she sees me, that’s probably how she also greets her father—definitely not what Lottie would teach her.

When I think of it like that, does that mean Gwen thinks warmly of me? Ah, it would make me happy to have such an adorable friend.

After that little pause, Lottie finishes by saying, “So we’ve been careful, and so far everything has worked out.”

Unwilling to stop myself, I ask, “How exactly does a husband and wife be careful in such matters?”

She can’t help but look away, a flush climbing her neck. “What sort of books have they been letting the young miss read,” she says, lamenting to the world.

“Well, there was one book,” I say, thinking of Snowdrop and the Seven Princes. Considering Ellie was just going into English Literature, there were a few other steamy reads, but those were always a small part of a larger story, and they were tasteful—whatever that means.

A lull in the conversation then, I start thinking again. I wonder if Lottie thinks poorly of me for making a joke right after she shared something so personal. I mean, I think a little poorly of myself for it, but a part of me is curious about what it’s like to be a married woman. It’s not like I can look up blogs on the Internet. Are there condoms here? I think Ellie read somewhere that they used to use sheep’s intestines in the past…. Maybe there’s medicinal plants? There’s not exactly pharmaceutical companies putting out pills and tablets here, so what medicine there is has to come from refining plants.

Even when I’m chastising myself, I can’t stay focused. I think Lottie didn’t mind me saying that. She had moved on from the heavy part, and made half a joke herself.

But, you know, this is the problem with having no friends. I should have been learning these sorts of things from people my age. Since I haven’t, now I don’t really know how to have a serious conversation. Don’t really know how to get closer to someone. I get anxious over what I’ve said, and that anxiety only makes it harder to speak, afraid to make things worse.

In the back of my head, afraid to be hated. Right now, I’m still feeling okay, but, well, all this thinking is because I’m reluctant to say anything that might make things worse.

Still, there’s also… admiration, for Lottie. It takes someone strong to share their weakness. I don’t think it was easy for her to say what she did, to open up like that. Even though it’s not something that I would think poorly of her for, she… must have struggled with that, right?

After all, in this world, being a woman and being a mother are still closely entwined. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were times when she felt like a failure for having trouble with her pregnancy, hurt when her mother and mother-in-law brushed aside her struggle like it was normal. She only shared what Mr Grocer thought, how does she feel about only having one child? “He’ll want a son,” is something I’m sure she’s heard after saying they don’t plan on having any more children. Is it easy for her to put on a polite smile at those times?

For all I can imagine, I really don’t know. All I can do is hope I’m way off the mark. If not, well, I know I’m like ten years younger than her, but I hope I can… return some of the kindness she’s shown me.

And I hope I can become a little more like her.

We walk to the first shop, a conversation naturally starting inside. Gwen helping me, I choose a couple of warm fabrics (winter yet to really start) in pretty colours. At the next shop, I buy a couple more.

These pieces of cloth are unpatterned but dyed. At my old school, they had spare curtains for the girls’ dormitories and I’d asked some of the maids (who came to the handicrafts club and would speak with me) to put aside one or two damaged ones for me to use. Otherwise, I never would have had a piece of cloth large enough to make a dress. A patchwork dress, well, that would have stood out too much. As it is, I guess I do stand out a bit because of the flower patterns on my dresses, but they’re not really pretty patterns, instead looking a bit childish, I guess.

Ah, but I can make something nice with these. The dark shade of green balances youth and maturity, and I can add some black detailing to give it a more adult look. Then the pink, so pretty, is a pale shade that will let me really show off my embroidery in an eye-catching crimson. But I don’t want it to be flashy, so a subtle red is better—a softer scarlet? Maybe vermilion? The last fabric is a simple black, which I can use if I want something more formal or proper. There’s a few more bits of fabric, but not for making into clothing as such. Say a belt, or cuffs, or trim.

There goes my savings.

A little more time before I have to get to work, I ask Lottie if she can show me to the bakery I worked at. Of course, she says she’s happy to, so we go, and I finally thank Pete for employing me and giving me such a glowing reference. I can’t help but recall his situation as well, only having one child because of the stress of work on him and his wife. Is that something they regret now? No son to pass the business on to, his daughter already left home.

There’s not much point me wondering. I’ll likely never know the kinds of struggles either they or Lottie (and her husband) have to deal with. But, still, it helps me keep my own problems in perspective, and reminds me to keep moving forwards.

Half the morning run its course, it’s work for me, waving goodbye to Lottie and Gwen as they go off to wherever. I make it to the café with time to spare. Once I’m changed, Terri does my makeup and, remembering last Sunday, I pay more attention to some of the bits I struggled with, eager to do a better job tomorrow. I mean, it’s not much makeup, but I can notice how skilful her gentle touches are.

Finally, work. The morning is fairly quiet like usual, and it seems the possibility of rain has kept most of the ladies from my school away, only one group of the three regulars coming. (Lady Hunton and friends.)

However, it still gets busy around lunchtime. With all the other waitresses already attending to a table, I know who Neville will assign the next clients to as soon as they walk through the door.

I just wish I didn’t know who those clients are.