lights kept low.
I am not in favour of mandatory sterilization for all homes. Tobias had shredded my couch, and sometimes I did not make my bed for a week. But this filth was unbearable. The boiler, bless it, was still hot. After a valiant search among the cobwebs under the sink, I found a limp cardboard box that contained a slightly damp tin of cleanser, and a box of soap powder. They would have to do. Washing-up liquid was obviously not down on Aunt Sybil’s list of life’s necessities. Hoisting up the bedspread, I tied it in a knobby knot at the back of my neck, dared it to fall down, and started heaving refuse out of the sink.
Two hours later the dishes were washed, dried, and stacked as evenly as possible in the cupboards. The table had responded fairly well to scrubbing. Half the paint had peeled off the top, but what was underneath looked clean. Filling a pail with hot water, I poured in a bottle of bleach(so old the top had corroded), gingerly pried the cloths off the pipes, and watched them sink into the fumes.
Stifling a yawn, I opened and closed my eyes rapidly a few times to remind them I was still awake. How could I explain my interference to Aunt Sybil? Perhaps she would think the fairies had come. Biting down on another yawn, I filled the kettle, set it on the newly wiped cooker, and lit the gas. At last I was free to open the magic door.
The pantry was another room which should have exuded old-fashioned charm. Its marble shelves were built for hams and cheeses, pork pies and jellies. It should have sent forth an aroma rich in the promise of culinary delights. The truth was it stank. The odour of rancid fat mingled with the stench of bad meat and mice droppings. Crumbs were scattered on the shelves and spilt milk had dried to a yellow crust. Other than a half-eaten chicken, a bowl of curdled custard, and a basket of sprouting vegetables, the place looked like Mother Hubbard’s—bare.
I found the breadbox. It was metal with a fairly secure lid, so I pulled out a loaf without too much foreboding and went out, closing the door behind me. The kettle was whistling, a high shrill peal which reminded me I still had to find the tea. As if annoyed that I did not come when called, the sound grew deeper, becoming a threatening rumble that set the saucepans bouncing about on the rack above the cooker and the row of cups jangling on their hooks beneath the cupboards. A lot of noise and vibration from one kettle. More like a steam train! I turned off the gas, and the noise went on briefly, then stopped. Thunder? I wondered, but the strip of sky glimpsed through the kitchen window, though flecked with tiny flakes of snow, looked clear enough. The rumpus must have been the hot water tank filling up. Where was that tea caddy?
Back to the pantry. As I opened the door, a slight movement caught my eye. Mice? I hate them, but if I didn’t have my cup of … A form grew out of the shadows; arms extended, white gown flapping, it came slowly towards me. The ghost of Merlin’s Court! My scream turned into asqueak which would have made me the laughing-stock of any mice that might be listening. I could not see the creature’s face, but it had a white hood pulled over its head. That was not the worst part. It was laughing, horrible choking gasps of mirth that reduced me to gibbering terror. Any girlish heroine worth her salt would have swooned. I did almost as well; I tripped over the chenille and went down for the count, with the spectre’s hollow words ringing in my ears: “By God, it’s Aphrodite.”
I should, by rights, have wakened to the pungent scent of smelling salts. Such was not my good fortune. Someone had me under the armpits and I was being dragged across the rutted floor, grazing my bottom and scaring me out of what little wits I had left.
“Lord save me, I’d rather drag an ox.” Ben! How did he come into this? He certainly was not the pantry ghost. “This will have to do.” He was stacking me up
I am not in favour of mandatory sterilization for all homes. Tobias had shredded my couch, and sometimes I did not make my bed for a week. But this filth was unbearable. The boiler, bless it, was still hot. After a valiant search among the cobwebs under the sink, I found a limp cardboard box that contained a slightly damp tin of cleanser, and a box of soap powder. They would have to do. Washing-up liquid was obviously not down on Aunt Sybil’s list of life’s necessities. Hoisting up the bedspread, I tied it in a knobby knot at the back of my neck, dared it to fall down, and started heaving refuse out of the sink.
Two hours later the dishes were washed, dried, and stacked as evenly as possible in the cupboards. The table had responded fairly well to scrubbing. Half the paint had peeled off the top, but what was underneath looked clean. Filling a pail with hot water, I poured in a bottle of bleach(so old the top had corroded), gingerly pried the cloths off the pipes, and watched them sink into the fumes.
Stifling a yawn, I opened and closed my eyes rapidly a few times to remind them I was still awake. How could I explain my interference to Aunt Sybil? Perhaps she would think the fairies had come. Biting down on another yawn, I filled the kettle, set it on the newly wiped cooker, and lit the gas. At last I was free to open the magic door.
The pantry was another room which should have exuded old-fashioned charm. Its marble shelves were built for hams and cheeses, pork pies and jellies. It should have sent forth an aroma rich in the promise of culinary delights. The truth was it stank. The odour of rancid fat mingled with the stench of bad meat and mice droppings. Crumbs were scattered on the shelves and spilt milk had dried to a yellow crust. Other than a half-eaten chicken, a bowl of curdled custard, and a basket of sprouting vegetables, the place looked like Mother Hubbard’s—bare.
I found the breadbox. It was metal with a fairly secure lid, so I pulled out a loaf without too much foreboding and went out, closing the door behind me. The kettle was whistling, a high shrill peal which reminded me I still had to find the tea. As if annoyed that I did not come when called, the sound grew deeper, becoming a threatening rumble that set the saucepans bouncing about on the rack above the cooker and the row of cups jangling on their hooks beneath the cupboards. A lot of noise and vibration from one kettle. More like a steam train! I turned off the gas, and the noise went on briefly, then stopped. Thunder? I wondered, but the strip of sky glimpsed through the kitchen window, though flecked with tiny flakes of snow, looked clear enough. The rumpus must have been the hot water tank filling up. Where was that tea caddy?
Back to the pantry. As I opened the door, a slight movement caught my eye. Mice? I hate them, but if I didn’t have my cup of … A form grew out of the shadows; arms extended, white gown flapping, it came slowly towards me. The ghost of Merlin’s Court! My scream turned into asqueak which would have made me the laughing-stock of any mice that might be listening. I could not see the creature’s face, but it had a white hood pulled over its head. That was not the worst part. It was laughing, horrible choking gasps of mirth that reduced me to gibbering terror. Any girlish heroine worth her salt would have swooned. I did almost as well; I tripped over the chenille and went down for the count, with the spectre’s hollow words ringing in my ears: “By God, it’s Aphrodite.”
I should, by rights, have wakened to the pungent scent of smelling salts. Such was not my good fortune. Someone had me under the armpits and I was being dragged across the rutted floor, grazing my bottom and scaring me out of what little wits I had left.
“Lord save me, I’d rather drag an ox.” Ben! How did he come into this? He certainly was not the pantry ghost. “This will have to do.” He was stacking me up
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