I could belong to that network . . . but even if I never did, quite, I was glad it existed. Maybe there was nothing momentous about being told what a beautiful day it was or asked how one was feeling, but small courtesies grease the machinery of life. In their own way, they’re important.
Deep in thought, I rounded a corner and ran full tilt into a fellow pedestrian.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, it was my fault—oh, it’s you, George. Dear me, did I do any damage?”
“No, no. Actually, I’m glad I—er—ran into you, Dorothy. I wanted to ask—” he looked around and lowered his voice “—how you’re getting on. Unpleasant experience, discovering a body.”
So George knew all about my involvement. So had Dr. Temple. I suppose by now everyone in town knew. No space-age communications network can compete with the one English cathedral towns have relied on from time immemorial.
Was there an answer to George’s remarkable understatement? It didn’t matter; he wasn’t listening anyway.
“We thought—Alice and I—you might like to come to tea. If you’ve nothing planned, that is. Get away from it all for a bit, don’t you know. Alice makes jolly good Christmas cake,” he added enticingly.
I had to swallow a grin. Tea! The panacea for everything from weariness to a cold to murder. Some things about England never change, which is why I love it so much.
I considered. Poor old George
was
a bit of a bore, but he and his wife were kind to us in the old days. George, even though he was history and Frank was biology, had made a point of welcoming Frank at the university. And it was true that Alice made the best Christmas cake I’d ever tasted. Besides, if they were beginning to recognize my continued existence, for the first time, really, since Frank—well, I’d be stupid and ungrateful to turn down the invitation.
“Thank you, George, that’s very kind of you. I’d love to come to tea. Five o’clock or so? I’ll see you then.”
I WAS GETTING fairly good at reading English weather. By the time I was ready to set out for tea the softness had turned, not yet to rain, but to an insidious fog that wrapped its clammy fingers around the town. Emmy had come in with several remarks about the damp and plumped herself down where she could dry her fur in front of the “electric fire,” as the ugly little heater is euphemistically called. As I wrapped myself in various layers against the elements she looked up and uttered a brief but pungent comment.
“You’re quite right. I’m an idiot, but I’ve said I’ll go, so I have to. I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can decently get away. You leave the tree alone, now.” I gave one last longing look at the heater and let myself out into the raw dampness.
Familiar streets had turned strangely forbidding as the fog closed in, and I stumbled, trying to hurry, on obstacles that seemed to pop out of the pavement as I approached. It was a fair piece of a walk. George and Alice lived on the edge of town, close to the university, which is really outside Sherebury proper. Their house, a new one built at the end of an old street, is in the style that used to be called “stockbroker Tudor.” To me it has always looked as out of place in its setting as a chorus girl among duchesses. It is undoubtedly bigger, more convenient, and easier to maintain than my own, which makes it even more unforgivable.
And you should be ashamed, Dorothy, I scolded myself. Here are nice people who’ve invited you over for the proverbial tea and sympathy, and you’re criticizing their taste. All the same, as I knocked at their door I couldn’t help smiling. The large, well-polished brass knocker in the shape of a lion with a ring in its mouth was so deliciously inappropriate for George’s house.
Alice greeted me with such resolute charm and grace that I instantly wondered if the invitation had been her idea. Surely it would never have occurred to George that I might need some
Deep in thought, I rounded a corner and ran full tilt into a fellow pedestrian.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, it was my fault—oh, it’s you, George. Dear me, did I do any damage?”
“No, no. Actually, I’m glad I—er—ran into you, Dorothy. I wanted to ask—” he looked around and lowered his voice “—how you’re getting on. Unpleasant experience, discovering a body.”
So George knew all about my involvement. So had Dr. Temple. I suppose by now everyone in town knew. No space-age communications network can compete with the one English cathedral towns have relied on from time immemorial.
Was there an answer to George’s remarkable understatement? It didn’t matter; he wasn’t listening anyway.
“We thought—Alice and I—you might like to come to tea. If you’ve nothing planned, that is. Get away from it all for a bit, don’t you know. Alice makes jolly good Christmas cake,” he added enticingly.
I had to swallow a grin. Tea! The panacea for everything from weariness to a cold to murder. Some things about England never change, which is why I love it so much.
I considered. Poor old George
was
a bit of a bore, but he and his wife were kind to us in the old days. George, even though he was history and Frank was biology, had made a point of welcoming Frank at the university. And it was true that Alice made the best Christmas cake I’d ever tasted. Besides, if they were beginning to recognize my continued existence, for the first time, really, since Frank—well, I’d be stupid and ungrateful to turn down the invitation.
“Thank you, George, that’s very kind of you. I’d love to come to tea. Five o’clock or so? I’ll see you then.”
I WAS GETTING fairly good at reading English weather. By the time I was ready to set out for tea the softness had turned, not yet to rain, but to an insidious fog that wrapped its clammy fingers around the town. Emmy had come in with several remarks about the damp and plumped herself down where she could dry her fur in front of the “electric fire,” as the ugly little heater is euphemistically called. As I wrapped myself in various layers against the elements she looked up and uttered a brief but pungent comment.
“You’re quite right. I’m an idiot, but I’ve said I’ll go, so I have to. I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can decently get away. You leave the tree alone, now.” I gave one last longing look at the heater and let myself out into the raw dampness.
Familiar streets had turned strangely forbidding as the fog closed in, and I stumbled, trying to hurry, on obstacles that seemed to pop out of the pavement as I approached. It was a fair piece of a walk. George and Alice lived on the edge of town, close to the university, which is really outside Sherebury proper. Their house, a new one built at the end of an old street, is in the style that used to be called “stockbroker Tudor.” To me it has always looked as out of place in its setting as a chorus girl among duchesses. It is undoubtedly bigger, more convenient, and easier to maintain than my own, which makes it even more unforgivable.
And you should be ashamed, Dorothy, I scolded myself. Here are nice people who’ve invited you over for the proverbial tea and sympathy, and you’re criticizing their taste. All the same, as I knocked at their door I couldn’t help smiling. The large, well-polished brass knocker in the shape of a lion with a ring in its mouth was so deliciously inappropriate for George’s house.
Alice greeted me with such resolute charm and grace that I instantly wondered if the invitation had been her idea. Surely it would never have occurred to George that I might need some
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