Read Online The House That Was Eureka by Nadia Wheatley - Free Book Online
Authors: Nadia Wheatley
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when Maria finished. ‘Tomorrow. Next day. We have cake. You come back to Mrs Maria.’
‘Maria,’ said Maria. ‘That’s
my
name.’
‘Is my name too,’ said the lady. ‘So we friends, eh?’
That was how the afternoon secret started. The next day and the next day and on Saturday and Sunday too, Maria slipped off away from Jodie and Sammy and Evie and sat in the kitchen with Mrs Maria and the old man, and ate strange Greek honey cakes and nut pastries and preserved fruit, and the old man talked a bit about the olden days when he was a boy, and Mrs Maria beamed and told Maria she was pretty and let her sweep for twenty cents, and the parrot chattered in its cage and picked up the crumbs that Maria dropped in to it. It beat afternoon tea at home with Evie hands down. At Evie’s afternoon tea you got a choice between peanut butter on bread and peanut butter on toast, and Jodie or Sammy was always grabbing the jar away.
‘Look, just make Sammy and yourselves a sandwich,’ Evie said this Monday. ‘Then go and watch TV or something.’ She didn’t care what they did, as long as she could be alone.
‘
You
look after her, Jodie,’ Maria said. ‘I told you, I’ve got to do something.’
‘We’re coming too,’ said Jodie.
Evie went into her room.
‘No you’re not,’ Maria said.
‘Yes we are.’
‘Oh, okay, but don’t tell Evie but.’ The main point about secrets was to keep them secret from Evie.
As if
I
want to know, Evie thought in her room. She heard them traipse out the front door, one two three. Evie didn’t care what they did that day, as long as she could be alone. She felt tired, and miserable, and caught in a knot inside, so she locked herself in her room and had a sleep.
Scrabbling, Evie felt these days. Scrabbling inside the cupboard. But
she
was inside the cupboard. She was Evie, a girl scratching on the door with her fingernail. Too scared to go out. Too scared to go and see. Stuck in the dark. The door swung back and open. Then there was the white face of the despot. Looking at her fearful-eyed before it disappeared.
8
The row they’d had that Friday night had been a good’un. Hammer and tongs they’d gone, Nobby and his mother, till nearly dawn. Lizzie had heard them through the wall.
The next day there was a deputation by the Anti-Eviction Committee on behalf of the Cruises. They tried pleading, they tried reason. They presented a petition signed by a hundred residents of Liberty Street, and two hundred other locals. Mrs Weston threatened to call the police if the committee didn’t get off her doorstep.
‘And when you’ve finished wasting your time with your no-good friends,’ she added, pushing Nobby down the steps with her broom, ‘you might deign to come in like a civilized son and unblock the drain for me.’
Nobby fixed the drain, then cleaned the silver. That was his regular Saturday morning chore.
The smell of the silver polish, the feel of the clean white rag, the sight of all the cutlery and the vegetable dishes and the dish-covers and the eggcups and the vases and the roast-plate and the teapot and the sugar bowl and the milk jugs and the two serviette rings laid out there before him on newspaper on the kitchen table – all this had been going on for Saturday morning upon Saturday morning for as long as he could remember. This wasn’t man’s work, he thought viciously, finishing a vase, moving on to a serviette ring.
N
, he thought, idly running his finger over the engraving on the ring.
N
for his name,
N
for no one.
In the old days, Lizzie used to come in on Saturday mornings and help him, so he could get through it fast and they could go out and play. His mother hadn’t liked it, but hadn’t known how to object.
Lizzie’s wide green eyes would lift to her as she opened the door. ‘Good morning,’ Lizzie would say, all prim in her pinafore. ‘May I please help Nobby with the silver?’
‘We don’t need help.’
‘Oh, but I like to, we
‘Maria,’ said Maria. ‘That’s
my
name.’
‘Is my name too,’ said the lady. ‘So we friends, eh?’
That was how the afternoon secret started. The next day and the next day and on Saturday and Sunday too, Maria slipped off away from Jodie and Sammy and Evie and sat in the kitchen with Mrs Maria and the old man, and ate strange Greek honey cakes and nut pastries and preserved fruit, and the old man talked a bit about the olden days when he was a boy, and Mrs Maria beamed and told Maria she was pretty and let her sweep for twenty cents, and the parrot chattered in its cage and picked up the crumbs that Maria dropped in to it. It beat afternoon tea at home with Evie hands down. At Evie’s afternoon tea you got a choice between peanut butter on bread and peanut butter on toast, and Jodie or Sammy was always grabbing the jar away.
‘Look, just make Sammy and yourselves a sandwich,’ Evie said this Monday. ‘Then go and watch TV or something.’ She didn’t care what they did, as long as she could be alone.
‘
You
look after her, Jodie,’ Maria said. ‘I told you, I’ve got to do something.’
‘We’re coming too,’ said Jodie.
Evie went into her room.
‘No you’re not,’ Maria said.
‘Yes we are.’
‘Oh, okay, but don’t tell Evie but.’ The main point about secrets was to keep them secret from Evie.
As if
I
want to know, Evie thought in her room. She heard them traipse out the front door, one two three. Evie didn’t care what they did that day, as long as she could be alone. She felt tired, and miserable, and caught in a knot inside, so she locked herself in her room and had a sleep.
Scrabbling, Evie felt these days. Scrabbling inside the cupboard. But
she
was inside the cupboard. She was Evie, a girl scratching on the door with her fingernail. Too scared to go out. Too scared to go and see. Stuck in the dark. The door swung back and open. Then there was the white face of the despot. Looking at her fearful-eyed before it disappeared.
8
The row they’d had that Friday night had been a good’un. Hammer and tongs they’d gone, Nobby and his mother, till nearly dawn. Lizzie had heard them through the wall.
The next day there was a deputation by the Anti-Eviction Committee on behalf of the Cruises. They tried pleading, they tried reason. They presented a petition signed by a hundred residents of Liberty Street, and two hundred other locals. Mrs Weston threatened to call the police if the committee didn’t get off her doorstep.
‘And when you’ve finished wasting your time with your no-good friends,’ she added, pushing Nobby down the steps with her broom, ‘you might deign to come in like a civilized son and unblock the drain for me.’
Nobby fixed the drain, then cleaned the silver. That was his regular Saturday morning chore.
The smell of the silver polish, the feel of the clean white rag, the sight of all the cutlery and the vegetable dishes and the dish-covers and the eggcups and the vases and the roast-plate and the teapot and the sugar bowl and the milk jugs and the two serviette rings laid out there before him on newspaper on the kitchen table – all this had been going on for Saturday morning upon Saturday morning for as long as he could remember. This wasn’t man’s work, he thought viciously, finishing a vase, moving on to a serviette ring.
N
, he thought, idly running his finger over the engraving on the ring.
N
for his name,
N
for no one.
In the old days, Lizzie used to come in on Saturday mornings and help him, so he could get through it fast and they could go out and play. His mother hadn’t liked it, but hadn’t known how to object.
Lizzie’s wide green eyes would lift to her as she opened the door. ‘Good morning,’ Lizzie would say, all prim in her pinafore. ‘May I please help Nobby with the silver?’
‘We don’t need help.’
‘Oh, but I like to, we
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