Read Online Cluny Brown by Margery Sharp - Free Book Online Page B

desperately.
    â€œCertainly not; for when it grows a little longer, you will be able to have a proper bun.”
    Hilda at that moment placed a sandwich before her. Cluny took a large semi-circular bite and chewed and chewed.
    â€œDo nothing until Mr. Syrett tells you,” continued Mrs. Maile, “and you can’t go wrong. When he says ‘Plates,’ either take the used ones or set fresh, as the case may be; when he says ‘Vegetables,’ or ‘Sauce,’ hand vegetables, or sauce.”
    â€œAnd mind you don’t go breathin’,” exhorted Hilda.
    â€œNonsense, of course she can breathe,” said Mrs. Maile liberally. “The trouble with you, Hilda, is that you breathe into persons’ ears.”
    â€œMother says my lungs be like bellowses,” agreed Hilda proudly.
    â€œSuppose I get hiccups?” muttered Cluny.
    Mrs. Maile looked at the pair of them and repressed a sigh. She was not poetically inclined, but the names of Bessie, Gracie, Flora, did at that moment chime in her mind like three sweet symphonies.
    â€œHilda, go and help Cook,” she ordered sharply. “Brown, go upstairs and tidy; you will not get hiccups. If you both thought more of your duties and less of yourselves, we should all get on a great deal better.”
    No mention has so far been made of Cook because she was merely a temporary. She was obliging Lady Carmel for six months while her own employer was in the Argentine, and had therefore no roots at Friars Carmel. In her own kitchen her personality was a rather interesting one, unusually sardonic, as she herself was unusually thin, and expressing itself in savouries and sharp sauces. So she turned out steamed puddings for Sir Henry efficiently, but without enthusiasm. She did all that was required of her, and kept herself to herself. This left in the servants’ hall what might be described as a cook-shaped space, and removed a good deal of the wholesome pressure to which Hilda and Cluny would normally have been subject.
    VI
    Sir Henry and Lady Carmel kept early hours; for them a pleasant evening ended at ten-thirty, and Andrew, who wished his protégé to make a good impression, remarked at twenty-five past that they had all had a long day. Mr. Belinski at once rose and kissed Lady Carmel’s hand; after so mild a programme—a game of auction bridge, a little talk on gardening—he did indeed look curiously exhausted. Andrew took him up to his room in the east corridor, where Belinski immediately sat down on the bed. (A predecessor of Cluny’s once divided all guests into two classes: those who sat on the beds, and those who sat in the chairs provided.)
    â€œEverything you want?” asked Andrew.
    Belinski looked at the bedside table with its lamp, its carafe, its silver biscuit-box, its two books, one of them in German. A lower shelf held cigarettes, matches, ash-tray. He looked at the primroses on the bureau. The warmth of a hot-water bottle communicating itself, he shifted a little and looked at the small mound it made through the bed-clothes. Then he looked at Andrew.
    â€œIt is unbelievable,” said Mr. Belinski.
    â€œWhat is?”
    â€œAll of it. That I should be here—in this house—with your parents—is like a dream.”
    â€œParticularly my parents,” suggested Andrew.
    Belinski nodded seriously.
    â€œI had forgotten that such people were. No, that is wrong: I never knew of such people. They are good like saints.”
    â€œDo you mean—not of this world?”
    â€œOf a far better.”
    â€œLike a dream.” Andrew grinned. “You’re dreaming them, and they’re dreaming you.”
    â€œThey can never have had such a dream before. Tell me: why does your mother call me Professor?”
    â€œWell,” said Andrew, “she’s got it into her head that that’s what you are. I mean, she’s not in the least