Read Online Rosemary Aitken by Flowers for Miss Pengelly - Free Book Online
Authors: Flowers for Miss Pengelly
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and some of those ham sandwiches I’ve cut for her. You’ve been lucky there, my girl. There’s an odd end left over and a crust of bread that we can have ourselves. And I think there’s a bit of pickle in the jar.’
Effie grinned. Cook always saw to it that there was something nice: the bread and ham were freshly baked that day – the kitchen was still full of cooking smells – and that pickle that she made was always beautiful. ‘Yes, Cook,’ she said, and hurried to obey.
It did give her an odd feeling later on, when the mutton-bone was cool and patted fairly dry, to use that piece of newspaper to wrap it in: almost as if the story was shamefully her own, and she did not want the world reading it – Mrs Eileen Mitchell in particular. She placed the bone exactly where it covered the report, and she was pleased to see that it was damp enough to wet the paper through.
Then she hurried out to put it where the poor soul would look for it.
When he saw Effie coming from the house Alex could hardly believe his eyes. He had been this way so often without a glimpse of her that he was beginning to believe she was avoiding him. In fact he was almost certain that she was: he was sure he had seen her at the basement window once, a day or so ago, and from the way she coloured up she must have noticed him – but though he had loitered much longer than he should, pretending to look up and down the street and taking an interest in every garden wall in order not to look conspicuous, she had not come out or even looked again and given him a wave. He was beginning to think he ought to give it up.
And then suddenly, there she was today, pretty as ever and blushing like a rose. But even then she would not meet his eyes. She had a paper parcel in her hand and she stooped to put it down, exactly where he’d been told to put his own the day they met.
He seized time by the forelock – it was a phrase that he remembered vaguely from a book at school – and stepped towards the girl. ‘Morning, Effie. What do you have there?’ It made an opening, although of course he knew the answer perfectly. ‘Another present for your scrubbing woman, I suppose?’
She nodded, crimson-faced. ‘She’ll be here d’rectly. In fact, if everybody had their rights, she should be here by now, but her poor husband had been took quite bad again, and she hasn’t been quite punctual this last week or two. Arrive here any minute, I expect, all hot and bothered ’cause she’s had to walk for miles – hasn’t the money for a horsebus, with her ’usband like he is.’
‘But you do expect her?’ Alex had a wild notion of offering to take the parcel round – he could come back when off duty and report success.
But Effie’s answer was too quick for him. ‘Oh, Mrs Mitchell always gets here in the end. She’s no charmer, but you can rely on her for that. She won’t cut corners, either, when she does arrive. She’ll scrub until the place is sparkling – until it’s dark if that is what it takes. That’s how we always . . .’ She broke off suddenly, and said, as if she thought she’d been gossiping too much, ‘But I know I mustn’t keep you; you’re a busy man yourself.’
She was already turning back towards the house. He said, to prevent her, ‘By the way, there’s been no other news. That dead man who seemed to know you. We did send to London to ask about his shirt – I don’t know if anybody told you about that – but though we found the maker it didn’t lead us anywhere. The man that it was made for has gone away abroad. Apparently his wife had not been well and wanted to visit South Africa again before she died.’
Effie was listening, her clever little face full of lively interest – just the way that he’d remembered it. Her comment was intelligent as well. ‘I suppose that’s how he came to give away his shirts? Couldn’t pack them all, I shouldn’t be surprised.’
He nodded. ‘Exactly the conclusion that we
Effie grinned. Cook always saw to it that there was something nice: the bread and ham were freshly baked that day – the kitchen was still full of cooking smells – and that pickle that she made was always beautiful. ‘Yes, Cook,’ she said, and hurried to obey.
It did give her an odd feeling later on, when the mutton-bone was cool and patted fairly dry, to use that piece of newspaper to wrap it in: almost as if the story was shamefully her own, and she did not want the world reading it – Mrs Eileen Mitchell in particular. She placed the bone exactly where it covered the report, and she was pleased to see that it was damp enough to wet the paper through.
Then she hurried out to put it where the poor soul would look for it.
When he saw Effie coming from the house Alex could hardly believe his eyes. He had been this way so often without a glimpse of her that he was beginning to believe she was avoiding him. In fact he was almost certain that she was: he was sure he had seen her at the basement window once, a day or so ago, and from the way she coloured up she must have noticed him – but though he had loitered much longer than he should, pretending to look up and down the street and taking an interest in every garden wall in order not to look conspicuous, she had not come out or even looked again and given him a wave. He was beginning to think he ought to give it up.
And then suddenly, there she was today, pretty as ever and blushing like a rose. But even then she would not meet his eyes. She had a paper parcel in her hand and she stooped to put it down, exactly where he’d been told to put his own the day they met.
He seized time by the forelock – it was a phrase that he remembered vaguely from a book at school – and stepped towards the girl. ‘Morning, Effie. What do you have there?’ It made an opening, although of course he knew the answer perfectly. ‘Another present for your scrubbing woman, I suppose?’
She nodded, crimson-faced. ‘She’ll be here d’rectly. In fact, if everybody had their rights, she should be here by now, but her poor husband had been took quite bad again, and she hasn’t been quite punctual this last week or two. Arrive here any minute, I expect, all hot and bothered ’cause she’s had to walk for miles – hasn’t the money for a horsebus, with her ’usband like he is.’
‘But you do expect her?’ Alex had a wild notion of offering to take the parcel round – he could come back when off duty and report success.
But Effie’s answer was too quick for him. ‘Oh, Mrs Mitchell always gets here in the end. She’s no charmer, but you can rely on her for that. She won’t cut corners, either, when she does arrive. She’ll scrub until the place is sparkling – until it’s dark if that is what it takes. That’s how we always . . .’ She broke off suddenly, and said, as if she thought she’d been gossiping too much, ‘But I know I mustn’t keep you; you’re a busy man yourself.’
She was already turning back towards the house. He said, to prevent her, ‘By the way, there’s been no other news. That dead man who seemed to know you. We did send to London to ask about his shirt – I don’t know if anybody told you about that – but though we found the maker it didn’t lead us anywhere. The man that it was made for has gone away abroad. Apparently his wife had not been well and wanted to visit South Africa again before she died.’
Effie was listening, her clever little face full of lively interest – just the way that he’d remembered it. Her comment was intelligent as well. ‘I suppose that’s how he came to give away his shirts? Couldn’t pack them all, I shouldn’t be surprised.’
He nodded. ‘Exactly the conclusion that we
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