A Judgement in Stone by Ruth Rendell Page B

were somewhere up at the top of the house. But the excuse was too feeble as she had an hour in which to fetch those glasses herself, and now, anyway, Giles was crossing the hall in his vague sleepwalking way, leaving the house, slamming the front door behind him. In despair, she sat down in the kitchen among the dirty dishes.
    All her efforts went into rousing some spark out of that atrophied organ, her imagination. By now an inventive woman would have found ways of combating the problem. She would have said she had broken her reading glasses (and trodden on them to prove it) or feigned illness or fabricated a summons to London to the bedside of a sick relative. Eunice could only think of actually taking the list to the Stantwich store and handing the list to the manager. But how to get there? She knew there was a bus, but not where it stopped, only that the stop was two miles distant; not when it ran or where precisely it went or even where the shop was. Presently habit compelled her to stack the dishes in the washer, wipe clean the surfaces, go upstairs to make the beds and gaze sullenly at Giles’s Quote of the Month, which would have had a peculiarly ironical application to herself had she been able to understand it. Nine-fifteen. Eva Baalham didn’t come on Tuesdays, the milkman had already been. Not that Eunice would have dared expose herself by asking for enlightenment from these people. She would have to tell Jacqueline that she had forgotten to phone, and if Jacqueline came back in time to do it herself … She glanced up again at the cork wall, and then into her mind came a clear picture of having stood just here with Joan Smith.
    Joan Smith.
    No very lucid plan had formed. Eunice was just as anxious for Joan Smith not to know her secret as for Eva or the milkman orJacqueline not to know it. But Joan too had a grocer’s shop, and once the list was in her hands, there might be a way. She put her best hand-knitted cardigan on over her pink cotton frock and set off for Greeving.
    “Long time no see,” said Joan, sparkling. “You are a stranger! This is Norman, my better half. Norm, this is Miss Parchman from the Hall I was telling you about.”
    “Pleased to meet you,” said Norman Smith from behind his grille. Enclosed by bars, he had the look of some gloomy ruminant animal, a goat or llama perhaps, which has too long been in captivity to recall its freedom but still frets dully within its cage. His face was wedge-shaped, white and bony, his hair sandy grey. As if he were sustaining the cud-chewing image, he munched spearmint all day long. This was because Joan said he had bad breath.
    “Now to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” said Joan. “Don’t tell me Mrs. Coverdale’s going to patronise our humble abode at last. That
would
be a red-letter day.”
    “I’ve got this list.” Looking vaguely about her at the shelves, Eunice thrust the list at Joan.
    “Let me see. We
have
got the plain flour and the oats, that I do know. But, my goodness, kidney beans and basil leaves and garlic!” The bad shopkeeper’s excuse came to Joan’s aid. “We’re waiting for them to come in,” she said. “But, I tell you what, you read it out and I’ll check what we do have.”
    “No, you read it. I’ll check.”
    “There’s me being tactless again! Ought to remember your eye trouble, didn’t I? Here goes, then.”
    Eunice, checking and finding only two items available, knew that she was saved, for Joan read the list out in a clear slow voice. It was enough. She bought the flour and the oats, which would have to be hidden, would have to be paid for out of her own money, but what did that matter? A warm feeling for Joan, who had saved her again, welled in Eunice. Dimly she remembered feeling something like this long ago, ages ago, for her mother before Mrs. Parchman became ill and dependent. Yes,she would have the cup of tea Joan was offering, and take the weight off her feet for ten