Read Online London Transports by Maeve Binchy - Free Book Online
Authors: Maeve Binchy
Tags: Fiction
Ads: Link
and we’ll have a drink on the balcony.”
Marigold! thought Pat. Yes, it would have to be Marigold.
A big room, like one of those film sets for an Anna Neagle movie, with little writing desks, and a piano with photographs on top. There were flowers here, too, and looped lacey curtains leading out to a balcony. There in a wheelchair sat Marigold. The most beautiful woman that Pat had ever seen. She had eyes so blue that they didn’t really seem to be part of a human body. She could have played any number of parts as a ravishing visitor from Mars. She had so much curly hair, long, shiny, and curly, that it looked like a wig for a heroine, but you knew it wasn’t a wig. She smiled at Pat as if all her life she had been waiting to meet her.
“I wish Joy would tell people I live in a wheelchair,” she said, waving at Pat to get her to sit down. She poured some white wine into a beautiful cut-crystal glass and handed it to her. “I honestly think it’s so unfair to let people climb all those stairs and then face them with what they think will be a nursing job instead of a home.”
“Well I don’t, I never, you mustn’t…” stammered Pat.
“Rubbish,” said Joy casually. “If I said you were in a wheelchair nobody would ever come at all. Anyone who has come wants to move in, so I’m right and you’re wrong.”
“Have you had many applicants?” asked Pat.
“Five, no six, including the lady with the cats,” said Joy.
Pat’s list had gone out of her head, and she had no intention of taking it from her handbag. They sat and talked about flowers, and how wonderful that in a city the size of London people still had a respect for their parks, and rarely stole plants or cut blooms for themselves from the common display. They talked on about the patchwork quilt that Marigold had made, how difficult it was to spot woodworm in some furniture, and how a dishonest dealer could treat it with something temporary and then it all came out only when you had the thing bought and installed. They had more wine, and said how nice it was to have an oasis like a balcony in a city of ten million or whatever it was, and wondered how did people live who didn’t have a view over a park.
“We must have a little supper,” Marigold said. “Pat must be starving.”
No protests were heeded, a quick move of her wrist, and the wheelchair was moving through the pots and shrubs of the balcony, the flowers and little writing bureaux of the bedroom, the bric-a-brac of the hall, and they were in a big pine kitchen. Barely had Joy laid the table for three before Marigold had made and cooked a cheese soufflé, a salad had already been prepared, and there was garlic bread, baking slowly in the oven. Pat felt guilty but hungry, and strangely happy. It was the first evening meal anywhere that seemed like home since they had taken Auntie Delia away.
She felt it would be crass to ask how much did people pay and who bought the groceries, and what kind of cleaning would the third girl be expected to do. Neither Marigold nor Joy seemed to think such things should be discussed, so they talked about plays they had seen, or in Marigold’s case books she had read, and it was all as if they were just three friends having a nice dinner at home instead of people trying to organize a business deal.
At eleven o’clock Pat realized by the deep chiming of a clock that she had been there three hours. She would have to make a move. Never had she felt socially so ill at ease. She wondered what she should say to bring the visit to an end and the subject of why she was there at all into the open. She knew quite a lot about them. Marigold had polio and never left the flat. Joy worked in a solicitor’s office as a clerk, but next year was going to go into apprenticeship there and become a solicitor too. Marigold seemed to have some money of her own, and did the housework and the cooking. They had met some years ago when Marigold had put an ad in the paper.
Marigold! thought Pat. Yes, it would have to be Marigold.
A big room, like one of those film sets for an Anna Neagle movie, with little writing desks, and a piano with photographs on top. There were flowers here, too, and looped lacey curtains leading out to a balcony. There in a wheelchair sat Marigold. The most beautiful woman that Pat had ever seen. She had eyes so blue that they didn’t really seem to be part of a human body. She could have played any number of parts as a ravishing visitor from Mars. She had so much curly hair, long, shiny, and curly, that it looked like a wig for a heroine, but you knew it wasn’t a wig. She smiled at Pat as if all her life she had been waiting to meet her.
“I wish Joy would tell people I live in a wheelchair,” she said, waving at Pat to get her to sit down. She poured some white wine into a beautiful cut-crystal glass and handed it to her. “I honestly think it’s so unfair to let people climb all those stairs and then face them with what they think will be a nursing job instead of a home.”
“Well I don’t, I never, you mustn’t…” stammered Pat.
“Rubbish,” said Joy casually. “If I said you were in a wheelchair nobody would ever come at all. Anyone who has come wants to move in, so I’m right and you’re wrong.”
“Have you had many applicants?” asked Pat.
“Five, no six, including the lady with the cats,” said Joy.
Pat’s list had gone out of her head, and she had no intention of taking it from her handbag. They sat and talked about flowers, and how wonderful that in a city the size of London people still had a respect for their parks, and rarely stole plants or cut blooms for themselves from the common display. They talked on about the patchwork quilt that Marigold had made, how difficult it was to spot woodworm in some furniture, and how a dishonest dealer could treat it with something temporary and then it all came out only when you had the thing bought and installed. They had more wine, and said how nice it was to have an oasis like a balcony in a city of ten million or whatever it was, and wondered how did people live who didn’t have a view over a park.
“We must have a little supper,” Marigold said. “Pat must be starving.”
No protests were heeded, a quick move of her wrist, and the wheelchair was moving through the pots and shrubs of the balcony, the flowers and little writing bureaux of the bedroom, the bric-a-brac of the hall, and they were in a big pine kitchen. Barely had Joy laid the table for three before Marigold had made and cooked a cheese soufflé, a salad had already been prepared, and there was garlic bread, baking slowly in the oven. Pat felt guilty but hungry, and strangely happy. It was the first evening meal anywhere that seemed like home since they had taken Auntie Delia away.
She felt it would be crass to ask how much did people pay and who bought the groceries, and what kind of cleaning would the third girl be expected to do. Neither Marigold nor Joy seemed to think such things should be discussed, so they talked about plays they had seen, or in Marigold’s case books she had read, and it was all as if they were just three friends having a nice dinner at home instead of people trying to organize a business deal.
At eleven o’clock Pat realized by the deep chiming of a clock that she had been there three hours. She would have to make a move. Never had she felt socially so ill at ease. She wondered what she should say to bring the visit to an end and the subject of why she was there at all into the open. She knew quite a lot about them. Marigold had polio and never left the flat. Joy worked in a solicitor’s office as a clerk, but next year was going to go into apprenticeship there and become a solicitor too. Marigold seemed to have some money of her own, and did the housework and the cooking. They had met some years ago when Marigold had put an ad in the paper.
Similar Books
