awoke me, a threatening growling that jerked me upright, bleary-eyed and not at all in the mood for receiving midnight marauders. Another false alarm: The racket was only my growling stomach reminding me it was time for my favourite date—the two of us alone together—me and food. I tried to be strong. I reminded myself it would be more than greedy, it would be sneaky, to trek downstairs at two o’clock in the morning and invade Aunt Sybil’s kitchen. My nose began to itch. Dust! Did Aunt Sybil never flick a duster, air a blanket, cook a decent meal? Resentment built. Those measly sandwiches! And stale, too! What a meal to serve people staggering in from the clutches ofa raging blizzard! Besides, Freddy and Ben had scoffed most of them! Thumping my pillow with a fierce hand, I savoured my wrath. If Auntie couldn’t cook, what was wrong with her buying a few sausage rolls from the baker’s, and perhaps some Cornish pasties? My stomach was either applauding or cursing. Obviously it had decided to keep me up all night.
Moonlight reflecting off the snow cast a spiral of light into the otherwise darkened room. The illumination was sufficient for me to be able to read the face of my watch. Two-thirty. Hours before breakfast, and I did not have high hopes for that meal. Lumpy porridge and cold tea were not adequate sustenance for a growing girl. Climbing out of bed, I stood shivering as the chill air hit me. The fire had petered out and I was not surprised to discover that the purple horror was still more wet than damp. What was I to wear? Descending the hall stairs in my undies was out. There could be no greater anguish than being caught by Ben in my midriff bra and lace-up corset. Bumbling around in the moonlight, I managed to find the wardrobe. The inside stank of mothballs and old newspapers, but it contained no cast-off clothing other than a pair of button-shoes and a feather hat, which I mistook for a dead bird. Not much cover-up there. My hand found a shelf to one side and its search was rewarded. Under a furring of dust lay what proved to be a bedspread. It felt like chenille and, luckily, it seemed to be a double size.
Inching my door open, I peered out onto the landing. Several windows, particularly a huge stained-glass one at the top of the stairs, provided ominous shadows that crept along the walls. Only the promise of hot buttered toast and a decent cup of tea prodded me forward. One of those heartening theories about heavy people is that they are light on their feet, and I sincerely hoped it was true. I had crossed the narrow strip of carpeting and now had to deal with the stairs. My toga slipped and I tucked it back together. I felt like a liner being launched into shallow water. Steady as she goes!
The kitchen door swung inward with a slight shudder and I found the light switch at the first reach. The bulb was weak and the illumination it threw poor. Depressing as was the rest of the house, the kitchen was worse. Dingy grey linoleum and salmon-pink walls. They were not helped by the hunched assortment of cupboards, from which most of the paint and several of the doors were missing. The maze of tarnished copper piping extending up the walls from the rusty old-fashioned boiler was strung with greasy floor-cloths and stained dish-towels. Did Aunt Sybil sometimes confuse the two? Anyone with minimal housewifely instincts would have been revolted. I also looked at the room with a professional eye. Size and shape of the kitchen were both good, the windows large and facing south. Under that disgusting lino was probably a stone or brick floor. Already I was picturing it as it might be, with a navy blue Aga cooker, copper pans burnished to a warm glow, lots of greenery replacing the curtains, and a creamy wallpaper accented with navy and coral.
The vision faded and I was left staring at dirty crockery stacked precariously on the table, draining board, and other available surfaces. No wonder Uncle Merlin wanted the
Moonlight reflecting off the snow cast a spiral of light into the otherwise darkened room. The illumination was sufficient for me to be able to read the face of my watch. Two-thirty. Hours before breakfast, and I did not have high hopes for that meal. Lumpy porridge and cold tea were not adequate sustenance for a growing girl. Climbing out of bed, I stood shivering as the chill air hit me. The fire had petered out and I was not surprised to discover that the purple horror was still more wet than damp. What was I to wear? Descending the hall stairs in my undies was out. There could be no greater anguish than being caught by Ben in my midriff bra and lace-up corset. Bumbling around in the moonlight, I managed to find the wardrobe. The inside stank of mothballs and old newspapers, but it contained no cast-off clothing other than a pair of button-shoes and a feather hat, which I mistook for a dead bird. Not much cover-up there. My hand found a shelf to one side and its search was rewarded. Under a furring of dust lay what proved to be a bedspread. It felt like chenille and, luckily, it seemed to be a double size.
Inching my door open, I peered out onto the landing. Several windows, particularly a huge stained-glass one at the top of the stairs, provided ominous shadows that crept along the walls. Only the promise of hot buttered toast and a decent cup of tea prodded me forward. One of those heartening theories about heavy people is that they are light on their feet, and I sincerely hoped it was true. I had crossed the narrow strip of carpeting and now had to deal with the stairs. My toga slipped and I tucked it back together. I felt like a liner being launched into shallow water. Steady as she goes!
The kitchen door swung inward with a slight shudder and I found the light switch at the first reach. The bulb was weak and the illumination it threw poor. Depressing as was the rest of the house, the kitchen was worse. Dingy grey linoleum and salmon-pink walls. They were not helped by the hunched assortment of cupboards, from which most of the paint and several of the doors were missing. The maze of tarnished copper piping extending up the walls from the rusty old-fashioned boiler was strung with greasy floor-cloths and stained dish-towels. Did Aunt Sybil sometimes confuse the two? Anyone with minimal housewifely instincts would have been revolted. I also looked at the room with a professional eye. Size and shape of the kitchen were both good, the windows large and facing south. Under that disgusting lino was probably a stone or brick floor. Already I was picturing it as it might be, with a navy blue Aga cooker, copper pans burnished to a warm glow, lots of greenery replacing the curtains, and a creamy wallpaper accented with navy and coral.
The vision faded and I was left staring at dirty crockery stacked precariously on the table, draining board, and other available surfaces. No wonder Uncle Merlin wanted the
Similar Books
