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Authors: Dorothy Cannell
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a pleasure to meet you!” Gerta’s knees buckled into a curtsy of sorts, due to the twins swinging Tarzanfashion on her arms. And, taking this obeisance as her due, Mrs. Malloy put her best smile forward.
“At least you speak English, not some heathen gobbledygook; so as long as you don’t go forgetting who’s senior around here, we should muck along all right.”
“Thank you.” Gerta lost a few of the points she had gained by adding, “Mrs. Mop.”
“Malloy,” I said quickly.
“It is a good name. And I do mean to do the good job in my work here. Never do these little children know my life is ruined by my so-wicked husband, who forgets the joy I give him with my apple strudel.” Gerta blinked tears from her eyes and smoothed down her apron in a businesslike fashion. “This is the new day starting! Now I stuff my broken heart down my jumper and get busy. How do you like, Frau Haskell, if after I feed the munchkins I let them help me make the Geneva butter cake and my yodel-hey-hey torte with the chocolate and black cherries and the kirsch and the clotted cream?”
Oh, my heavens! What evil had I admitted to my home? I felt my waistline expand as I pictured weeks of being subjected to such caloric barbarism. Was there any way to safely rid myself of this demon nanny?
Unaware of my alarm, the twins settled happily down at the kitchen table and Gerta got out a bottle of milk from the fridge, whereupon Mrs. Malloy apologized for its not being fresh-squeezed, seeing as how we had stopped keeping cows after one of them attacked the postman. Sensing that I might make myself more useful elsewhere, I went upstairs, wallowed in a nice hot bath, got dressed, made my bed, and on going to straighten up the nursery found it all shipshape. After which I proceeded to spend anindustrious half-hour wondering what on earth to do with the rest of my day.
When I last looked, there had been a basket of ironing to be done, but something told me that Mrs. Malloy, not to be outdone by Gerta’s Teutonic efficiency, would already be dashing away with the smoothing iron. And I had no doubt she would have the floors mopped and the furniture polished with Johnson’s Lavender Wax by the time I headed downstairs. In other words, the inevitable rivalry between the two women bade fair to put me out of a job.
My plans to return to work part-time as a free-lance decorator were still in the aspiration stage. As of that moment I had no clients waiting with bated breath for me to order them to toss their present furniture on the fire and make ready for a totally new look. So, faint heart, I told myself sternly, get started on your advertising campaign. Is it too much to ask that you go and order a dozen business cards? Reaching into the wardrobe for a cardigan, I remembered something: The Reverend Eudora Spike had mentioned the other day that she would appreciate my help in selecting a new wardrobe for her bedroom, and she had also done some hemming and hawing about having the sitting room sofa reupholstered. Which led to my wondering whether Vanessa’s perfect figure might be due in part to having had her bust reinforced with foam rubber.
Feeling somewhat cheered, I decided against the business cards in favour of popping over to the vicarage to discuss the wardrobe and sofa with Eudora, while at the same time getting in a moan about my lethally lovely cousin. Undaunted by the fact that the mirror, having nothing better to do than stand around all day, was only too eager to point out my physical shortcomings, I headed downstairs in a rush. More haste less speed, as it turned out, because when I heard the scream I had to grab hold of the banister to keep myself from pitching headlong the rest of the way.
Was the house on fire? Had Tam eaten his cereal bowl or had Abbey, convinced she would never learn to yodel, crawled away from home? Racing towards the scream—which seemed to be fueled by one of those long-life batteries—I found myself
“At least you speak English, not some heathen gobbledygook; so as long as you don’t go forgetting who’s senior around here, we should muck along all right.”
“Thank you.” Gerta lost a few of the points she had gained by adding, “Mrs. Mop.”
“Malloy,” I said quickly.
“It is a good name. And I do mean to do the good job in my work here. Never do these little children know my life is ruined by my so-wicked husband, who forgets the joy I give him with my apple strudel.” Gerta blinked tears from her eyes and smoothed down her apron in a businesslike fashion. “This is the new day starting! Now I stuff my broken heart down my jumper and get busy. How do you like, Frau Haskell, if after I feed the munchkins I let them help me make the Geneva butter cake and my yodel-hey-hey torte with the chocolate and black cherries and the kirsch and the clotted cream?”
Oh, my heavens! What evil had I admitted to my home? I felt my waistline expand as I pictured weeks of being subjected to such caloric barbarism. Was there any way to safely rid myself of this demon nanny?
Unaware of my alarm, the twins settled happily down at the kitchen table and Gerta got out a bottle of milk from the fridge, whereupon Mrs. Malloy apologized for its not being fresh-squeezed, seeing as how we had stopped keeping cows after one of them attacked the postman. Sensing that I might make myself more useful elsewhere, I went upstairs, wallowed in a nice hot bath, got dressed, made my bed, and on going to straighten up the nursery found it all shipshape. After which I proceeded to spend anindustrious half-hour wondering what on earth to do with the rest of my day.
When I last looked, there had been a basket of ironing to be done, but something told me that Mrs. Malloy, not to be outdone by Gerta’s Teutonic efficiency, would already be dashing away with the smoothing iron. And I had no doubt she would have the floors mopped and the furniture polished with Johnson’s Lavender Wax by the time I headed downstairs. In other words, the inevitable rivalry between the two women bade fair to put me out of a job.
My plans to return to work part-time as a free-lance decorator were still in the aspiration stage. As of that moment I had no clients waiting with bated breath for me to order them to toss their present furniture on the fire and make ready for a totally new look. So, faint heart, I told myself sternly, get started on your advertising campaign. Is it too much to ask that you go and order a dozen business cards? Reaching into the wardrobe for a cardigan, I remembered something: The Reverend Eudora Spike had mentioned the other day that she would appreciate my help in selecting a new wardrobe for her bedroom, and she had also done some hemming and hawing about having the sitting room sofa reupholstered. Which led to my wondering whether Vanessa’s perfect figure might be due in part to having had her bust reinforced with foam rubber.
Feeling somewhat cheered, I decided against the business cards in favour of popping over to the vicarage to discuss the wardrobe and sofa with Eudora, while at the same time getting in a moan about my lethally lovely cousin. Undaunted by the fact that the mirror, having nothing better to do than stand around all day, was only too eager to point out my physical shortcomings, I headed downstairs in a rush. More haste less speed, as it turned out, because when I heard the scream I had to grab hold of the banister to keep myself from pitching headlong the rest of the way.
Was the house on fire? Had Tam eaten his cereal bowl or had Abbey, convinced she would never learn to yodel, crawled away from home? Racing towards the scream—which seemed to be fueled by one of those long-life batteries—I found myself
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