appreciating the subterfuge, but I (they say I am occasionally square) was aghast.
“Your auntie wanted us to do it—
before
they came to lock up the house. And before the
others
got here.”
Tax officials came off with a slightly better odor than my relatives if I correctly interpreted her pronouns; she plainly had little use for either.
“Will that Mercedes run if the carburetor’s put back?” Simon asked.
“Oh, it will so.” Her slight smile was tinged with a bit of malice. “There were only about three hundred made of that particular model, you see, and your auntie kept it in super condition. Kieron’ll fix it for you if you want him to. You’re to say that you ordered the part from the States.” Then she started toward the door.
“Is your baby better?”
“My baby?” She whirled, startled.
“Yes, Kieron said it was teething the other night. I’d heard a child crying, you see.”
“Oh, yes, well, you know how it is and all. She’s easy now.” She couldn’t get out of the house fast enough, and Simon and Snow both noticed it. I hadn’t told them what Kieron had said about Ann being beaten by her husband, so I distracted their questions by suggesting we all go find our treasure.
And treasure it was! A superb tea service, complete with an immense tray, and an enormous box of tableware: place settings for twelve, and the most confusing array of forks, spoons, knives that I’ve ever seen.
The intelligence that the Mercedes was operable was very good news, and before we unloaded the silver from the boot, we took a closer look at the car.
It was curiously modern for a car built in 1956, and, to again rearrange my mental picture of Great-aunt Irene, it was a sports coupe, undoubtedly very dashing when it first came out. There wasn’t a blemish on the leather upholstery—under the dust—and only signs of key-scratch on the dashboard. There seemed to be more dial faces than were familiar, but Simon told me—nonchalantly preserving his own image—that there were tachometers and things that measure motor revolutions per minute for rally driving and …
“If it runs, that’s the only important thing,” I told him, and banged at the neatly stored tires.
We were wondering where to store all the silver when Simon discovered that the center portion of the buffet obviously accommodated the silver chest. So in it went. The silver tea service could repose importantly on the buffet top, and suddenly the rather drab room took on elegance.
“Now, Mother,” said Snow in her let’s-get-down-to-brass-tacks voice, “if this room were, say, a soft Wedgwood green …”
“Yes, yes, you’re right,” I agreed, with unsimulated enthusiasm, and ran an experimental hand along the wallpaper. It was old and brittle. A good steaming ought to lift it.
An odd rasping sound penetrated my concentration. Snow looked up from her arrangement of the tea and coffee pots … they must be Georgian … and then her face cleared. “It’s the doorbell, Mother!”
“Kelley?” I groaned.
“Simon, we need you,” said Snow. “Who else would be calling at eleven thirty?”
As I marched to the door I took a deep breath to support my anger, and exhaled it hastily in the face of a shortish woman wearing one of those matronly knit combinations in a deadly blue, which did not compliment her frizzy blondish hair and florid complexion. Her eyes, a faded green, missed nothing, giving my tunic-slack outfit a quick and disapproving once-over. She arranged her mouth in a smile, which her eyes didn’t echo.
“I’d know you anywhere. You’re so obviously Michael’s child.”
“Michael’s grandchild,” I replied, correcting her because she was the sort of person you have to correct, want to correct. “And you are… ?”
“My dear, I’m your … ah … Auntie Imelda,” and she shifted her feet for a forward movement.
“Oh, you left your card yesterday.”
“Indeed and I did, because I’d only just learned that
“Your auntie wanted us to do it—
before
they came to lock up the house. And before the
others
got here.”
Tax officials came off with a slightly better odor than my relatives if I correctly interpreted her pronouns; she plainly had little use for either.
“Will that Mercedes run if the carburetor’s put back?” Simon asked.
“Oh, it will so.” Her slight smile was tinged with a bit of malice. “There were only about three hundred made of that particular model, you see, and your auntie kept it in super condition. Kieron’ll fix it for you if you want him to. You’re to say that you ordered the part from the States.” Then she started toward the door.
“Is your baby better?”
“My baby?” She whirled, startled.
“Yes, Kieron said it was teething the other night. I’d heard a child crying, you see.”
“Oh, yes, well, you know how it is and all. She’s easy now.” She couldn’t get out of the house fast enough, and Simon and Snow both noticed it. I hadn’t told them what Kieron had said about Ann being beaten by her husband, so I distracted their questions by suggesting we all go find our treasure.
And treasure it was! A superb tea service, complete with an immense tray, and an enormous box of tableware: place settings for twelve, and the most confusing array of forks, spoons, knives that I’ve ever seen.
The intelligence that the Mercedes was operable was very good news, and before we unloaded the silver from the boot, we took a closer look at the car.
It was curiously modern for a car built in 1956, and, to again rearrange my mental picture of Great-aunt Irene, it was a sports coupe, undoubtedly very dashing when it first came out. There wasn’t a blemish on the leather upholstery—under the dust—and only signs of key-scratch on the dashboard. There seemed to be more dial faces than were familiar, but Simon told me—nonchalantly preserving his own image—that there were tachometers and things that measure motor revolutions per minute for rally driving and …
“If it runs, that’s the only important thing,” I told him, and banged at the neatly stored tires.
We were wondering where to store all the silver when Simon discovered that the center portion of the buffet obviously accommodated the silver chest. So in it went. The silver tea service could repose importantly on the buffet top, and suddenly the rather drab room took on elegance.
“Now, Mother,” said Snow in her let’s-get-down-to-brass-tacks voice, “if this room were, say, a soft Wedgwood green …”
“Yes, yes, you’re right,” I agreed, with unsimulated enthusiasm, and ran an experimental hand along the wallpaper. It was old and brittle. A good steaming ought to lift it.
An odd rasping sound penetrated my concentration. Snow looked up from her arrangement of the tea and coffee pots … they must be Georgian … and then her face cleared. “It’s the doorbell, Mother!”
“Kelley?” I groaned.
“Simon, we need you,” said Snow. “Who else would be calling at eleven thirty?”
As I marched to the door I took a deep breath to support my anger, and exhaled it hastily in the face of a shortish woman wearing one of those matronly knit combinations in a deadly blue, which did not compliment her frizzy blondish hair and florid complexion. Her eyes, a faded green, missed nothing, giving my tunic-slack outfit a quick and disapproving once-over. She arranged her mouth in a smile, which her eyes didn’t echo.
“I’d know you anywhere. You’re so obviously Michael’s child.”
“Michael’s grandchild,” I replied, correcting her because she was the sort of person you have to correct, want to correct. “And you are… ?”
“My dear, I’m your … ah … Auntie Imelda,” and she shifted her feet for a forward movement.
“Oh, you left your card yesterday.”
“Indeed and I did, because I’d only just learned that
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