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Authors: Dorothy Cannell
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then I saw a flicker of icy amusement burning behind his hooded eyes.
“If you aren’t divinely enthusiastic about eggs”—Ben outrageously fluttered his eyelashes at Uncle Merlin—“perhaps something a little more titillating, shall we say a nice little dish of curds and whey?” He added in his normal voice, “One way to get rid of all your damn spiders.”
“Real men,” barked Uncle Merlin, “don’t eat gussied-up eggs and such for breakfast. We like our kippers. Follow your nose and you’ll find a newspaper package in the drawer to the right of the sink. That’s right, under the tea cloths. Hid it from Sybil. Those kippers were for Jonas and me. Friday nights we always play cards when she’s safely in bed and can’t look down her disapproving nose at us. Sybil doesn’t mind gambling—gentlemen’s activity—but she doesn’t approve of my consorting with servants. Huh! If I thought of Jonas that way I would have pensioned him off donkey’s years ago. I like the way he cheats at cards. Drat the old fool for getting himself laid up. Who wants his fish? Mine’s the big one,”
“As you have decreed kippers as men’s food, Uncle, I think I will pop two slices of bread into this toaster that looks like a rat trap, in they go, take a cup of that tea Ben is brewing, and retire upstairs with a tray.”
“What, and leave me at the mercy of this young thug? Upon your conscience, if you come down in the morning and find me with a meat skewer plunged through my heart!Where did she pick you up anyway, young feller? One of those desperate heart places. And what do you do, besides dangle a frying pan from your pretty little wrist?”
“He writes books.” Furiously I scraped butter off a chipped saucer and smeared it over my toast. “Deliciously dirty ones, filthy actually, but not as filthy as this kitchen before I cleaned it up. Goodnight, Uncle dear, and don’t choke on a bone just to please me.”
Breakfast the following morning was atrocious. Thankfully Aunt Sybil was not present to hear the comments the meal aroused. She had brought in the food and was now taking a tray up to Uncle Merlin. Freddy sat stirring his porridge in circles like a child waiting for Mummy to say “one two three, all gone.” Dropping his spoon, he muttered, “Either someone has already been very ill in my bowl or I am about to be.”
My sentiments exactly. This was one meal I could forego, particularly as Aunt Lulu, her head a foam of soapy-looking curls, having just heard about The Engagement, was prodding a sullen-looking Ben for details. Lack of sleep had not improved his disposition. Excusing myself, I returned to my room where I found my suitcase sitting on a chest under the window. Ben had told me that he and Freddy had been out early and resuscitated the car, which was now drawn up against the wall of the old stable.
A diet even when unintentional should be accompanied by exercise. I would go for a walk in the snow. Off came the purple horror and I was happily reunited with my camel skirt, grey jersey, and serviceable brogues, woolly coat, and head-scarf. The mirror informed me I looked like someone’s faithful old daily. Better that than a carnival bouncer. I consigned purple to the litter bin.
I had forgotten how close Merlin’s Court was to the sea. The slapping surging rhythm of waves blended with the wind which bullied me along, wrapping my coat around my legs so tightly that walking became difficult. Certainly I had made amess of my life, but I had no burning desire to end it by being blown off the cliff and dashed to powder on the jagged rocks below. I was turning to retrace my steps when I saw through the snow blowing off the trees, the bent figure of a man stumbling towards me, a dark scarf muffling his nose and mouth and a hat pulled down over his ears. This had to be the gardener—Jonas. Wasn’t that his name? My efforts at walking were reduced to an exaggerated swagger, but I covered the ground as
“If you aren’t divinely enthusiastic about eggs”—Ben outrageously fluttered his eyelashes at Uncle Merlin—“perhaps something a little more titillating, shall we say a nice little dish of curds and whey?” He added in his normal voice, “One way to get rid of all your damn spiders.”
“Real men,” barked Uncle Merlin, “don’t eat gussied-up eggs and such for breakfast. We like our kippers. Follow your nose and you’ll find a newspaper package in the drawer to the right of the sink. That’s right, under the tea cloths. Hid it from Sybil. Those kippers were for Jonas and me. Friday nights we always play cards when she’s safely in bed and can’t look down her disapproving nose at us. Sybil doesn’t mind gambling—gentlemen’s activity—but she doesn’t approve of my consorting with servants. Huh! If I thought of Jonas that way I would have pensioned him off donkey’s years ago. I like the way he cheats at cards. Drat the old fool for getting himself laid up. Who wants his fish? Mine’s the big one,”
“As you have decreed kippers as men’s food, Uncle, I think I will pop two slices of bread into this toaster that looks like a rat trap, in they go, take a cup of that tea Ben is brewing, and retire upstairs with a tray.”
“What, and leave me at the mercy of this young thug? Upon your conscience, if you come down in the morning and find me with a meat skewer plunged through my heart!Where did she pick you up anyway, young feller? One of those desperate heart places. And what do you do, besides dangle a frying pan from your pretty little wrist?”
“He writes books.” Furiously I scraped butter off a chipped saucer and smeared it over my toast. “Deliciously dirty ones, filthy actually, but not as filthy as this kitchen before I cleaned it up. Goodnight, Uncle dear, and don’t choke on a bone just to please me.”
Breakfast the following morning was atrocious. Thankfully Aunt Sybil was not present to hear the comments the meal aroused. She had brought in the food and was now taking a tray up to Uncle Merlin. Freddy sat stirring his porridge in circles like a child waiting for Mummy to say “one two three, all gone.” Dropping his spoon, he muttered, “Either someone has already been very ill in my bowl or I am about to be.”
My sentiments exactly. This was one meal I could forego, particularly as Aunt Lulu, her head a foam of soapy-looking curls, having just heard about The Engagement, was prodding a sullen-looking Ben for details. Lack of sleep had not improved his disposition. Excusing myself, I returned to my room where I found my suitcase sitting on a chest under the window. Ben had told me that he and Freddy had been out early and resuscitated the car, which was now drawn up against the wall of the old stable.
A diet even when unintentional should be accompanied by exercise. I would go for a walk in the snow. Off came the purple horror and I was happily reunited with my camel skirt, grey jersey, and serviceable brogues, woolly coat, and head-scarf. The mirror informed me I looked like someone’s faithful old daily. Better that than a carnival bouncer. I consigned purple to the litter bin.
I had forgotten how close Merlin’s Court was to the sea. The slapping surging rhythm of waves blended with the wind which bullied me along, wrapping my coat around my legs so tightly that walking became difficult. Certainly I had made amess of my life, but I had no burning desire to end it by being blown off the cliff and dashed to powder on the jagged rocks below. I was turning to retrace my steps when I saw through the snow blowing off the trees, the bent figure of a man stumbling towards me, a dark scarf muffling his nose and mouth and a hat pulled down over his ears. This had to be the gardener—Jonas. Wasn’t that his name? My efforts at walking were reduced to an exaggerated swagger, but I covered the ground as
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