Read Online The Misremembered Man by Christina McKenna - Free Book Online Page B

and as she reached for the teapot and the tea caddy, gazed out the window to remind herself of how beautiful the garden looked. She was proud of her vegetable patch, where the rows of carrots, potatoes, cauliflowers and sprouts expressed her unstinting devotion to the soil, and her confidence in the power of Mother Nature to provide all goodness. Because for Lydia, order and neatness did not stop at the boundaries of one’s home; they extended to the scrubbed paving, trimmed hedges and carefully cropped lawns that lay beyond it.
    “…and after that we did pass-the-parcel, and then Mrs. Leslie Lloyd-Peacock showed us slides from her trip to Canada. Oh, Mrs. Lloyd-Peacock is such a lady! She would be connected to the Rickman-Ritchies, you know, the linen people. Oh, very grand, very well off and such good friends of your father’s….”
    “Mmm…,” murmured Lydia. She noticed a scattering of naughty dandelions between the rows of vegetables, nodding their little heads in the noon breeze, and wondered how on earth she could have missed them thus far. She made a mental note to pluck them immediately after tea.
    She carried the teapot to the table and stole a quick glance down the hallway, but there was no mail as yet. She could not afford to have her mother collect any letters, because her ad had already appeared and she hoped and expected an envelope of replies soon, even though it was very early days.
    Elizabeth was examining the cabled cuffs of her sweater dress. “…oh terrible good with her hands, could tackle any Aran stitch put in front of her; cables, garters, fagots, twists, the chunky bead, fisherman ribs, and y’know her bunny bobbles were the talk of the country. You name it and she could do it…”
    She left off the examination and studied Lydia, who, having placed the teapot on the table was fetching Auntie Dot’s tea cozy, a wondrous item crocheted in the shape of a purple strawberry.
    “You know, Mrs. Leslie Lloyd-Peacock’s slides put me in mind of the sea.”
    “Oh really,” said Lydia, half listening. “How’s that?”
    “Made me long to go on holiday. Portaluce, that’s where I want to go. Why don’t we go and stay with Gladys next week?”
    “Really!” Lydia was suddenly alert. She’d no wish to go anywhere until she’d received that all-important letter. “Gosh, Mother, if memory serves, you and Gladys always end up fighting.”
    “Gladys is the one who starts it! But then she never was anything but impetuous.” Mrs. Devine addressed the sugar bowl, suddenly thoughtful. “Takes after her Aunt Millicent.” Lydia could see another reminiscence coming on.
    “Look, I’ll tell you what, Mother: We’ll go the week after next. How’s that?”
    “Why not next week?”
    “Well…” Lydia didn’t know what to say. “I’m just not ready yet. I’m…tired.”
    “I thought that was the reason one went on holiday: because one was tired.” Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “You’re up to something.”
    “No, Mother, I’m not up to anything, and anyway Auntie Gladys would need a week’s notice. It’s high season, you know.” Lydia proffered a plate of cherry slices. “Now, some cake.”
     
     
    Doris Crink, the postmistress, was an attractive widow in her early fifties—petite, slim, well groomed—who still felt it necessary to make an effort, especially with her appearance. Her dear husband’s death had been premature. They’d only been married four years when he was hit by a delivery van, driven by a shortsighted retiree, whose attention had been momentarily diverted whilst wresting a barley-sugar from its wrapper. Since that fateful occurrence, the mere sight of the said sweets could trigger in Doris an immeasurable panic. Such a catastrophe had not put her off, however, and as the years passed she never lost hope of marrying again. By tending to her looks she kept that flame of hope alive. You just never knew when the right man might come along and fan the flame into a