The Girls and I: A Veracious History

She was sorry about it; she's very sweet, very sweet indeed, and nice to tell troubles to; she looks so sorry with her kind blue eyes, though I don't think she's a very clever girl.

'I feel quite guilty about it all,' she said; 'for it was for my sake you went to that unlucky Drawing-room, and that all these troubles came. But what was the new one you were going to tell me about, dear Valeria?'

'Oh, that isn't exactly a trouble, only a difficulty,' said mums. And she went on to explain about the change to the country and my idea of a farmhouse.

Cousin Dorothea listened, and tried to look very wise.

'I'm afraid nowhere near my home would be any good,' she said. 'Devonshire's not bracing at all.'

Suddenly a thought jumped into my head.

'That nice woman,' I said, 'the one who gave you the cup, is it bracing where she lives?'

Dorothea gave a little jump.

'Oh,' she said, 'she'd be the very person to take care of the children if she had rooms, and if her husband would let her take lodgers, and if the place is bracing, and if I could remember where it is!'

We couldn't help laughing.

'Four "if's" indeed,' said mother.

But Dorothea didn't laugh; she was too busy cudgelling her brains.

'I've a feeling,' she said, 'that it is a bracing place; that Homer – isn't it a funny name for a woman, it was her surname, and the boys used to call her all manner of nonsense because of it – "Iliad" and "Odyssey" of course, – I've a feeling that Homer wrote something about moors and fresh air. If I could but remember!'

'Would you know it if you heard it?' I said.

'Suppose we got a railway guide and looked at some names?' said mother.

'Is there a railway station there?' I asked.

'Oh yes, I know there is one near, for Homer wrote all that when she asked us to go down for a day. Stay, there's something about English history mixed up with it in my mind. I do believe it's coming. Ring the bell, Jack, dear, and we'll look through an A B C. It's something about putting the fires out at night, you know – the old law.'

'Curfew?' said mother.

'Ye-es, but it's not quite that. But – '

Just then the servant came, and we got the railway guide.

'Look at "f's," Jack,' said Dorothea.

I read some 'f's,' but she shook her head. Then I said to mother —

'Here's one of the places Dr. Marshall was speaking about. "Fewforest," it – '

Cousin Dorothea clapped her hands.

'That's it,' she said joyfully.

'What a coincidence!' said mother.

'I remember about it now,' said Dorothea. 'They were so afraid of fire there, because the village stands close to a thick wood – at least it did then – that the Curfew bell was rung there long after it had been given up in many places. And so it got from Curfew Forest to Fewforest.'

'It must be a jolly old place, mums,' I said. 'Do let's find out about it.'

CHAPTER VIII
MOSSMOOR FARM

And so we did. Dorothea wrote to her home, and got Mrs. Parsley's proper address. Mrs. Parsley was the farmer's wife who used to be 'Homer' – rather a come-down from 'Homer' to 'Parsley,' wasn't it? and it was near Fewforest. Then she wrote to Mrs. Parsley, 'sounding' her a little, and the day she got the answer she brought it straight off to us.

Mums and I were in the little drawing-room by ourselves, for the girls were still kept rather out of the way, as they coughed a good deal now and then. Hebe by this time was able to get up a little and lie on a sofa in her room, and the others used to go in and sit with her in turns, – Anne the most, of course, for she reads aloud nicely, and she's not at all stupid, and Hebe's very fond of her. I used to sit with her too a good deal, but really that spring I was very busy. I had some of my lessons. I went to Miss Stirling's house when the girls began to get better, instead of her coming to us, just for fear of infection, as she'd never had the whooping-cough. And I had heaps to do for mother, besides helping to amuse the two little ones.

My greatest rest was to be alone with mums sometimes for a bit in the afternoon. Now and then I had tea with her.

We were having tea that day when Cousin Dorothea came in, all in a fuss and quite eager. She had just got the letter.

'Such a nice answer from dear old Homer' she said. 'She'll be delighted to do anything for relations of mine, and she doesn't think you could find a healthier place. It's as bracing as anything, and yet not cold. She says there's a small convalescent Home not far from the farm, and that the place was chosen out of ever so many by some rich people who built it, just because of its healthiness. Now I come to think of it, I'm sure I've heard of that Home before, but I can't think from whom.'

