Read Online How to Measure a Cow by Margaret Forster - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Forster
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it in the place she’d always kept it, inside an old box which still smelled of the talcum powder it had once held. Lovely, a lovely faint lavender smell. She put the powder puff on top of it, and then put the box in her dressing-table drawer. Safe, quite safe.
She was a queer one, that Sarah Scott. She looked peaky. Nancy had thought about telling her she looked peaky, and should think about going to a doctor’s and asking for a tonic, though probably these days tonics were out of fashion. She was a funny little thing, nothing to her, scared of her own shadow. People like that annoyed Nancy. She found their lack of spirit irritating. No confidence in themselves, always so apologetic. She liked people who looked you in the eye and had a bit of life about them. If you had two legs, two arms, two ears, two eyes, what did you have to look so miserable about? Unless you had some ailment that wasn’t obvious. She had to allow for that, she supposed.
She could have asked Sarah Scott where she worked. There would’ve been no harm in that, butshe hadn’t been able to think how to word it. She could’ve said, maybe, ‘I notice you leave the house early every weekday,’ and then waited. But she had held back from using the word ‘notice’. It suggested spying. Better to have said, ‘You’ve settled here, then,’ and waited. Something might’ve come from that. It was an opportunity missed. And the tea was awful. She would show her how to make a proper cup of tea when she came over. This would have to be arranged. Hospitality must be reciprocated, even if Sarah Scott’s hospitality had been in return for Nancy’s good deed.
She’d done a good deed. Nancy smiled to herself. Oh, she’d certainly been a Good Samaritan, saving Sarah Scott from breaking windows and all sorts of bother. It was a very nice feeling. The beginning of something promising. A proper friendship, maybe.
There was a new routine now, or rather another tiny element added to the existing one. Every morning, as Tara left her house, she saw Mrs Armstrong at her window waving her hand. She appeared to be opening her curtains wider, and this wave was nothing more than a gesture, almost royal the way it was done. Tara raised her own hand in acknowledgement. Now it had to be done every weekday morning. She suddenly remembered Liz waving in that way, the tentative way in which Mrs Armstrong had done. She’d give this little flap of her hand, which could just as well have been swatting away a fly as a wave of greeting. Tara could see her clearly in her head, Liz rushing through the crowds to meet her, giving this movement of her hand. They were both living in London then. They met sometimes at the Curzon cinema in ShaftesburyAvenue where they had a snack before the film and brought each other up to date on what was happening in their lives. Tara never gave much away, but Liz unloaded the lot. She’d married Mike at nineteen but was having an affair with Alan, a passionate affair apparently. She left no detail out. It then emerged that she was using Tara as her cover.
‘But,’ said Tara, ‘suppose he checked your story out, and I hadn’t known you were using me as a cover.’
‘Oh,’ said Liz, ‘he’d never do that, and even if he did, I knew you’d be quick on the uptake and back me up.’
Tara had been quite startled. Would she have understood and backed Liz up?
‘Don’t tell Molly or Claire,’ Liz went on, ‘especially not Claire. God knows what she’d do – ring Mike and report me, I expect.’
Yes, Tara had agreed, it was just possible Claire might do that. Then they both laughed.
Oddly, the impulse to send a reply to Claire sprang from this memory of Liz’s confession. She found herself thinking about Claire and the letter all day, and as a consequence behaving more like Tara than Sarah Scott. She didn’t shuffle along the aisle on the bus but barged her way to the door and was first off when it stopped. On the return journey, in
She was a queer one, that Sarah Scott. She looked peaky. Nancy had thought about telling her she looked peaky, and should think about going to a doctor’s and asking for a tonic, though probably these days tonics were out of fashion. She was a funny little thing, nothing to her, scared of her own shadow. People like that annoyed Nancy. She found their lack of spirit irritating. No confidence in themselves, always so apologetic. She liked people who looked you in the eye and had a bit of life about them. If you had two legs, two arms, two ears, two eyes, what did you have to look so miserable about? Unless you had some ailment that wasn’t obvious. She had to allow for that, she supposed.
She could have asked Sarah Scott where she worked. There would’ve been no harm in that, butshe hadn’t been able to think how to word it. She could’ve said, maybe, ‘I notice you leave the house early every weekday,’ and then waited. But she had held back from using the word ‘notice’. It suggested spying. Better to have said, ‘You’ve settled here, then,’ and waited. Something might’ve come from that. It was an opportunity missed. And the tea was awful. She would show her how to make a proper cup of tea when she came over. This would have to be arranged. Hospitality must be reciprocated, even if Sarah Scott’s hospitality had been in return for Nancy’s good deed.
She’d done a good deed. Nancy smiled to herself. Oh, she’d certainly been a Good Samaritan, saving Sarah Scott from breaking windows and all sorts of bother. It was a very nice feeling. The beginning of something promising. A proper friendship, maybe.
There was a new routine now, or rather another tiny element added to the existing one. Every morning, as Tara left her house, she saw Mrs Armstrong at her window waving her hand. She appeared to be opening her curtains wider, and this wave was nothing more than a gesture, almost royal the way it was done. Tara raised her own hand in acknowledgement. Now it had to be done every weekday morning. She suddenly remembered Liz waving in that way, the tentative way in which Mrs Armstrong had done. She’d give this little flap of her hand, which could just as well have been swatting away a fly as a wave of greeting. Tara could see her clearly in her head, Liz rushing through the crowds to meet her, giving this movement of her hand. They were both living in London then. They met sometimes at the Curzon cinema in ShaftesburyAvenue where they had a snack before the film and brought each other up to date on what was happening in their lives. Tara never gave much away, but Liz unloaded the lot. She’d married Mike at nineteen but was having an affair with Alan, a passionate affair apparently. She left no detail out. It then emerged that she was using Tara as her cover.
‘But,’ said Tara, ‘suppose he checked your story out, and I hadn’t known you were using me as a cover.’
‘Oh,’ said Liz, ‘he’d never do that, and even if he did, I knew you’d be quick on the uptake and back me up.’
Tara had been quite startled. Would she have understood and backed Liz up?
‘Don’t tell Molly or Claire,’ Liz went on, ‘especially not Claire. God knows what she’d do – ring Mike and report me, I expect.’
Yes, Tara had agreed, it was just possible Claire might do that. Then they both laughed.
Oddly, the impulse to send a reply to Claire sprang from this memory of Liz’s confession. She found herself thinking about Claire and the letter all day, and as a consequence behaving more like Tara than Sarah Scott. She didn’t shuffle along the aisle on the bus but barged her way to the door and was first off when it stopped. On the return journey, in
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