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ROBIN WINIFRED GLANCED OVER AT CYRIL'S OLD TUTOR, that same ageing Scotswoman named Olive Freebury. It was absolutely chucking it down outside the window, and Robin went so far as to offer hospitality for the older woman inside her home — besides, what else did she have to keep herself occupied? Pegging things out on the washing line?
A rather melancholic look washed over Olive's taut face as she stared out of the back window, watching the droplets create rivets down the opposite side of the glass. There was an awful paint job coating the inner side of the glass. Robin had done her best to scrape the black paint away from where her grandpa had once plastered it, but the final result didn't turn out too great. Paranoid, the brunette started to think that Olive was scrutinising the Hubbard's back garden — she wanted to tear across the room and yank the curtains shut, to keep the woman from picking apart all the overgrown shrubs and dandelions and nettles.
Robin actually felt sort of bad for Olive — the woman had been left unemployed, dumped back in Aldbourne without a second thought from the Hamiltons. As an entirety, it was easy to tell that the family had never much cared for the opinions of others, which was made frank by Millicent's personality traits, and her recurring habit of reading those girlie magazines stuffed with relationship tips and agony aunts and all that jazz.
Robin crossed the kitchen with a tray of tea in her hands, and the pretty porcelain rattled together when she swayed. Rather than piping hot water, Robin had actually gone out of her way to purchase some nicely flavoured teabags from the corner shop. Olive claimed she could have murdered a cup of tea. Robin thought that was a strange thing to say, and a strange image to be flourishing in her mind indeed.
Needless to say, though, it felt undeniably good to have a bit of seasoning in her life again. It seemed wrong to think about at the time, but she was able to provide for herself better than she had when her grandfather had been with her. It really did break her heart to think that she was better off without him.
"You could take the tram to the war office and apply join the work force, it's only two bob for a ticket there and back," she suggested, placing the tray down on the kitchen table with a heavy sounding clunk. "There are posters plastered on every wall about all the different job opportunities around there. Say, what is it? The women's workforce, or something?"
"Perhaps I should just retire," Olive huffed redundantly, stubbornness seeping past her taut lips as she reached forward for a teacup and saucer. A fall of shiny grey hair drooped in her eyes but she didn't bother to push it back, nor even tuck it behind her ear — she took a sip of the brew before she bothered to do either, "It's about time anyway. I just have not a clue as to what I'm going to do with myself. They may have been toffee-nosed, they were always very kind to us. To both of us. No matter how much dismay they put us in."