'That's all very satisfactory indeed, and thank you very much, dear,' said mother. 'But – what about the possibility of lodgings?'

'I was coming to that,' said Dorothea, and indeed she was almost out of breath with such a lot to tell. 'Homer says there are really none to be had – '

'Oh dear!' exclaimed mums and I.

'But,' Dorothea went on, 'they have some spare rooms at the farm, and occasionally they have had thoughts of letting them – I mean, of taking lodgers. But they're very plainly furnished, and she's always busy, so her husband was rather afraid of beginning it. She wouldn't exactly like to offer them, but she says if my friends would go down to see the rooms, and thought they'd do, she would be pleased to do her best. I can guarantee they'd be beautifully clean.'

Dorothea looked quite excited about it. She was so proud of being able to help mums.

'I think it sounds charming,' said mother. 'How many rooms are there?'

'Two big bedrooms, and a tiny one, and a sort of best kitchen that could be made comfortable in a plain way as a sitting-room,' said Dorothea consulting the letter. 'You could take down a few sofa rugs, and two or three folding chairs and so on, I daresay?'

'Oh yes, easily,' said mother. 'But I quite agree with Mrs. Parsley that I had better see the rooms. How long does it take by train, and how far is the farm – what's the name of it, by the bye? – from the station?'

'About a mile and a half. But they have a pony-cart of some kind and could meet you. The name is Mossmoor – Mossmoor Farm, Fewforest.'

It seemed wonderfully lucky. We were all three as pleased as anything. There was only one thing I wanted to make sure of.

'Mums,' I whispered. I was just giving her her second cup of tea. I always make her tea when we're alone. 'Mums, if you do go down one day to see the farm, you'll take me with you, won't you?'

Cousin Dorothea has quick ears. She overheard.

'Oh yes, Valeria,' she said, 'you must take him. I consider it's more than half thanks to him that we've thought of it.'

I do like Dorothea.

Mums smiled.

'We must see what father says,' she answered. 'Of course there's the railway fare.'

'But you couldn't go alone, mums,' I reminded her; 'and you know I'm only half, still. Father would never have time to go, and if you took Rowley she'd cost full fare.'

'Oh, you old-fashioned child!' said Cousin Dorothea, laughing. 'Dear, you must take him.'

I felt sure mums would, after that.

'I know I could help you about the rooms and everything better than anybody,' I said.

And I knew I could.

I did go. Father laughed and said I was the proper person to take his place, as he couldn't possibly go. So it was settled, and one fine morning off we set.

It was really a fine morning, – I don't mean it only as an expression. It was really a lovely morning. Let me see, it must have been May by then. I'll look it up in my diary of that year, and fill in the exact date afterwards. It was sunny and mild, though there was a little nice wind too. Mums and I felt like two children out of school, or two captives out of prison, when we found ourselves in a jolly comfortable railway carriage all alone, flying along through the bright green fields with the trees in their new spring dresses and the sky as blue as blue, – all so jolly, you know, after the long winter in our London square and all the troubles we'd had.

Everything seemed at last to be going to begin to come right.

'I feel in such much better spirits,' said mums. 'Hebe does seem to be improving so fast now, and the weather is so nice.'

Dear little mums, she was looking so pretty. She had a brown dress with very soft, fussy trimming, and a brown bonnet, with something pink – just a tiny bit of pink. She generally wears bonnets, except when we're regularly in the country. They suit her, and I like them better than hats for her. I hate those mothers who are always trying to look young. And I think mums looks all the younger because she dresses like a mother and not like a girl. I've got ideas about dressing though I am a boy. I can't help having them.

'I do hope Mossmoor Farm will be nice,' she went on again. 'The only thing is I wish we were going to be all together there.'

'So do I,' I said. I hate being away from mums, and then I've a feeling she may be wanting me always.

'Perhaps, if Hebe gets much stronger at Ventnor, after two or three weeks there, the doctor may let us join you all at this place,' said mother.

That was a nice idea.

'It would be awfully jolly,' I said. 'We'd have nothing left to wish for then, would we, mums, except – if only the diamond thing could be found!'

I don't know what put it in my head just then; we hadn't spoken of it for ever so long. I was almost sorry I had said it, for mums' face clouded over a little.

'Yes, indeed,' she said. 'But I fear there's no chance of that now. And really gran has been so good about it. He might have been very, very angry; for, after all, it was a sort of carelessness of mine. I should have made sure it was firm the very last moment before I put it on.'

