he went off in the rain to find provisions.
I descended into the kitchen to assemble my tools, and suddenly I realized that Mrs. Stackpole had not left me a frying pan. I thought this was very odd, but there must have been some explanation for it. âIâll boil the eggs,â I said aloud. This seemed more English to me anyway: boiled eggs for tea. I took down the large pot from the mantel: it had a greenish wet pool in the bottom and several hunks of enamel missing.
âNot to worry,â I said, still cheerful. âThe eggs have a shell.â I noticed with a clutch of anguish that there was no electric toaster. I was appalled at my weakness: toast could of course be made under the stove grill, two pieces at a time. âAmericans are terribly spoiled,â I said sternly to myself, avoiding the sight of the âhot clothâ hanging, black and dispirited, over the pipe.
Soot was falling down the ancient chimney; it fell behind the stove and blanketed the warming rail. âA real English kitchen,â I said. The boiler exploded softly in the comer.
4
Slipcovers
T HE NEXT MORNING we were awakened early by a messenger delivering an enormous bouquet from Mrs. Stackpole.
âI told you she was kind,â Jordan said.
âReally thoughtful,â I murmured, overwhelmed by this huge assortment of lilies and roses and I didnât know what all, not being horticultural. âItâs a good thing she left all those vases.â
While we were dealing with the bouquet, the bell rang again, this time heralding the entrance of Mrs. Grail, the cleaning woman, a pleasant-looking, plump person with short curly gray hair, decently attired in a black sweater and skirt. âDonât worry about a thing,â she said, in a rich brogue. âSheâs told me where everything is. Ah! The lovely flowers!â
âYes, arenât they? Mrs. Stackpole sent them.â
âAh, God,â Mrs. Grail said. âThey must have cost her a pretty penny. And she hasnât that much to spare.â
âYes, it was kind of her.â
âIt looks like a funeral.â Her eye swept the sitting room. âSheâs cleared it out, hasnât she? And where are the slipcovers?â
I picked up the list from the desk. âTheyâre being mended,â I said.
âMended, is it?â said Mrs. Grail. âThey looked new to me.â
âTheyâre being mended. She wrote the name of the shop right here.â I turned the paper over. In her large clear hand, Mrs. Stackpole had written, âGlenairlie, Pitwee, Firth.â
âThere must be some mistake,â I said. âI think this is her address in Scotland.â
âThereâs no mistake,â Mrs. Grail said grimly.
I went upstairs to Jordan, who was shaving in the bathroom.
âLook,â I said. âShe wrote her Scottish address here instead of the name of the shop with the slipcovers.â
âOh, sheâs so absent-minded,â Jordan said, with a chuckle.
âI donât think Mrs. Grail likes her,â I said.
âRidiculous,â he responded. âItâs probably just Mrs. Grailâs way.â
The phone rang, two short bleeps. Eric answered it and handed it to me. It was Mrs. Stackpole.
âWhich child was that?â she asked. âI donât know which child that was.â
I told her it was Eric, the youngest.
âAh,â Mrs. Stackpole said fondly. âThe wee one.â
âWell, heâs seven. And we do want to thank you for the flowers. Theyâre so beautiful.â
âOh, it was because Mr. Miller seemed to miss so many of my little bits. Pictures of the children, and so on. Iâm afraid it looked a bit bare.â
âWell, it was kind of you. By the way â¦â
âMight I have a word with your husband?â
âOh, yes,â I said. âOnly I donât know how it happened, but you wrote