two feet deep.
‘I’ll put a stone over it,’ Edith said, and went off to get a stone – she’d get several – from a border in the garden. She got the wheelbarrow so she could take the stones at the same time.
‘Funny Cliffie wouldn’t help us,’ Melanie said.
‘Oh, death frightens him, I think,’ Edith said. When she had placed the stones, she added, ‘Besides he’s always been jealous of Mildew – knew I loved the cat, you know.’
‘But still —’ Melanie was plainly surprised.
At lunch, Cliffie said rather boldly, ‘I don’t see why it should mean so much to me – that cat. I mean, once she’s dead anyway – once
anything’s dead
—’
Neither Edith nor Melanie replied to that. Edith had rung Brett up that morning to tell him, after debating whether to ring him or not. But she felt better having told him, rather than waiting until he got home that evening.
George was awake when Edith went up after lunch to get his tray. He again said how sorry he was to hear about Mildew. ‘I’m sure it was a shock, dear Edith,’ he said in a soft, husky voice, and his pink eyelids hung down, full of their usual water, not tears.
‘Well – that’s life,’ Edith said.
She knew George meant well, but she detested George at that moment, more than she had detested him on bringing the lunch tray, when she had told him about her cat, though George had been equally nice then. She detested the vaguely gray-looking sheets (though she changed them often enough), the inevitable sloppiness of the room, the fact that she and Brett were stuck with George, that this room would be occupied, apparently, forever – while nice things that she loved like Mildew would die, disappear, be taken from her.
Brett was a darling, put his arm around Edith and comforted her that evening, long after dinner when the others had gone to bed. They had a nightcap, sitting on the leather sofa.
‘Old Mildew did have a happy life – with her back garden,’ Brett said. ‘The thing to do is get another kitten, don’t you think?’
‘Of course. Of course.’
On the third day of Melanie’s stay, Cliffie invited her for a drive in the Fiat. Edith was a little surprised by his attention, or politeness, but, pleased also.
‘Take her toward Centerbridge – the waterfall’s so pretty,’ Edith whispered in the kitchen, as Cliffie fortified himself with a mid-morning beer. ‘And you might invite her for a Cinzano or something at Cross-Keys. Have you got some money?’
‘I could use a fiver. Might have to buy some gas.’
Edith gave it to him.
Around noon, Cliffie rang up and said Melanie had invited him for lunch.
It was a Friday. Edith relaxed, prepared lunch for George, made a sandwich for herself. She took a last glance at Sunday’s papers so they could be got out of the way, tidied a little in the living room, cut some fresh roses for Melanie’s room, and in her workroom made sure she could put her hands on two articles she wanted to show Melanie which she had written in the last weeks. One was on the need for socialized medicine and its eventual advantages to the public and the whole economy, which – if
Harper’s
declined – Edith was optimistic that she could sell somewhere.
In the silent house, George’s snores came with unusual clarity down the hall. Edith went and gently closed his door, getting a glimpse as she did so of the framed photograph of the young-looking dark-haired man called Paul, who was another nephew of George’s and who lived in San Francisco, an engineer of some kind, with wife and a couple of kids. Why didn’t that one take George on for a while, Edith thought to herself.
Edith also found a good color photograph of dear old Mildew, white-breasted, brindle-nosed, dozing with her feet tucked in on a pillow under a back garden apple tree. Mildew was in dappling sunlight, her eyes half-closed. Edith smiled, and felt better for smiling.
She was taking a swat at the garden when Cliffie and
‘I’ll put a stone over it,’ Edith said, and went off to get a stone – she’d get several – from a border in the garden. She got the wheelbarrow so she could take the stones at the same time.
‘Funny Cliffie wouldn’t help us,’ Melanie said.
‘Oh, death frightens him, I think,’ Edith said. When she had placed the stones, she added, ‘Besides he’s always been jealous of Mildew – knew I loved the cat, you know.’
‘But still —’ Melanie was plainly surprised.
At lunch, Cliffie said rather boldly, ‘I don’t see why it should mean so much to me – that cat. I mean, once she’s dead anyway – once
anything’s dead
—’
Neither Edith nor Melanie replied to that. Edith had rung Brett up that morning to tell him, after debating whether to ring him or not. But she felt better having told him, rather than waiting until he got home that evening.
George was awake when Edith went up after lunch to get his tray. He again said how sorry he was to hear about Mildew. ‘I’m sure it was a shock, dear Edith,’ he said in a soft, husky voice, and his pink eyelids hung down, full of their usual water, not tears.
‘Well – that’s life,’ Edith said.
She knew George meant well, but she detested George at that moment, more than she had detested him on bringing the lunch tray, when she had told him about her cat, though George had been equally nice then. She detested the vaguely gray-looking sheets (though she changed them often enough), the inevitable sloppiness of the room, the fact that she and Brett were stuck with George, that this room would be occupied, apparently, forever – while nice things that she loved like Mildew would die, disappear, be taken from her.
Brett was a darling, put his arm around Edith and comforted her that evening, long after dinner when the others had gone to bed. They had a nightcap, sitting on the leather sofa.
‘Old Mildew did have a happy life – with her back garden,’ Brett said. ‘The thing to do is get another kitten, don’t you think?’
‘Of course. Of course.’
On the third day of Melanie’s stay, Cliffie invited her for a drive in the Fiat. Edith was a little surprised by his attention, or politeness, but, pleased also.
‘Take her toward Centerbridge – the waterfall’s so pretty,’ Edith whispered in the kitchen, as Cliffie fortified himself with a mid-morning beer. ‘And you might invite her for a Cinzano or something at Cross-Keys. Have you got some money?’
‘I could use a fiver. Might have to buy some gas.’
Edith gave it to him.
Around noon, Cliffie rang up and said Melanie had invited him for lunch.
It was a Friday. Edith relaxed, prepared lunch for George, made a sandwich for herself. She took a last glance at Sunday’s papers so they could be got out of the way, tidied a little in the living room, cut some fresh roses for Melanie’s room, and in her workroom made sure she could put her hands on two articles she wanted to show Melanie which she had written in the last weeks. One was on the need for socialized medicine and its eventual advantages to the public and the whole economy, which – if
Harper’s
declined – Edith was optimistic that she could sell somewhere.
In the silent house, George’s snores came with unusual clarity down the hall. Edith went and gently closed his door, getting a glimpse as she did so of the framed photograph of the young-looking dark-haired man called Paul, who was another nephew of George’s and who lived in San Francisco, an engineer of some kind, with wife and a couple of kids. Why didn’t that one take George on for a while, Edith thought to herself.
Edith also found a good color photograph of dear old Mildew, white-breasted, brindle-nosed, dozing with her feet tucked in on a pillow under a back garden apple tree. Mildew was in dappling sunlight, her eyes half-closed. Edith smiled, and felt better for smiling.
She was taking a swat at the garden when Cliffie and
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