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Authors: Catriona McPherson
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shoulder.
‘Mrs Gilver,’ she said, arriving at our little table and standing there – still rather swash-bucklingly – with her feet planted far apart and her hands on her hips. ‘And Mr Osborne, I believe.’
The commercial gentlemen carried on chewing their toast and reading their headlines; the anglers carried on with their reminiscence of some distant whopper; but the convalescent widow and her companion practically fell off their seats with curiosity and I could feel their two pairs of eyes fastened upon me like magnifying glasses in the desert sun, smouldering dry twigs into fire.
‘Miss Shanks,’ I said. ‘Alec, dear,’ – a crackle from the twigs as the magnifying glasses flashed in horror – ‘this is Miss Shanks from St Columba’s of whom I told you last evening.’
Alec half rose and half bowed then sank into his seat again.
‘And how can we help you today, Miss Shanks?’ he said.
She regarded him very thoughtfully for a moment before she answered.
‘Lambourne, Mrs Gilver, have let me down,’ she said, flicking a glance to me and then fastening her eyes back on Alec again. ‘And I knew you’d still be here, don’t ye know?’ Miss Shanks’s Scotch brogue was intermittent and utterly bogus, but I was beginning to get a handle on its comings and goings: it carried her over chasms where good taste and fine feeling might send her tumbling. ‘I thought, despite our wee misunderstanding yesterday, that I might persuade you to stay, since you’ve trundled all the way up to us here by the sparkling sea, eh?’
‘Down, actually,’ I said. ‘Not that it ma—’
‘And since you’re so settled.’ She twinkled at me. ‘Cooried in, ye might say.’
Alec and I were completely bamboozled.
‘But as you yourself pointed out, Miss Shanks,’ I said, ‘my married state is not at all suitable for employment at your establishment.’ I was beginning to sound like the woman, damn her.
‘Well, I thought about that, Mrs Gilver,’ said Miss Shanks, attempting a girlish air – mostly made up of swinging her skirts from side to side and looking at me out of the corner of her eye – ‘and talked it over with one of my colleagues, and I decided that if you would submit to being known as Miss Gilver while you’re with us, the girls don’t need to know.’
‘Your colleague Miss Lipscott?’ I could not imagine Fleur clamouring for my return but I could not imagine any of the Misses Lovage, Barclay or Christopher caring one way or the other.
‘Mrs Brown,’ said Miss Shanks. She stuck her chin in the air and carried on very loftily. ‘She’s on the housekeeping staff.’
Alec now went so far as to cross his eyes and stick his tongue out to signal his bewilderment to me. Miss Shanks, facing the way she did, missed it but the widow’s companion caught it and turned back to her boiled egg with a look of distaste at such vulgarity.
‘I see,’ I lied. Miss Shanks giggled, although at least the skirt-swinging had stopped, I was glad to see.
‘I’m sure your husband won’t mind. Since, as you said yourself and as we all can see,’ she jerked her head towards Alec like a farmer at a cattle auction, ‘he is so very understanding.’ She beamed at me. ‘Now you finish up your brekkie and then toddle up to see me, eh? I’ll arrange for Anderson to collect your things.’ She folded herself back into her cloak and beamed again.
‘Cheerie-bye,’ she said. ‘
À bientôt
.
Auf Wiedersehen
. Toodle-oo.’
And with that she was gone, leaving the silence ringing behind her.
We stared at one another and then turned as the little maid arrived beside us and bobbed.
‘Beg pardon, madam and sir,’ she said. ‘I tried to stop her. I – em – well, my auntie, you see. With the eggs. Always on a Saturday. Monday, Wednesday and Saturday. But I never— and she wasn’t there anyway,’ after which unhelpful communication she bobbed again and scurried away to her kitchens.
‘Well,’ I
‘Mrs Gilver,’ she said, arriving at our little table and standing there – still rather swash-bucklingly – with her feet planted far apart and her hands on her hips. ‘And Mr Osborne, I believe.’
The commercial gentlemen carried on chewing their toast and reading their headlines; the anglers carried on with their reminiscence of some distant whopper; but the convalescent widow and her companion practically fell off their seats with curiosity and I could feel their two pairs of eyes fastened upon me like magnifying glasses in the desert sun, smouldering dry twigs into fire.
‘Miss Shanks,’ I said. ‘Alec, dear,’ – a crackle from the twigs as the magnifying glasses flashed in horror – ‘this is Miss Shanks from St Columba’s of whom I told you last evening.’
Alec half rose and half bowed then sank into his seat again.
‘And how can we help you today, Miss Shanks?’ he said.
She regarded him very thoughtfully for a moment before she answered.
‘Lambourne, Mrs Gilver, have let me down,’ she said, flicking a glance to me and then fastening her eyes back on Alec again. ‘And I knew you’d still be here, don’t ye know?’ Miss Shanks’s Scotch brogue was intermittent and utterly bogus, but I was beginning to get a handle on its comings and goings: it carried her over chasms where good taste and fine feeling might send her tumbling. ‘I thought, despite our wee misunderstanding yesterday, that I might persuade you to stay, since you’ve trundled all the way up to us here by the sparkling sea, eh?’
‘Down, actually,’ I said. ‘Not that it ma—’
‘And since you’re so settled.’ She twinkled at me. ‘Cooried in, ye might say.’
Alec and I were completely bamboozled.
‘But as you yourself pointed out, Miss Shanks,’ I said, ‘my married state is not at all suitable for employment at your establishment.’ I was beginning to sound like the woman, damn her.
‘Well, I thought about that, Mrs Gilver,’ said Miss Shanks, attempting a girlish air – mostly made up of swinging her skirts from side to side and looking at me out of the corner of her eye – ‘and talked it over with one of my colleagues, and I decided that if you would submit to being known as Miss Gilver while you’re with us, the girls don’t need to know.’
‘Your colleague Miss Lipscott?’ I could not imagine Fleur clamouring for my return but I could not imagine any of the Misses Lovage, Barclay or Christopher caring one way or the other.
‘Mrs Brown,’ said Miss Shanks. She stuck her chin in the air and carried on very loftily. ‘She’s on the housekeeping staff.’
Alec now went so far as to cross his eyes and stick his tongue out to signal his bewilderment to me. Miss Shanks, facing the way she did, missed it but the widow’s companion caught it and turned back to her boiled egg with a look of distaste at such vulgarity.
‘I see,’ I lied. Miss Shanks giggled, although at least the skirt-swinging had stopped, I was glad to see.
‘I’m sure your husband won’t mind. Since, as you said yourself and as we all can see,’ she jerked her head towards Alec like a farmer at a cattle auction, ‘he is so very understanding.’ She beamed at me. ‘Now you finish up your brekkie and then toddle up to see me, eh? I’ll arrange for Anderson to collect your things.’ She folded herself back into her cloak and beamed again.
‘Cheerie-bye,’ she said. ‘
À bientôt
.
Auf Wiedersehen
. Toodle-oo.’
And with that she was gone, leaving the silence ringing behind her.
We stared at one another and then turned as the little maid arrived beside us and bobbed.
‘Beg pardon, madam and sir,’ she said. ‘I tried to stop her. I – em – well, my auntie, you see. With the eggs. Always on a Saturday. Monday, Wednesday and Saturday. But I never— and she wasn’t there anyway,’ after which unhelpful communication she bobbed again and scurried away to her kitchens.
‘Well,’ I
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