The
tiny kitchen, with the fire lit and the oven on, was probably too warm for
September, but the intention had been to create an ambience as resplendent as
an autumn day. Golden and welcoming. A brass coal scuttle glimmered in the
hearth, reflecting the fire's amber glow. On a spacious windowsill, inside a
frame of ecru drapes, a huge bronze pitcher had been crammed with preserved
beech leaves and dried wheat, and bunches of dried corn had been tucked amidst
the porcelain plates that stood side by side on a wooden rack. The room, which
she fancied was once a scullery, was where Gentle spent most of her time. Its
smallness was comforting. She could bake or read or knit squares for Oxfam and
forget the isolation of the enormous, inherited house. It was far too big for a
woman living alone but today, in the afternoon, George was coming to tea. The
prospect excited her; for far too long she had functioned like an ageing
spinster when in fact she was only forty-three.
Not
having enough recreation was her biggest difficulty. With only housework to
occupy her she was becoming dull and uninteresting. Redundancy had struck hard.
It had eliminated colleagues, standard assurances that they would keep in touch
forgotten directly the office doors slammed to. Fortunately, Polly Moss had
stayed in touch; she wasn't one of those perfunctory acquaintances who bandied
pledges like confetti, but Polly was in the throes of a wild intrigue with Gary
Starr, an all-in-wrestler, and was currently away with him on tour. The two
friends regularly spoke on the phone, but it wasn't the same as getting
together for a proper chin-wag.
The
solution to the enforced solitude was in Gentle's own hands. She could go out,
join a social clique, mix with the opposite sex. If she could ignore the phobia
of abandonment, she might find it easier to mingle. At times she felt doomed to
dwell in eternal quarantine, friendless days surging forward and dragging her
into immortality. However, that brand of depression was rare. Mostly, she got
on with life, grateful for excellent health and reasonable prosperity. Gentle
had opted for a solitary lifestyle after three serious relationships were
shattered. The first by reason of death when, a week ahead of their wedding,
her boyfriend contracted killer meningitis. The second was terminated when the
man who swore undying devotion was involved in a steamy sex scandal with his
boss's wife. The ultimate liaison ended when her third beau took an unhealthy
interest in female fashion. The episodes had wholly killed off Gentle's
appetite for male companionship. Until she met George and came to value his
friendship.
Humming
a ditty, she sorted the cutlery, choosing silver for the salad and delicate
bone-handled knives for the scones. Would George commend her cooking? And her
home?
She
had been drawn to him by his apparent regard for animals. When she originally
saw him in the park, he was hunkered down to talk man to dog with a Yorkshire
terrier. The next time he was perched on the school wall whispering to a cat,
his beard blending very well with the animal's white fur. Several times she saw
him tossing bread to the ducks on the lake; sometimes he fondled the donkeys'
manes; always he slipped titbits to dogs when their owners weren't looking. A
man with a virtuous heart.
Gentle
sniffed the air, inhaling the delicious smell of baking that made even her
mouth water. Satisfied the scones were cooked, she scurried to the oven and
pulled open the door. Grabbing a heavily-singed oven cloth, she withdrew the
tray and unloaded the scones onto a dish decorated with cornflowers, with
divisions to take pots of jam and clotted cream. Arranged to her liking, she
deposited the dish adjacent to an oval platter of carved ham and a cut-glass
bowl of green-leaf salad.
Hearing
the grandfather-clock chime the half-hour, Gentle glanced at her watch. It was
three-thirty. Ninety minutes to countdown. Her stomach lurched. What had she
done? More importantly, what did he want? In the three years she had lived
here, no men other than tradesmen had entered the house. Would she shape up as
a hostess? Could she adequately converse with such an erudite man. It was one
thing to twitter away making small talk, it was quite another to indulge in
exchanges of such profound topics as politics, or the arts, or issues of an
educational nature. Panic rose in her breast. She tried to suppress it by
twitching curtains, plumping cushions, and straightening the framed landscapes;
an inessential activity in that snug and shipshape room. Feeling the twitch in
her lower lip, she bit hard to make it stop and cursed her nonsensical
nervousness. She brushed a hand through the shock of curly chestnut hair she
had expended half an hour arranging in a presentable style. Realising her
mistake, she rushed to a mirror to vet its condition, breathing a consoled sigh
when she saw that no harm had been done. But anxiety continued to dangle its
ice-cold digits and she sank, wretchedly, into a wooden armchair.
Silently
Gentle enumerated the Denby cups hanging on the Welsh dresser, something she
did when agitated for the monotony of the mental exercise was guaranteed to
calm her. Four ... What had possessed her to accede to his request? What had he
in mind when he asked to call? Twelve ... Why was she in such a terrible spin?
She was behaving as if she was expecting a suitor instead of an elderly
companion.
Polly
had been aghast when she learned his age, claiming that Gentle must be mad to
associate with a man of seventy-two. Why he was old enough to be her father.
Gentle had chuckled, thinking how like her deceased parent he was. At least in
features. They even shared their name. When Polly heard about the similarity,
she joked that her father's spirit had returned to protect her. Gentle hadn't
enlightened her about his lack of concern for his children.
Kicking
off her slippers, she pondered on the joint resemblance. She felt consistently
safe with George, as if he was indeed family. Lacing her fingers, she let her
hands lie in her lap, remembering the first time he acknowledged her and how
amazed she had been to see the familiar glint in his eye and the recognisable
little-boy grin.
(to be continued)
smiles...this is warm...i know it is a relief for her as well to find a comfortable companion...her previous man liked to wear womens clothing...err....yeah this is a step up...smiles....and a love for animals is also a good sign...
ReplyDeletei imagine this is for later this week so i will comment quick and come back then too...happy sunday...smiles.
Ah yes, I remember this story. It will be nice to read it again. :)
ReplyDeleteHi Brian and Pat... saving your comments from when Blogger posted this in error actually worked... thank you. Next short instalment in a week's time.
ReplyDeleteHA, jumped back over and started reading and thought, i have read this...smiles...still enjoyable....hope you are well today val
ReplyDeleteAlways a good story very endearing.
ReplyDeleteA lovely revisit. Thanks Valerie!
ReplyDeleteI too saw this posted last week, but sorta figured out it was meant to be posted at a later time.
ReplyDeleteWonderful reading this again, Valerie!
Have a terrific Thursday, dear lady!
X
Thanks Brian... again... smiles. Thank you, yes I am well. You too, I hope.
ReplyDeleteBanker Chick, thank you.
Denise, thank you ... I didn't realise you had read it before.
Hi Ron, yes, Blogger got the scheduling. Thankfully, it was quickly rectified. Happy Thursday to you.
Oh good, here we go on another adventure! My husband is 15 years older than I am, so I can relate to this story!
ReplyDeleteGreat story! Perfect length. Man, I loved this one for all its simplicity and insight. Kudos!
ReplyDeleteI feel the same way while waiting for guests to arrive. Instead of adjusting the curtains I tend to play loud music. Heh...
Nice piece of writing..waiting for next part..:)
ReplyDeleteSam..
Such mixed emotions here. Love the story but hate that I have to wait. And I just wanted to tell you that I always smile when I come to your blog because the picture of the doggies is awesome plus I like reading your entertaining stories. Take care Val.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Sam!!
ReplyDelete