But I began to talk of other things to put it out of her head. And before long – at least it didn't seem long, railway journeys do so depend on how you're feeling – we pulled up at a pretty little station, and we saw that the name of it was Fewforest.

We got out, feeling rather important, and perhaps mums was a tiny bit nervous. You see she's very seldom had to do things like looking for houses, by herself. She's always nearly had father or gran. She was rather proud of it, too, and so was I. I was determined she shouldn't feel lonely or bothered if I could help it.

And everything went wonderfully right. It is like that sometimes.

To begin with, I never saw a jollier railway station. It seems in the middle of a wood, and the station-master's house is like a Swiss cottage. I've never been in Switzerland – I've never been out of England – but mother has, lots, and of course I've seen pictures. And everybody says Fewforest is quite as pretty as heaps of places people travel miles and miles over the sea to visit.

There was a little kind of a phaeton standing outside, and a rather fat boy with red cheeks on the box.

He touched his cap as we came out, and, getting still redder, he mumbled something about 'Measter Parsley,' and 'Mossmoor.'

'Yes,' said mother, 'we are going to Mossmoor Farm. Are you to drive us?'

He touched his cap again, and tried to explain that his master was very sorry he couldn't come himself; something or other unexpected, we couldn't make out what, having happened to prevent him.

I wasn't sorry. If the farmer had come, we'd have had to talk to him, for civility's sake, and it would have been a great bore, when we wanted to talk to each other and to look about us. We certainly didn't need to talk to the fat boy. He looked most thankful when we were settled in our places behind, and he didn't have to see us at all, though his ears kept red all the way to Mossmoor, I could see, just from shyness. I got to know him quite well afterwards, and his ears weren't generally redder than other people's. He was a nice boy; his name was Simon Wanderer; it didn't suit him, for he'd never been farther away from his home at Mossmoor than six miles. I don't believe he has yet, though he must be seventeen by now.

It was a lovely drive. I have been it lots of times since of course, and I always like it; but that first time there was something extra about it. It was all new to us, and then we did so enjoy being in the country again, and there was a nice feeling as if we were having an adventure too.

Part of the way is all through woods; then after that comes a heathy bit, and then a clear bit of common, and then you go up for a while with trees thick at one side of the road and at the other a beautiful sort of stretching-to-the-sky view. Then you turn sharp down a lane, and at a corner where another lane – quite a short one – leads on to a heath again, is the Farm.

We got out at the gate. There's no drive to the front of the house, and this first time Mrs. Parsley wouldn't have thought it 'manners' to meet us in the stable-yard. She was standing at the gate. I saw in a minute she was nice. She had a pleasant face, not too smiley, and no make up about it.

'I am pleased to see you, ma'am,' she said, 'and Master Warwick too, and I'm so glad it's a fine day. Real May weather, isn't it, ma'am?'

'Yes, indeed,' said mums. 'We couldn't see your pretty home to greater advantage, Mrs. Parsley.'

Then Mrs. Parsley smiled more than she had done yet.

'I can't deny, ma'am, that it's a sweet spot,' she said, 'and a healthy. It's coldish in winter, it's true, but then it's a cold that you don't feel in the same piercing way as when it's damp. The air's that bracing about here, ma'am.'

'So they tell me,' said mother. 'And that's just what we're looking for.' Then she went on to tell about the whooping-cough, and though Cousin Dorothea had written about it already, Mrs. Parsley seemed as interested as could be. People like that – I mean people you can't call gentlemen and ladies, though they're not poor, and regular poor people, too – do love talking about illnesses – other people's as well as their own. And she had a lot of questions to ask about 'Miss Dorothea' too. She 'did hope as she'd come down to Mossmoor some day.'

All this time we were going towards the house. But it was rather a slow business, doing so much talking by the way, and I was in a fidget to see the rooms and find out if they'd do. There was no hall or passage; we went straight into a large kitchen, a very large one. You didn't see at first how big it was, because just round the door – to keep out the draught, I suppose – there was a fixed wooden screen, like what you see in lots of cottages. I was a little surprised that there was no hall, for, outside, the house looked really rather grand; it might have been called 'Mossmoor Grange,' for it was built of nice dull red old bricks and the windows were very pretty – out-jutting, you know, and with tiny panes. But once you were well inside the kitchen you couldn't have wished it any different. It was so jolly; not a bit messy, you know, as if plates and dishes were washed there, or potatoes peeled, or anything like that, for there was a good-sized back kitchen where all that was done. The floor was tiled, with good thick rugs here and there, and there was a regular old grandfather's clock and bright brass pans and things on the wall.

