Tea & Antipathy

Tea & Antipathy Read Free Page B

Book: Tea & Antipathy Read Free
Author: Anita Miller
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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. “I’ll boil the eggs,” 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.
    â€œNot to worry,” I said, still cheerful. “The eggs have a shell.” 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. “Americans are terribly spoiled,” I said sternly to myself, avoiding the sight of the “hot cloth” hanging, black and dispirited, over the pipe.
    Soot was falling down the ancient chimney; it fell behind the stove and blanketed the warming rail. “A real English kitchen,” 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.
    â€œI told you she was kind,” Jordan said.
    â€œReally thoughtful,” I murmured, overwhelmed by this huge assortment of lilies and roses and I didn’t know what all, not being horticultural. “It’s a good thing she left all those vases.”
    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. “Don’t worry about a thing,” she said, in a rich brogue. “She’s told me where everything is. Ah! The lovely flowers!”
    â€œYes, aren’t they? Mrs. Stackpole sent them.”
    â€œAh, God,” Mrs. Grail said. “They must have cost her a pretty penny. And she hasn’t that much to spare.”
    â€œYes, it was kind of her.”
    â€œIt looks like a funeral.” Her eye swept the sitting room. “She’s cleared it out, hasn’t she? And where are the slipcovers?”
    I picked up the list from the desk. “They’re being mended,” I said.
    â€œMended, is it?” said Mrs. Grail. “They looked new to me.”
    â€˜They’re being mended. She wrote the name of the shop right here.” I turned the paper over. In her large clear hand, Mrs. Stackpole had written, “Glenairlie, Pitwee, Firth.”
    â€œThere must be some mistake,” I said. “I think this is her address in Scotland.”
    â€œThere’s no mistake,” Mrs. Grail said grimly.
    I went upstairs to Jordan, who was shaving in the bathroom.
    â€œLook,” I said. “She wrote her Scottish address here instead of the name of the shop with the slipcovers.”
    â€œOh, she’s so absent-minded,” Jordan said, with a chuckle.
    â€œI don’t think Mrs. Grail likes her,” I said.
    â€œRidiculous,” he responded. “It’s probably just Mrs. Grail’s way.”
    The phone rang, two short bleeps. Eric answered it and handed it to me. It was Mrs. Stackpole.
    â€œWhich child was that?” she asked. “I don’t know which child that was.”
    I told her it was Eric, the youngest.
    â€œAh,” Mrs. Stackpole said fondly. “The wee one.”
    â€œWell, he’s seven. And we do want to thank you for the flowers. They’re so beautiful.”
    â€œOh, it was because Mr. Miller seemed to miss so many of my little bits. Pictures of the children, and so on. I’m afraid it looked a bit bare.”
    â€œWell, it was kind of you. By the way …”
    â€œMight I have a word with your husband?”
    â€œOh, yes,” I said. “Only I don’t know how it happened, but you wrote

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