missing fingers where he had been injured in the war, just an ordinary war wound, nothing heroic.
Isis could hear the rise and fall of Mary’s voice, though not the words. Mr Burgess listened expressionlessly before he shook his head. He began to speak and she could nearly hear him, she tried to get her ear against the glass . . . but she toppled and slipped off the wobbly bricks, grazing her knee. It didn’t really hurt too much, only a little scrape, but she limped back into the kitchen as Mr Burgess was saying: ‘If you knew what I know.’
‘I told you. I’m not interested in your blasted gossip,’ Mary snapped, and then turned to Isis. ‘What have you done to yourself?’ She sat her down and went at her knee with a cloth and stinging iodine. There was an awkward silence in the kitchen, till : ‘Why don’t you feed the budgies?’ Mary suggested.
Isis took some crusts and stomped her way to the ballroom. While she was there she ran her forefinger up and down the piano in great crescendos high to low and low to high until it hurt and then she pounded and pounded with her fists, foot on the loud pedal till the birds screeched and flew about in a panic and the chandelier was ringing.
Mary came raging in. ‘What is the matter with you today?’ she said. ‘You might have a bit of consideration for my head.’
Even after Isis stopped, the noise stayed in the room , bouncing between the mirrors where Mary was reflected with her hair all wildly standing out, and the dark, wounded look of a migraine in her eyes.
‘Sorry,’ Isis said. ‘But I don’t know what to do with myself.’
‘Oh Lord,’ Mary muttered weakly.
‘I love you,’ Isis said, the phrase jumping from her mouth and opening Mary’s in surprise. They stood looking at each other reflected over and over back into the hungry mirrors and the birds settled back amongst their crystals, tiny pastel feathers fluttering down.
Mr Burgess came blundering in. ‘My goodness , this wants sweeping,’ he remarked. He went to the window and peered out at the wreck of the orangery. ‘And this wants bringing down.’
Mary turned from Isis. ‘I never stop,’ she said.
‘I didn’t mean . . .’
‘I’ve had enough. Isis would you show Mr Burgess out?’
‘No , Mary . . .’ he said. ‘Don’t go getting all het up. Let’s have another cup of tea.’
‘You should be getting back to Mrs Burgess,’ Mary said wearily. ‘Oh, and by the way , I hear tell you’re expecting a happy event?’
‘A baby ?’ Isis was incredulous. He was so old.
‘Patey,’ he said. You could hardly see his mouth move under the droop of damp moustache.
‘I would of heard anyrate,’ said Mary.
‘I was meaning to say,’ Mr Burgess bluffed. ‘I would of said.’
‘I should congratulate you and Mrs Burgess,’ said Mary. ‘Now I need to lie down.’ You could tell from the sogginess in her voice that she really was at the end of her tether. ‘Show Mr Burgess out, please. The list’s on the table as per usual.’
Mary went out, hand groping along the wall as if she’d gone blind, which was part of the migraine, and Mr Burgess and Isis returned to the kitchen. ‘She does gets real humdingers,’ she explained. She stared at his face. Above the beige moustache his cheeks were scrawled with red and blue, tiny veins that looked like scribble.
‘Are you really having a baby?’
He gave an irritated puff. ‘Patey been round and about much?’ he asked.
‘Now and then.’ Isis was cautious. Mary hadn’t said another word about the coalman, but after he’d visited she would be especially bright and cheerful, almost glittery, making jam tarts, and even finding time for a game of gin rummy at the kitchen table.
‘There’s things she should know about her precious Patey,’ Mr Burgess said. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ He looked towards the kettle.
‘You can have water,’ Isis said. ‘And I dare say I could stretch to a biscuit.’ She took
Isis could hear the rise and fall of Mary’s voice, though not the words. Mr Burgess listened expressionlessly before he shook his head. He began to speak and she could nearly hear him, she tried to get her ear against the glass . . . but she toppled and slipped off the wobbly bricks, grazing her knee. It didn’t really hurt too much, only a little scrape, but she limped back into the kitchen as Mr Burgess was saying: ‘If you knew what I know.’
‘I told you. I’m not interested in your blasted gossip,’ Mary snapped, and then turned to Isis. ‘What have you done to yourself?’ She sat her down and went at her knee with a cloth and stinging iodine. There was an awkward silence in the kitchen, till : ‘Why don’t you feed the budgies?’ Mary suggested.
Isis took some crusts and stomped her way to the ballroom. While she was there she ran her forefinger up and down the piano in great crescendos high to low and low to high until it hurt and then she pounded and pounded with her fists, foot on the loud pedal till the birds screeched and flew about in a panic and the chandelier was ringing.
Mary came raging in. ‘What is the matter with you today?’ she said. ‘You might have a bit of consideration for my head.’
Even after Isis stopped, the noise stayed in the room , bouncing between the mirrors where Mary was reflected with her hair all wildly standing out, and the dark, wounded look of a migraine in her eyes.
‘Sorry,’ Isis said. ‘But I don’t know what to do with myself.’
‘Oh Lord,’ Mary muttered weakly.
‘I love you,’ Isis said, the phrase jumping from her mouth and opening Mary’s in surprise. They stood looking at each other reflected over and over back into the hungry mirrors and the birds settled back amongst their crystals, tiny pastel feathers fluttering down.
Mr Burgess came blundering in. ‘My goodness , this wants sweeping,’ he remarked. He went to the window and peered out at the wreck of the orangery. ‘And this wants bringing down.’
Mary turned from Isis. ‘I never stop,’ she said.
‘I didn’t mean . . .’
‘I’ve had enough. Isis would you show Mr Burgess out?’
‘No , Mary . . .’ he said. ‘Don’t go getting all het up. Let’s have another cup of tea.’
‘You should be getting back to Mrs Burgess,’ Mary said wearily. ‘Oh, and by the way , I hear tell you’re expecting a happy event?’
‘A baby ?’ Isis was incredulous. He was so old.
‘Patey,’ he said. You could hardly see his mouth move under the droop of damp moustache.
‘I would of heard anyrate,’ said Mary.
‘I was meaning to say,’ Mr Burgess bluffed. ‘I would of said.’
‘I should congratulate you and Mrs Burgess,’ said Mary. ‘Now I need to lie down.’ You could tell from the sogginess in her voice that she really was at the end of her tether. ‘Show Mr Burgess out, please. The list’s on the table as per usual.’
Mary went out, hand groping along the wall as if she’d gone blind, which was part of the migraine, and Mr Burgess and Isis returned to the kitchen. ‘She does gets real humdingers,’ she explained. She stared at his face. Above the beige moustache his cheeks were scrawled with red and blue, tiny veins that looked like scribble.
‘Are you really having a baby?’
He gave an irritated puff. ‘Patey been round and about much?’ he asked.
‘Now and then.’ Isis was cautious. Mary hadn’t said another word about the coalman, but after he’d visited she would be especially bright and cheerful, almost glittery, making jam tarts, and even finding time for a game of gin rummy at the kitchen table.
‘There’s things she should know about her precious Patey,’ Mr Burgess said. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ He looked towards the kettle.
‘You can have water,’ Isis said. ‘And I dare say I could stretch to a biscuit.’ She took
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