I wondered at first if this could be the kitchen we were to have as a sitting-room. But Mrs. Parsley soon explained.

'Won't you sit down and rest a bit, ma'am,' she said, 'before I show you the rooms?'

But mums and I both said we weren't at all tired.

'Well, then,' she said, 'if you'll be so good, we'll step through this way,' and she opened a door at quite the other side of the kitchen. 'You'll have a little lunch, I hope,' said the kind woman, 'after we've seen the rooms,' and she nodded towards a table, which was all spread with a white cloth and on it two or three dishes, one with a cold ham, and another with some kind of a pie or tart, and a big jug of milk. I was getting hungry, but still I cared most of all to see the rooms.

Through the door there was a tiny hall. It had a nice window, and a door stood open at the other end.

'This is the summer kitchen, as we always call it,' said Mrs. Parsley. 'I had a little fire lighted just for you to see, it's nice and comfortable,' – she called it 'com,' not cum-fortable,' – 'even if the weather's chilly.'

It was a dear room – beautiful deep windows with seats round them, and nice old cupboards, one with glass doors, and a queer kind of sofa with a straight-up back and a long red cushion. The chairs were plain wood and everything was plain, but not a bit common; ever so much nicer than lodgings, you know, like what there are sometimes at the seaside with horrid flowery carpets all staring, and mirrors with gilt frames, and shaky little chiffoniers that won't hold anything. Here it was all solid and comfortable; there was nothing we could break supposing we did 'rampage' about, as nurse calls it. Even the kitchen fireplace was nice; I thought to myself what jolly toffy we could make on a wet day.

'Oh, this is a nice room,' said mums; 'nothing could be better.'

Mrs. Parsley did look pleased, and in a minute or two she opened a door we hadn't noticed. It looked like a part of the wooden panels, and there was a funny little stair.

'This leads to the small bedroom, ma'am,' she said. 'There's a door through it to the other two, but there's also doors to them on the landing over the big kitchen, which you get to up the regular staircase. But if the young gentleman was to have this room it might be a convenience for him to get to it without having to go all the way round and pass through the other bedrooms.'

It was a funny little room – very jolly though, – just a bed and a chest of drawers, a toilet-table, and a shelf across a corner for a washhand-stand, and two chairs. But I liked it very much, and the two big bedrooms that we got into through it were really very nice – carpets in the middle, and in one a regular polished bedstead with curtains. I wouldn't have liked it, but, as it turned out, Anne did. And it was very big; plenty of room for her and Maud too. In the other room there were two smaller beds; one would do for Serry, and the other for nurse.

And everything was as clean as clean – lavendery too – not a bit fusty or musty.

'Really,' said mums, 'nothing could be nicer. I suppose these are all the rooms you have to spare, Mrs. Parsley?'

There was one other, as tiny as mine, but it was at the opposite side of the house. Still mother thought it would do for me if Hebe was able to come at the end of the time, and then nurse could have mine.

'And if I could run down myself for a night or so,' she said, 'I daresay Serry and Maud could sleep together; there'd be plenty of room for me beside Anne.'

Then she and Mrs. Parsley went on to talk about sheets and pillow-cases, and stupid things like that, so I took out my notebook – I always have a notebook – and went poking about to see what things we'd better bring down with us from London. I made quite a tidy list, though mums wouldn't let me bring all I wanted; and some of the things Mrs. Parsley had already when I spoke about them, only she hadn't put them out.

Then we went down again by the big staircase – all old brown wood and nobbly balusters: mother said it was really beautiful – which ran down to a kind of hall behind the kitchen, and then we had luncheon. I'll never forget it. Either I was awfully hungry, or the things were extra good – perhaps both – but I don't think I ever tasted such nice ham, or such a splendid home-made cake.

CHAPTER IX
SPYING THE LAND

After luncheon we had still an hour and a half before we needed to start for the station. Mrs. Parsley asked us if we would like to stroll about the garden and the farm a little, but mums was tired. She did go outside the house to a nice sheltered corner where there was a rustic bench, and there she said she would enjoy the air and rest at the same time.

