Read Online Mother of Pearl by Mary Morrissy - Free Book Online Page B

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    â€˜It’s Pearl, listen!’
    What he heard was the scrape and scurry of mice.
    â€˜Irene, Irene …’ Leaning on one elbow he would place a restraining hand on the crook of her arm, his only touch these days. ‘You know that’s impossible.’
    And he would turn away, his broad, flannelled back a reproach. All his refusals were absolute.
    â€˜Mrs North?’ Mrs Blessed repeated, calling her back.
    Irene wished she wouldn’t keep using her name like that. It was proprietorial, somehow, as if it was hers to bandy about, as if she had some claim to it.
    â€˜Oh, just the one.’
    â€˜Not from these parts then?’ Mrs Blessed said as she penned Irene’s name in the register. ‘I detest a Southern accent.’
    Irene shook her head.
    â€˜On a visit then?’
    â€˜Mm … yes,’ Irene faltered. ‘The hospital…’
    â€˜Nothing serious, I hope?’
    â€˜Oh no, not me. No, there’s nothing wrong with me.’
    â€˜A friend, then?’ Mrs Blessed prompted.
    â€˜Yes, that’s right. She’s just had a baby.’
    â€˜Isn’t that nice! And you’ve come
all
this way …’
    Was she being pleasant, Irene wondered, or just fishing.
    â€˜When I was having mine, I can’t tell you how pleased I was to see my girlfriends,’ she confided. ‘I used to get weepy, you know. And men, men are no good at a time like that. I won’t have a word said against my Eric, God rest him, but they just don’t understand, do they?’
    She turned and lifted a key from the rack behind her.
    â€˜Whereas
we
do,’ Mrs Blessed said looking at Irene meaningfully, ‘don’t we?’
    Irene blushed with a secret pride; she had been mistaken for a mother.
    â€˜Number two, I think.’
    â€˜No, no, it’s her first one.’
    Mrs Blessed chuckled.
    â€˜We seem to have our wires crossed. I’m putting you in room number two.’
    â€˜Home sweet home!’ Mrs Blessed said, throwing open the door of number two with a flourish.
    They had travelled to the top of the house, up several flights of stairs carpeted in whorled crimson, geese flying in formation on the flocked fleur-de-lis wallpaper, a gilt tureen housing an asparagus fern on the return. None of it had prepared Irene for this barren interior. It was a white attic room, long and narrow, with a window at the far end under which two single beds were wedged, a locker squeezed between them. The timbered ceiling which sloped to one side had once been painted but it flaked and blistered now as if afflicted by a leprous disease. There was a curtained cavity for clothes. Over the bricked-up fireplace a picture of the Virgin hung.
    â€˜It’s really for two, as you can see,’ Mrs Blessed said, bending to smooth one of the pink candlewick spreads. ‘But in your case, I won’t charge.’
    In your case.
Irene pondered on this.
    â€˜My radio officers were in here, bless their hearts. Lovely lads. But my, what a racket they made. They used to practise their Morse code at the table, clinking their spoons against the cups. Sending messages to one another, if you don’t mind!’ She folded her fat arms.
    â€˜Now,’ she said, ‘rules of the house!’ She tapped a notice which was tacked to the back of the door. ‘The Ten Commandments, I call them! No baths after ten, bathroom’s across the landing, and no men in the rooms, but I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.’
    She fidgeted briefly with the waistband of her skirt as if she longed to inch the zip down just a fraction.
    â€˜Breakfast at eight sharp and we like our guests to vacate by nine.’
    She turned to leave, worrying at a stray strand of hair that was curling around her earlobe.
    â€˜Oh yes, I nearly forgot. The front door is locked at midnight. I tell my girls I only keep Cinderellas!’
    And with a merry laugh, she