Read Online The Boat House by Stephen Gallagher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen Gallagher
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as frantic as a wind-up toy's for a few seconds, but this quickly petered out and its body became limp.
She held it out to Angelica, and said, "For the kitchen?"
"For the dustbin," Angelica corrected. The lake birds appeared to be healthy enough, but they were always scrounging food from the tourists and picking over the debris that washed up on the lakeshore. A menu featuring Canard aux Parasites wouldn't be much of a crowd-puller for the coming season. The woman handed her what was left of Donald, and Angelica said, "People feed them and they wander into the road… it's not surprising they get hurt. I know it has to be done, but it seems I'm no good at it. Would you care for a coffee?"
"I brought no money with me," the woman said.
"Restaurant's closed anyway. This is on the house."
The woman shrugged, smiled, inclined her head - a gesture of polite acceptance in the continental manner, none of the foot-shuffling embarrassment of the local stock at all. Angelica loved the valley people - some of them, anyway - but at times she could find them… well, basic more or less summarised the idea. Had it not been for seasonal visitors, the list of locally popular dishes would have been depressingly brief; burned steaks, fried fish, and barbecued chicken. Preferred background music; anything classical that could be recognised from TV. Major fashion influence; the Kays catalogue.
This woman was clearly different.
Compared to some, she was almost a china doll. She seemed dressed for colder weather, in several layers of woollens and a heavy shawl; dull colours, nothing gaudy, and her hair was pulled back and had been pinned in a clasp. She followed as Angelica led the way toward the kitchen, careful not to hold the dead duck too close. The main part of the building faced the lake, and the half-glassed partition of the western wall could be rolled back in decent weather to allow a dozen or more tables to be set in the open air, right out over the water.
As they were stepping inside, the visitor said, "This is a lovely place."
Angelica, trying to place her accent but not managing it, said, "You should see it when the season gets going, it's madness. Let me take a guess. You're not on holiday."
"No. I live here."
"Since when? I'd better warn you, they've a bush telegraph around here that works faster than the speed of light."
"I haven't been here for very long. I only just arrived."
"That would explain it," Angelica said, pushing open the service door that led through into the kitchen. "So, what do you think of the valley?"
The visitor smiled.
"I plan to stay," she said.
They were hit by the scents of baking and spices, the results of the afternoon's work put in by Adele Venetz. Adele, the younger of the two sisters although some privately reckoned that she looked a little drawn-in and slightly older than Angelica, was wiping down the flour from the big kitchen table as they came through the door.
She fixed a baleful eye on Angelica, and said, "If ever they bring back hanging, I wouldn't advise you to apply for the job."
"You were watching?"
"I was listening. Couldn't help it, the racket you were making. Thank God you got some expert help or we'd have been hearing duck screams in our nightmares forever."
"Just get a move on," Angelica said, "so we can use the table. And say hello to one of our neighbours." She pulled out the kitchen trash hopper, a laundry basket kind of affair on squeaky castors, and set Donald on his journey to duck heaven by dropping him into the grey plastic liner. "I'm Angelica, this is my sister Adele. All this is our place."
"Ours, and the bank's," Adele put in.
"My name's Alina Peterson," the young woman said.
Angelica switched on the Cona machine and Adele brought an extra chair. They sat around one end of the work table, which now seemed vast and empty, and Alina Peterson explained how she'd walked down to the village to look around and, where it seemed appropriate, to introduce herself.
She held it out to Angelica, and said, "For the kitchen?"
"For the dustbin," Angelica corrected. The lake birds appeared to be healthy enough, but they were always scrounging food from the tourists and picking over the debris that washed up on the lakeshore. A menu featuring Canard aux Parasites wouldn't be much of a crowd-puller for the coming season. The woman handed her what was left of Donald, and Angelica said, "People feed them and they wander into the road… it's not surprising they get hurt. I know it has to be done, but it seems I'm no good at it. Would you care for a coffee?"
"I brought no money with me," the woman said.
"Restaurant's closed anyway. This is on the house."
The woman shrugged, smiled, inclined her head - a gesture of polite acceptance in the continental manner, none of the foot-shuffling embarrassment of the local stock at all. Angelica loved the valley people - some of them, anyway - but at times she could find them… well, basic more or less summarised the idea. Had it not been for seasonal visitors, the list of locally popular dishes would have been depressingly brief; burned steaks, fried fish, and barbecued chicken. Preferred background music; anything classical that could be recognised from TV. Major fashion influence; the Kays catalogue.
This woman was clearly different.
Compared to some, she was almost a china doll. She seemed dressed for colder weather, in several layers of woollens and a heavy shawl; dull colours, nothing gaudy, and her hair was pulled back and had been pinned in a clasp. She followed as Angelica led the way toward the kitchen, careful not to hold the dead duck too close. The main part of the building faced the lake, and the half-glassed partition of the western wall could be rolled back in decent weather to allow a dozen or more tables to be set in the open air, right out over the water.
As they were stepping inside, the visitor said, "This is a lovely place."
Angelica, trying to place her accent but not managing it, said, "You should see it when the season gets going, it's madness. Let me take a guess. You're not on holiday."
"No. I live here."
"Since when? I'd better warn you, they've a bush telegraph around here that works faster than the speed of light."
"I haven't been here for very long. I only just arrived."
"That would explain it," Angelica said, pushing open the service door that led through into the kitchen. "So, what do you think of the valley?"
The visitor smiled.
"I plan to stay," she said.
They were hit by the scents of baking and spices, the results of the afternoon's work put in by Adele Venetz. Adele, the younger of the two sisters although some privately reckoned that she looked a little drawn-in and slightly older than Angelica, was wiping down the flour from the big kitchen table as they came through the door.
She fixed a baleful eye on Angelica, and said, "If ever they bring back hanging, I wouldn't advise you to apply for the job."
"You were watching?"
"I was listening. Couldn't help it, the racket you were making. Thank God you got some expert help or we'd have been hearing duck screams in our nightmares forever."
"Just get a move on," Angelica said, "so we can use the table. And say hello to one of our neighbours." She pulled out the kitchen trash hopper, a laundry basket kind of affair on squeaky castors, and set Donald on his journey to duck heaven by dropping him into the grey plastic liner. "I'm Angelica, this is my sister Adele. All this is our place."
"Ours, and the bank's," Adele put in.
"My name's Alina Peterson," the young woman said.
Angelica switched on the Cona machine and Adele brought an extra chair. They sat around one end of the work table, which now seemed vast and empty, and Alina Peterson explained how she'd walked down to the village to look around and, where it seemed appropriate, to introduce herself.
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