Friends and Lovers Read Free

something awful to his encroaching manners. “I think you know where there is a more gracious home waiting to receive you and your mother, whenever you feel so inclined.”
    That was his proposal. I looked out the window and pretended not to understand his meaning. “The chiff-chaffs are back early this year,” I said. I arose and walked to the window to admire these dainty warblers. He was not two steps behind me, hardly one. He put a hand on my shoulder, causing me to flinch.
    Before he could expand on his invitation to remove to Oakdene, our attention was diverted to the garden beneath the tree where rested the chiff-chaffs. There was a black cat slinking behind the bushes, and not far behind the cat was our female factotum, Mrs. Pudge, flapping a tea towel at the cat’s tail, and ordering him away from her birds. Her angry speech was inaudible through the closed window, but her appearance was comical enough to arrest Everett’s proposal in mid-flight.
    Mrs. Pudge is a short woman, about the same height as my mother. She is very stout, with a fantastic topknot of sandish-gray hair. She wears voluminous aprons to protect her gown from the cooking jobs. She has bright blue eyes, an infant’s little button of a nose, and a chin about five inches long, which she now wagged at the old tomcat who comes on marauding missions from Menrod Manor, its home, a few miles north of us. I don’t know whether the cat has a name; to Mrs. Pudge it is known as “that devil cat.”
    Mrs. Pudge has a genteel white female kitten, rapidly becoming mature, which is a stronger inducement to the tomcat than the birds ever were. This pet is called Lady, and is the only member of the household, including her spouse, on whom our housekeeper bestows the least affection. I believe it is her fear that the devil cat will molest Lady that causes her special rancor toward this animal, for really she is not all that fond of birds, though she calls them “her” birds, in a proprietary way, and tosses a handful of crumbs to them when she is in the mood, or when her pile of dried bread overflows its container.
    “Foolish old malkin,” Mr. Everett said, unhappy at being interrupted in his mission.
    I squirmed out past him to the safety of the chair closest the door, where I called to Mr. Pudge to send Mama in for approval of the stairway design. I was safe from Mr. Everett’s ardor till his next visit. After Mama approved the design, it was arranged that the three carpenters would come the next morning at nine to begin their job. Everett did not say he would accompany them, neither did I wish to show any interest in whether he came or not, so did not ask, but I had the most sinking apprehension that he would.
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Chapter 2
     
    My mother and I have only been living in our present home for three years. It is a charming place, as seen from outside. It bears a strong resemblance to Anne Hathaway’s cottage, complete with timber and plaster facade, some ornamental brickwork on the sides, a thatched roof, and leaded windows. All this charm is much prettier to look at than to live in. Rodents are much attracted to the thatched roof. Rain does not evaporate so quickly from thatch as from slate, either.
    It is damp, and the damp invades the upper story of the house, bringing with it a certain musty odor that is pervasive. The leaded windows, though they sparkle like diamonds, are not so large as windows ought to be. Insufficient light enters at every room. In winter, our rooms look strangely circular, the corners lost in shadows.
    We have tried a dozen stunts to overcome the gloom of the interior. Our most effective remedy to date is to paint any nonvaluable piece of furniture light and bright. A pale lemon yellow was our choice. Many cabinets, tables, and the dining room chairs now stand out starkly against the age-dimmed paneling of the rooms, more starkly than I had hoped.
    When my father died, three years ago, it was necessary for us to vacate the