But I wasn't the least tired. I wanted to enjoy the air without resting. So mums asked Mrs. Parsley to tell me where I could go without any fear of losing my way, or coming back too late.

Mrs. Parsley considered.

'There's a beautiful path through the wood,' she said, 'that brings you out at the end of what we call our village. It's "Fewforest, South End," by rights, for Fewforest is very straggly. It's divided into north end and south end, and houses between, here and there. The old church is at South End, I'm glad to say, for it makes it nice and convenient for us; no excuses for staying away if it's a bad day, though, indeed, I think our folk love their church. We've been very favoured in the clergy here for a many years.'

'I'd like to see the church,' I said. I always like to see churches. 'Will it be open, Mrs. Parsley?'

'Oh yes, sir, bless you, sure to be. We've all the new ways here. Mr. Joyce would never hold with a church that was kept locked.'

Mother smiled a little.

'The old ways, I like to call them, Mrs. Parsley,' she said. 'The old ways we're coming back to, I'm glad to say, after putting them aside for so long that people had almost forgotten they were the really old original ones.'

Mrs. Parsley didn't mind her saying that, I could see.

'True, ma'am, that's just as Mr. Joyce puts it,' she said.

Then she explained to me exactly how I should go. I was to make a round, coming back by the high road. In this way I should pass up the village, and see the post office, which was also a telegraph office, and the doctor's house. It's always a good thing in a new place to see all you can.

'And some little distance behind the church, so to say,' added Mrs. Parsley, 'standing on rather high ground, you'll see the Convalescent Home, Master Jack. We're quite proud of it now, though at the beginning some folk were silly enough to think it'd bring infections and illnesses to the place. But them as has charge of it know better than that; every care's taken. And there's some sweet young ladies who come down turn about, one with another, to help with the children. It's a pretty sight, I can tell you, to see the poor dears picking up as they do here. They'll get quite rosy before they go, some of them, and they poor peakit-like faces they come with.'

'Peakit-like' means pinched and miserable-looking. It is a north country expression, mums says, for Mrs. Parsley belonged to the north when she was young.

Well, off I set. I hadn't any adventures – that was for afterwards. I found my way quite well, and I enjoyed the walk very much. The church was rather queer. It was very old; there were strange tablets on the walls and monuments in the corners, and part of the pavement was gravestones – the side parts, not the middle. But it was new too. There weren't any pews, and it was all open and airy. But still it had the feeling of being very old. I don't know much about architecture – it's one of the things I mean to learn. I know pews are all wrong, still they're rather fun. At one church near Furzely, where we sometimes go in wet weather, there are some square ones with curtains all round, and the two biggest pews have even fireplaces in them – they're exactly like tiny rooms. I daresay there were pews like that once in Fewforest church, for it certainly is very old.

I stood in front of the chancel some time looking at the high painted window behind the altar; it was very old. I could see it by the cracks here and there where you could tell it had been mended. I couldn't help thinking what lots and lots of people must have looked at that window – at those very figures in it and the patterns round the edge – since it was first put up there. Lots of children as little as me, who grew up to be men and women, and then got old and died. Isn't it queer to think how men and women must die, and that bits of glass that anybody could break with a touch can last on for hundreds of years? I daresay some of the children I was thinking of, the long long ago ones, kept on looking at that window every Sunday, and saints' days too – for people long ago went much oftener to church on saints' days, you know, – all through their lives; for before there were railways, or even coaches, and travelling cost so dear, lots of country people never went farther away than a few miles from their own village at all. It is strange to think of. I thought to myself I'd like to show Anne the church. She'd understand all these feelings it gave me – perhaps she'd make poetry about it. She does make poetry sometimes. I was sure she'd like the church.

But I was afraid of being late for mother, or making her fidgety that I was going to be late, so I turned to go.

Just as I was leaving the church, I saw that there was some one there beside myself. I hadn't noticed her before, but she must have been there all the time. It was a lady. She had been kneeling, but she got up and passed out quickly. I had only time to catch a very little glimpse of her face, but even in that tiny glimpse I felt as if I had seen it before. But I couldn't think where. She didn't see me, I was a little in shadow, and she looked eager and hurried, as if she had plenty to do, and had only run in to say her prayers for a minute.

