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Authors: Joan Aiken
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Dido’s hand, weeping and sobbing, “Dinna leave me, lassie, dinna leave me wi’ that auld harridan!”
With a heavy heart Dido returned to room number twenty-one.
Here she found a very different scene. The room was much bigger and was furnished with armchairs and a dressing table. It looked onto the waterfront and was illuminated by several candles. Surprisingly, half a dozen portraits of King Richard hung on the walls. How queer,thought Dido. Why should they want all those pictures of King Dick?
An indignant figure was bouncing about on the bed.
“Where the
deuce
have you been all this while? And who the purple blazes are
you
?”
“I’m the new cook. Are you Desmond?”
“Of course I am, thick-head! Where’s my dinner? Where’s Ma?”
“Gone to see the Reverend. Do you want some inky-pinky?”
“No I certainly don’t! I don’t eat the hogwash that Ma deals out to the old death’s-heads. Ye can bring me some smoked salmon, three slices of haggis, a piece of Edinburgh bun—a big piece—a bunch of grapes, and a noggin of Highland Malt.”
Dido found it difficult to understand what he was saying, not because he lacked teeth, like the old man in number seven, but because, mysteriously, his face was covered by a plaster mask, with holes for nose, mouth, and eyes.
“Your mother said you had tonsillitis,” she said. “Is that how they treat it?”
“None of your business!” he snapped. “You bring me up my dinner and look sharp about it!”
“Yes, yes. Shan’t be long.”
“Send that useless little Fred up.”
“Can’t, he’s got a bad foot.”
“Bad foot my——! I’ll bad-foot him.… And send up Ma, as soon as she gets back.”
Dido looked into one more room before going downstairs, and was rather startled to find a dead man lyingthere with one candle burning at his feet; his face was strangely calm and waxen; it seemed as much a mask as the one on his son’s face next door.
On the wall, half a dozen more portraits of the King.
This is a right spooky place, Dido decided; most of the folk here seem more dead than alive—let alone the feller that really
is
dead; and if little Fred is who I think he is, the sooner we get him out of here the better, before they starve or mistreat him to death; he must be real stouthearted to have lasted so long. The time he’s spent in this dismal ken, it’d be enough to finish most folk.
While Dido was assembling the salmon and haggis (which she found in the pantry) and the grapes and Highland Malt (which she took to be whisky), Mrs. McClan returned.
“Ah, that’s for my son—verra guid. But ye have omitted the Edinburgh bun—ye’ll find it in the crock yonder. Ach, let him have three slices, the poor lad is weak from his ailment.”
Dido did not think that Desmond McClan looked at all weak, and he was plainly prepared to ignore the vegetarian strictures of St. Vinnipag, but she cut off another piece of bun, which was a loaf of solid raisins wrapped in dough.
When she came back from delivering Desmond’s dinner, she said,
“Shall I take up trays to the Residents now?”
“Save us, no!”
To Dido’s amazement, Mrs. McClan was assembling on one large tray twenty very small plates. On each was a quarter potato, a small dribble of gravy, a piece of carrotabout the size of a threepenny piece, and a quarter of a cold hard-boiled egg.
“Is that all they get?”
“That is all they need!” snarled Mrs. McClan. “Auld folks’ digestive systems are gey delicate! They do not need heavy meals. Now, while I’m up admeenistering their deener, ye can be pitting twenty prunes on those—” She pointed to a pile of tiny dishes.
“Some of them seem too weak to eat,” said Dido doubtfully.
“Mind yer own business, hinny! I have been running this boardinghouse for the last twenty years!”
And I wonder how many of the poor old Residents you have polished off in that time, Dido said, but not aloud, as Mrs. McClan picked up the massive
With a heavy heart Dido returned to room number twenty-one.
Here she found a very different scene. The room was much bigger and was furnished with armchairs and a dressing table. It looked onto the waterfront and was illuminated by several candles. Surprisingly, half a dozen portraits of King Richard hung on the walls. How queer,thought Dido. Why should they want all those pictures of King Dick?
An indignant figure was bouncing about on the bed.
“Where the
deuce
have you been all this while? And who the purple blazes are
you
?”
“I’m the new cook. Are you Desmond?”
“Of course I am, thick-head! Where’s my dinner? Where’s Ma?”
“Gone to see the Reverend. Do you want some inky-pinky?”
“No I certainly don’t! I don’t eat the hogwash that Ma deals out to the old death’s-heads. Ye can bring me some smoked salmon, three slices of haggis, a piece of Edinburgh bun—a big piece—a bunch of grapes, and a noggin of Highland Malt.”
Dido found it difficult to understand what he was saying, not because he lacked teeth, like the old man in number seven, but because, mysteriously, his face was covered by a plaster mask, with holes for nose, mouth, and eyes.
“Your mother said you had tonsillitis,” she said. “Is that how they treat it?”
“None of your business!” he snapped. “You bring me up my dinner and look sharp about it!”
“Yes, yes. Shan’t be long.”
“Send that useless little Fred up.”
“Can’t, he’s got a bad foot.”
“Bad foot my——! I’ll bad-foot him.… And send up Ma, as soon as she gets back.”
Dido looked into one more room before going downstairs, and was rather startled to find a dead man lyingthere with one candle burning at his feet; his face was strangely calm and waxen; it seemed as much a mask as the one on his son’s face next door.
On the wall, half a dozen more portraits of the King.
This is a right spooky place, Dido decided; most of the folk here seem more dead than alive—let alone the feller that really
is
dead; and if little Fred is who I think he is, the sooner we get him out of here the better, before they starve or mistreat him to death; he must be real stouthearted to have lasted so long. The time he’s spent in this dismal ken, it’d be enough to finish most folk.
While Dido was assembling the salmon and haggis (which she found in the pantry) and the grapes and Highland Malt (which she took to be whisky), Mrs. McClan returned.
“Ah, that’s for my son—verra guid. But ye have omitted the Edinburgh bun—ye’ll find it in the crock yonder. Ach, let him have three slices, the poor lad is weak from his ailment.”
Dido did not think that Desmond McClan looked at all weak, and he was plainly prepared to ignore the vegetarian strictures of St. Vinnipag, but she cut off another piece of bun, which was a loaf of solid raisins wrapped in dough.
When she came back from delivering Desmond’s dinner, she said,
“Shall I take up trays to the Residents now?”
“Save us, no!”
To Dido’s amazement, Mrs. McClan was assembling on one large tray twenty very small plates. On each was a quarter potato, a small dribble of gravy, a piece of carrotabout the size of a threepenny piece, and a quarter of a cold hard-boiled egg.
“Is that all they get?”
“That is all they need!” snarled Mrs. McClan. “Auld folks’ digestive systems are gey delicate! They do not need heavy meals. Now, while I’m up admeenistering their deener, ye can be pitting twenty prunes on those—” She pointed to a pile of tiny dishes.
“Some of them seem too weak to eat,” said Dido doubtfully.
“Mind yer own business, hinny! I have been running this boardinghouse for the last twenty years!”
And I wonder how many of the poor old Residents you have polished off in that time, Dido said, but not aloud, as Mrs. McClan picked up the massive
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