The Misremembered Man by Christina McKenna Page B

uneasily. What on earth was he talking about? She looked up from the letter and studied the ceiling lamp. The tv still babbled happily down below. Thank heavens, she thought; it must be a Kimball-free episode. Now, “items for the ladies” and “fulfilling a ladies needs” sounded a bit odd. But perhaps she was overreacting. Perhaps she’d solve the puzzle by reading on.
    Having said that I do not miss the shop because I have plenty of things to occupy myself with. I like taking long walks in the countryside with my dog Snoop, because I believe a gentleman should keep fit and healthy. To this end I am also a teetotal, non-smoker. The strongest drink I allow past my lips is a Fanta orange when the temperature of the day is high.
Like yourself I like to poke about in the garden in the good weather and I read extensively. Always a quality broadsheet, none of that tabloid nonsense.
     
    And, thought Lydia, raising an eyebrow, the Mid-Ulster Vindicator is a quality broadsheet?
    I also like painting watercolours and photography and am a member of the Killycock Amateur Artist’s and Glamour Photography Club. My music taste is classical. All in all I consider myself to be a refined gentleman with discerning tastes. I like to eat out in good restaurants.
I do hope that you will do me the honour of replying to my humble letter. And I do wish as a result we can meet.
 
Yours most sincerely and respectfully,
Frank Xavier McPrunty
     
    My word! thought Lydia, returning the letter to the envelope; educated certainly, but a bit of a show-off. Let’s see what number three has to offer.
    She ran her silver sword letter-opener—a thank-you present from Emily Bingham on the occasion of passing her eleven-plus examination—along the crease and unfolded the single blue page. She was glad it was short and to the point. She began reading, but had barely finished the first sentence when she saw the doorknob turn. She tensed, stuffed the letters under the pillow and sat up on the edge of the bed.
    “What were you doing there just now?”
    Mrs. Devine stood in the doorway, pointing her malacca cane at Lydia’s pillow.
    “Mother, really! How dare you barge into my bedroom without knocking?”
    “I don’t need to knock on doors in my own home.”
    “Well, believe it or not, it’s called manners and having respect for other people’s privacy.” Lydia stood up, her anger rising. “Even if that other person is only your daughter. Now I’d be grateful if you’d go back to Green Acres and leave me in peace. I was resting.”
    “I’m finished watching it. That idiot Kimball appeared.”
    “I thought as much!” Lydia snapped.
    “Anyway, you weren’t resting.” Elizabeth eyed her daughter suspiciously, her knotty fingers gripping the panther head of the cane. “You’re up to something. I can always tell, you know.”
    “I was not up to anything.” She put a hand to her brow and sighed. “Good Lord, it’s like living with a child!”
    “If it’s nothing, why’s your face all red?” demanded Elizabeth.
    “Let’s have a cup of tea and a slice of Beattie’s chocolate sponge, shall we?” Lydia said the first thing that came to her, hoping it would distract her mother from the pillow.
    “What chocolate sponge? Beattie never gave me a sponge.”
    “Oh, but she did!” She took her mother’s arm and led her out the door. “It must have slipped your mind. If we don’t eat it soon, the birds will get it.”
    “Is that so?” said Elizabeth, confused, the pillow already forgotten.
     
     
    Before retiring for the night, Jamie stood in his bedroom, angling the broken piece of mirror, taking a critical look at his full-bellied self. The letter had been sent. In fact, the anonymous lady would probably have already read it, and with a bit of luck, might be wanting to take a look at him very soon. Jamie realized that drastic measures would need to be taken to make himself appear more presentable. After all, Rose had said that a