Let's Kill Uncle Read Free Page B

second-growth dwarfed timber, and as the moon rose behind it its feathery boughs were etched like black lace against the darkening summer sky.
    ‘Do you like it?’
    Reluctantly the child drew her eyes from the window.
    ‘It’s beautiful.’
    The goat-lady looked puzzled, then she laughed.
    ‘I meant the cocoa.’
    Christie turned her tight little face to the goat-lady.
    ‘I meant the tree.’
    The goat-lady sighed. It appeared she and Christie were not destined to share many spirited conversations during the course of the summer.
    ‘You must be tired. It’s time for bed.’ In a kindly fashion she put her hand on the child’s lank, pale hair. ‘Come, you’ll sleep in Per’s room. In his bed.’
    She pointed to a ladder in the corner of the room which led to an attic above the kitchen.
    ‘Up here. Per is my son. He’s a fisherman and he’s away until November.’
    She pointed to a door beside the stove.
    ‘My bedroom is there. If you’re frightened or lonely, you have only to call; I’ll hear you and come.’
    But already Mrs Nielsen had a feeling that this self-contained, dour child was not likely to call for assistance.
    Lighting a candle, she picked up the brown-paper shopping bag containing Christie’s possessions and began climbing the ladder. Christie followed her.
    The room in the attic was tiny, tinier even than the kitchen, and the child looked about her with interest.
    A narrow, ornately carved wooden bed was beneath the lattice window, and Christie could still see the big fir tree, standing like a sentinel in the distance.
    ‘You mean this will be my room while I’m here?’
    She sat on the patchwork counterpane, her eyes those of a suspicious child listening to a fairy tale.
    ‘Yes. Do you like it?’
    Christie nodded.
    ‘Well.’ The goat-lady gave a sigh of relief. ‘That’s something, isn’t it?’
    Christie gazed up at the sloping roof beams, only a few inches above the goat-lady’s head. Between the cedar shakes tiny glimpses of the evening sky flashed.
    Christie pointed her index finger up.
    ‘Rain come through there?’
    ‘No. You get undressed and washed now.’
    On a carved chest of drawers near the foot of the bed stood a big water jug and washbowl. Fat cabbage roses, pink and red, romped across the white china and the child suddenly stretched her hand out and patted them.
    The goat-lady put the candle on the chest of drawers, took Christie’s nightgown from the paper bag and handed Christie a white linen towel.
    As Christie dried her face, she sniffed the towel.
    ‘It smells nice,’ she said, then, pointing to the water jug and washbowl, she added in her begrudging way, ‘they’re nice too.’
    A breeze, laden with the warm scents of the forest, blew softly in the little window.
    ‘Into your nightgown and say your prayers now. Remember, I’ll be downstairs if you want me.’
    Christie looked at her in surprise.
    ‘I don’t say prayers.’
    ‘You don’t? Don’t you go to church?’
    ‘No. My mother was brought up a Presbyterian, and MacNab, that’s my father, he used to be a Catholic, so my mother says we’ll just leave well enough alone with me.’
    Her manner was polite, but irritatingly adult.
    ‘Well, goodnight, Christie.’ She leaned over to kiss the child’s cheek, but Christie took a step back.
    ‘Blow out the candle when you are through, Christie. I left matches next to it on the dresser if you want to light it again, but be careful.’
    She backed heavily down the ladder, leaving the child standing in the middle of the room.
    Looking small and forlorn now she was alone, Christie blew out the candle and crawled into the snug, bunk-like bed. By moonlight she could see strange little trolls carved on the headboard, laughing and hiding behind ferns. She touched them gently and then sank back, pulling the covers up to her neck.
    She lay for a long time thinking of her mother. Though she knew her mother would not wish her to be unhappy on the first night