manna from heaven, at least it was only available in jars from a shop. Giles picked no blackberries, nor did he attend the Harvest Festival at St. Mary’s. On the cork wall he pinned a text of his own, a line that might have been written for him:
Some say life is the thing, but I prefer reading
, and he went on struggling through the Upanishads.
Pheasant shooting began. Eunice saw George go into the gun room, take the shotguns down from the wall and, leaving the door to the kitchen open, clean and load them. She watched with interest but in innocence, having no idea of their being of future use to her.
George cleaned and loaded both guns, but not because he had any hope of Giles accompanying him on the shoot. He had bought the second gun for his stepson, just as he had bought the fishing tackle and the fat white horse, now eating its head off down in the meadow. Three autumns of apathy and then downright opposition on Giles’s part had taught George to abandon hope of making him a sportsman. So the second gun was lent to Francis Jameson-Kerr, stockbroker son of the brigadier.
Pheasants were plentiful, and from the kitchen window, then from the kitchen garden where she went to cut a cabbage, Eunice watched the three of them bag four brace and a hen bird. A brace for the Jameson-Kerrs, a brace each for Peter and Paula, the remaining birds for Lowfield Hall. Eunice wondered how long the bloodied bundles of feathers were to be hung in the back kitchen before she had the pleasure of tasting this hithertounknown flesh. But she wasn’t going to ask, not she. A week later Jacqueline roasted them, and as Eunice tucked into the thick slice of breast on her plate, three little round pellets of shot rolled out into the gravy.
The shopping was always done by Jacqueline, or a list phoned by Jacqueline to a Stantwich store and the goods later collected by George. It was a chronic source of anxiety to Eunice that one day she might be called on to phone that list, and one Tuesday in late September this happened.
The phone rang at eight in the morning. It was Lady Royston to say that she had fallen, thought she had broken her arm, and could Jacqueline drive her to hospital in Colchester? Sir Robert had taken one car, her son the other, and then, having taken it into her head to begin picking the apple crop at the early hour of seven-thirty, she had climbed the ladder and slipped on a broken rung.
The Coverdales were still at breakfast. “Poor darling Jessica,” said Jacqueline, “she sounded in such pain. I’ll get over there straight away. The shopping list’s ready, George, so Miss Parchman can phone it through when the shop opens, and then perhaps you’ll be an angel and pick it up?”
George and Giles finished their breakfast in a silence broken only by George’s remarking, in the interest of being a good stepfather, that such a brilliant start to the day could only indicate rain later. Giles, who was thinking about an advertisement he had seen in
Time Out
asking for a tenth passenger in a mini-bus to Poona, said “Could it?” and he didn’t know anything about meteorology. Eunice came in to clear the table.
“My wife’s had to go out on an errand of mercy,” said George, made pompous by Eunice’s forbidding presence, “so perhaps you’ll be good enough to get on to this number and order what’s on the list.”
“Yes, sir,” said Eunice automatically.
“Ready in five minutes, Giles? Give it till after nine-thirty, will you, Miss Parchman? These shops don’t keep the early hours they did in our young days.”
Eunice stared at the list. She could read the phone number and that was about all. By now George had disappeared to get the Mercedes out. Giles was upstairs. Melinda was spending the last week of her holiday with a friend in Lowestoft. The beginning of a panic stirring, Eunice thought of asking Giles to read the list to her—one reading would be enough for her memory—on the grounds that her glasses
Some say life is the thing, but I prefer reading
, and he went on struggling through the Upanishads.
Pheasant shooting began. Eunice saw George go into the gun room, take the shotguns down from the wall and, leaving the door to the kitchen open, clean and load them. She watched with interest but in innocence, having no idea of their being of future use to her.
George cleaned and loaded both guns, but not because he had any hope of Giles accompanying him on the shoot. He had bought the second gun for his stepson, just as he had bought the fishing tackle and the fat white horse, now eating its head off down in the meadow. Three autumns of apathy and then downright opposition on Giles’s part had taught George to abandon hope of making him a sportsman. So the second gun was lent to Francis Jameson-Kerr, stockbroker son of the brigadier.
Pheasants were plentiful, and from the kitchen window, then from the kitchen garden where she went to cut a cabbage, Eunice watched the three of them bag four brace and a hen bird. A brace for the Jameson-Kerrs, a brace each for Peter and Paula, the remaining birds for Lowfield Hall. Eunice wondered how long the bloodied bundles of feathers were to be hung in the back kitchen before she had the pleasure of tasting this hithertounknown flesh. But she wasn’t going to ask, not she. A week later Jacqueline roasted them, and as Eunice tucked into the thick slice of breast on her plate, three little round pellets of shot rolled out into the gravy.
The shopping was always done by Jacqueline, or a list phoned by Jacqueline to a Stantwich store and the goods later collected by George. It was a chronic source of anxiety to Eunice that one day she might be called on to phone that list, and one Tuesday in late September this happened.
The phone rang at eight in the morning. It was Lady Royston to say that she had fallen, thought she had broken her arm, and could Jacqueline drive her to hospital in Colchester? Sir Robert had taken one car, her son the other, and then, having taken it into her head to begin picking the apple crop at the early hour of seven-thirty, she had climbed the ladder and slipped on a broken rung.
The Coverdales were still at breakfast. “Poor darling Jessica,” said Jacqueline, “she sounded in such pain. I’ll get over there straight away. The shopping list’s ready, George, so Miss Parchman can phone it through when the shop opens, and then perhaps you’ll be an angel and pick it up?”
George and Giles finished their breakfast in a silence broken only by George’s remarking, in the interest of being a good stepfather, that such a brilliant start to the day could only indicate rain later. Giles, who was thinking about an advertisement he had seen in
Time Out
asking for a tenth passenger in a mini-bus to Poona, said “Could it?” and he didn’t know anything about meteorology. Eunice came in to clear the table.
“My wife’s had to go out on an errand of mercy,” said George, made pompous by Eunice’s forbidding presence, “so perhaps you’ll be good enough to get on to this number and order what’s on the list.”
“Yes, sir,” said Eunice automatically.
“Ready in five minutes, Giles? Give it till after nine-thirty, will you, Miss Parchman? These shops don’t keep the early hours they did in our young days.”
Eunice stared at the list. She could read the phone number and that was about all. By now George had disappeared to get the Mercedes out. Giles was upstairs. Melinda was spending the last week of her holiday with a friend in Lowestoft. The beginning of a panic stirring, Eunice thought of asking Giles to read the list to her—one reading would be enough for her memory—on the grounds that her glasses
Similar Books