Where had I seen that rather frowning, eager look in a face before? It did bother me so, but I couldn't remember.

That was a tiny bit of an adventure, after all. I shouldn't have said I hadn't any at all that day.

I walked home through the village – that end of it, that's to say, the south end – past the doctor's house, with a big plate on the door, 'Dr. Hepland,' and the one or two everything shops (don't you love 'everything' shops? I do. I stood at the door of one of them, to sniff the jolly mixty-maxty, regular country shop smell), and the post office. And then I felt I knew the place pretty tidily for a beginning. There was lots of time. I'd seen what o'clock it was at the church, so I strolled along comfortably. Some of the people stared at me a bit. It was rather early in the season for visitors, you see. But I didn't mind. I just stood still, with my hands behind me, and looked well round at the view and everything.

Behind the church the ground rises, and up there, there was a house, standing by itself and looking rather new. I remembered what Mrs. Parsley had said.

'That must be the getting-well Home for children,' I thought. 'I'd like to see through it. Perhaps we might have some of the children to tea one day, when we're at the farm. The wellest ones; it would be rather fun.'

I'd a good deal to tell the girls about when we got home, hadn't I?

But, after all, we didn't tell them very much that night. For both mums and I were pretty tired, though everything had been so nice. The train going home was a much slower one. When we got near London, it seemed to stop at every station. My goodness! it was tiresome. And we were hungry too, for we'd only had luncheon at Mossmoor; we had to leave too soon for tea, and, besides, mother didn't want to give Mrs. Parsley so much trouble.

Father was going to be late that night. He wasn't coming in to dinner at all. I didn't much mind, for it was all the nicer for me. Mums and I had a sort of picnic dinner – with tea, you know, like what people often have when they arrive very late after a journey. And we talked over about the rooms and everything quietly. The girls were all in bed. We just went in to see them. Hebe was the widest awake; and she was so pleased to hear that perhaps there'd be room for her too at Mossmoor if she was a good girl, and got nearly quite well at Ventnor.

And the next morning we told all of them everything about it. I had to begin at the beginning, and tell about the railway, and how pretty the fields looked, and what a lovely station there was at Fewforest, and the drive in the pony phaeton, and how red the fat boy's ears were; and then about the house and Mrs. Parsley, and the rooms, and everything.

I hadn't time to tell about my walk through the village till luncheon – mum's luncheon, I mean, which is our dinner. And then I began about the nice old church; they were very pleased, Anne most of all. But just as I was telling about the lady I'd seen, and how I couldn't remember how I seemed to know her face, all of a sudden it plumped into my mind. I threw down my knife and fork on my plate. I'm afraid they made a clatter, for mums jumped. It was partly perhaps that I called out so.

'I know who it was. It's that girl – Miss Cross-at-first, you know, Anne,' for that was the name we'd given her, and, indeed, I didn't remember her real name.

'Miss what, Jack?' said mums; while Anne said quietly, 'Oh yes, I know. How funny!'

Then we explained what we meant.

'Judith,' said mother; 'Judith Merthyr. What a very queer name for her,' and she couldn't help laughing. 'It may have been her, for I know she works among poor children. Perhaps she's one of the girls who come down in turns to the Convalescent Home – the ladies Mrs. Parsley told us of. I must ask Dorothea Chasserton; she's sure to know. It would be nice if Judith were there, they say she's such a very kind girl.'

'Yes,' I said, 'we found that out. It's only the way her face is made – she can't help it.'

But somehow we all forgot to ask Cousin Dorothea. For one thing, there soon began to be a good deal of bustle getting ready to go away, for with this horrid whooping-cough nurse and Rowley had been so extra busy that there was a lot of sewing to do. Not for me, of course. My sailor suits all come from the man at Devonport, and, except for darning my stockings, I don't think I give much mending to do. But of course girls are always wanting things made for them at home. Then to add to all the fuss, gran took it into his head to come back all of a sudden. Mother hadn't counted on his coming at all till after she'd got back from Ventnor with Hebe, and by then she thought if Hebe was well enough to be with the rest of us at Mossmoor, she herself would be free to devote herself to gran. She wanted to be extra good to him, you see, to make up for the worry about the diamond ornament.

But gran's often rather changeable; and of course, as mums always says, 'It's his own house: who has a better right to come to it whenever it suits him?'