Read Online The Godforsaken Daughter by Christina McKenna - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christina McKenna
Ads: Link
turmoil. Connie had secrets.
How could he not have known about the pills? How come he hadn’t seen them?
How come she hadn’t told him?
Chapter seven
A blue Austin Mini bumped down Oaktree Lane, just as Ruby had finished securing the final sheet to the line. It swerved into the yard, narrowly missing a hen, and puttered to a halt by the water pump.
Ruby concealed herself behind the washing line as Miss Ida Nettles extricated herself from the vehicle, an elaborate task because she wasn’t used to the car, having just acquired it. Six months earlier, she’d accomplished the amazing feat of passing her driving test on the seventh attempt, setting a record and making of herself an absolute menace on the road. It was rumored that Mr. Reilly, her instructor, had bought himself a brand-new caravan for seaside breaks on the back of Ida’s incompetence.
Ida, a former midwife, was never going to let retirement stall her. She needed to be out and about, a community activist of sorts, so had reinvented herself as an Avon-lady-cum-nurse who could do hair, makeup, manicures, pedicures, and provide any other kind of cure—whether medicinal or herbal—from the depths of her commodious doctor’s bag. A bag she carried about clamped under her right arm like a bulging baby, fearing the straps too fragile for its many bottles of unguents.
Ruby berated herself for not remembering that Monday was “Ida day”: her mother’s toes got done on Mondays. Had her thoughts not been in such tumult from the weekend’s events, she certainly would have remembered and made herself scarce. Because Ida was nothing more than a busybody who talked down to Ruby as if she were still seven years old, and carried stories from one house to the next, fattened with her own fictions, just for the hell of it. In another life she might well have been a tabloid hack.
From behind the shelter of the sheet, Ruby watched as Ida hauled the bag from the backseat of the car, slammed the door shut, turned, and gazed up at the sky. Then, shielding her eyes from the sun, looked directly across to the garden.
Ruby ducked behind the plum bush, but too late.
“Ruby, is that you?” Ida called out. “You can’t hide from yer auntie Ida.”
Damn!
“Oh . . . hello, Ida. Didn’t see you there.” She picked up the laundry basket and, with reluctance, went to greet her. “Just putting the wash out.”
“I see that. Well, how’s the mammy?”
“A bit poorly, but nothing too serious.”
Ida was five feet one, with a frizz of tightly permed hair the color of churned butter. Her tiny face was never without makeup; eyebrows and lipstick crookedly applied, due to progressive myopia, which, for vanity’s sake, she chose to ignore. Today she was in a frock of lapis blue, with eye shadow and sandals to match.
“Oh, that’s terrible,” she said, squinting up at Ruby. “And with what she’s been through, with yer poor father dying like he did . . . so sudden and all. Is it any wonder she’s poorly, but sure getting her toes done’ll brighten her up a bit. And how’s yourself, Ruby?” Without preamble, she loaded the doctor’s bag into the laundry basket Ruby was holding. “Now, a big strong girl like you can carry that in for me.”
“Busy, as usual, Ida, so I am,” Ruby said, leading the way into the cool sanctuary of the house.
“Well, that’s good. Takes your mind off your daddy. Now, put that down on the table there, like a good girl, till I get me biscuits.”
Ruby had already plonked down the bag, having performed this ritual many times in the past. In seconds, Ida was diving into it.
“Now, where are they?” She’d flung out a tin of talcum powder, a jar of fish paste, a bottle of Yardley cologne, and a can of hairspray, before spotting the biscuits. “A fig roll for a cuppa tea. You put the kettle on there, Ruby, like a good girl, and I’ll see to your poor mammy. She’s in the bed, no doubt, and that’s where she’ll stay, for
How could he not have known about the pills? How come he hadn’t seen them?
How come she hadn’t told him?
Chapter seven
A blue Austin Mini bumped down Oaktree Lane, just as Ruby had finished securing the final sheet to the line. It swerved into the yard, narrowly missing a hen, and puttered to a halt by the water pump.
Ruby concealed herself behind the washing line as Miss Ida Nettles extricated herself from the vehicle, an elaborate task because she wasn’t used to the car, having just acquired it. Six months earlier, she’d accomplished the amazing feat of passing her driving test on the seventh attempt, setting a record and making of herself an absolute menace on the road. It was rumored that Mr. Reilly, her instructor, had bought himself a brand-new caravan for seaside breaks on the back of Ida’s incompetence.
Ida, a former midwife, was never going to let retirement stall her. She needed to be out and about, a community activist of sorts, so had reinvented herself as an Avon-lady-cum-nurse who could do hair, makeup, manicures, pedicures, and provide any other kind of cure—whether medicinal or herbal—from the depths of her commodious doctor’s bag. A bag she carried about clamped under her right arm like a bulging baby, fearing the straps too fragile for its many bottles of unguents.
Ruby berated herself for not remembering that Monday was “Ida day”: her mother’s toes got done on Mondays. Had her thoughts not been in such tumult from the weekend’s events, she certainly would have remembered and made herself scarce. Because Ida was nothing more than a busybody who talked down to Ruby as if she were still seven years old, and carried stories from one house to the next, fattened with her own fictions, just for the hell of it. In another life she might well have been a tabloid hack.
From behind the shelter of the sheet, Ruby watched as Ida hauled the bag from the backseat of the car, slammed the door shut, turned, and gazed up at the sky. Then, shielding her eyes from the sun, looked directly across to the garden.
Ruby ducked behind the plum bush, but too late.
“Ruby, is that you?” Ida called out. “You can’t hide from yer auntie Ida.”
Damn!
“Oh . . . hello, Ida. Didn’t see you there.” She picked up the laundry basket and, with reluctance, went to greet her. “Just putting the wash out.”
“I see that. Well, how’s the mammy?”
“A bit poorly, but nothing too serious.”
Ida was five feet one, with a frizz of tightly permed hair the color of churned butter. Her tiny face was never without makeup; eyebrows and lipstick crookedly applied, due to progressive myopia, which, for vanity’s sake, she chose to ignore. Today she was in a frock of lapis blue, with eye shadow and sandals to match.
“Oh, that’s terrible,” she said, squinting up at Ruby. “And with what she’s been through, with yer poor father dying like he did . . . so sudden and all. Is it any wonder she’s poorly, but sure getting her toes done’ll brighten her up a bit. And how’s yourself, Ruby?” Without preamble, she loaded the doctor’s bag into the laundry basket Ruby was holding. “Now, a big strong girl like you can carry that in for me.”
“Busy, as usual, Ida, so I am,” Ruby said, leading the way into the cool sanctuary of the house.
“Well, that’s good. Takes your mind off your daddy. Now, put that down on the table there, like a good girl, till I get me biscuits.”
Ruby had already plonked down the bag, having performed this ritual many times in the past. In seconds, Ida was diving into it.
“Now, where are they?” She’d flung out a tin of talcum powder, a jar of fish paste, a bottle of Yardley cologne, and a can of hairspray, before spotting the biscuits. “A fig roll for a cuppa tea. You put the kettle on there, Ruby, like a good girl, and I’ll see to your poor mammy. She’s in the bed, no doubt, and that’s where she’ll stay, for
Similar Books
