Cry of a Seagull Read Online Free Page B

over.’
    â€˜But you were going to ride.’
    â€˜This is more fun. I’ll ride over anyway, so Crackers will get a workout.’
    There was a lot to do. Fortunately, Mrs Ardis chose to work on Sundays, because she didn’t want her aggravating daughter-in-law to visit her then, although she always behaved like a martyred saint.
    â€˜You can make me work on the Sabbath,’ she told Rose in her holy voice, ‘but you can’t make me risk a slipped disc by doing double beds alone.’ She clutched her back. ‘A little Christian charity, please.’
    After the beds, Rose and Abigail ran three loads of laundry and served morning coffees and found the Professor’s library book and laid tables and filled salt cellars and dashed in and out of the kitchen to peel potatoes and chop cabbage and give a quick turn to the Yorkshire pudding batter, waiting in the big bowl of the electric mixer. With Mollie gone, you could see just how much she did, while still managing to be calm and smiling to the guests and always ready to stop for a chat.
    Going to the upstairs lounge to collect coffee-cups, Rose went mad, shifting from foot to foot while Professor Watsoninsisted on telling her what he thought was a funny anecdote. She rattled downstairs with the tray of china, and Mrs Ardis called her from the dining-room to open a stuck window.
    â€˜
He
said to air the place out, but I’ll not risk that disc for him, or anyone else.’
    â€˜Oh now, Mrs Ardis, don’t start.’ Rose struggled with the window, which overlooked the outside verandah.
    â€˜Start what, pray?’ Mrs Ardis had switched to her uppish voice, high in her nose, head of wild hair thrown back, fettered by a purple scarf, mauve eyelids closed.
    â€˜Well, I mean – ah, got it!’ The window flew up. ‘Getting outraged and all that. This is a crisis, you know. We’re all in it together.’
    â€˜Has
he
suggested I’m not pulling my weight?’ Mrs Ardis’s nostrils widened like a horse scenting trouble.
    â€˜No, no, no, you’re wonderful.’
    Mrs Ardis and Philip maintained a low-grade warfare at the best of times. If it exploded into full battle, all was lost.
    â€˜Then do your work, Miss Rose,’ Mrs Ardis said grandly, ‘and I shall do mine. You can start by removing that tray off my polished sideboard.’
    In the hall, Rose’s father called to her to carry a sample case upstairs for a newly arrived salesman.
    â€˜I’ll just put the tray in the kitchen.’
    â€˜Put it down
now
.’ Philip looked flustered, fumbling about with papers. ‘Take this gentleman up to number fourteen – er, let’s see, yes, fourteen.’
    â€˜I thought you said fifteen,’ the salesman said.
    â€˜Did I? Yes, well – no, let’s see, where’s the key? You’ll have a view over the dunes to the sea.’
    â€˜Jolly good,’ the man said. ‘Pity I’m only here for one night.’
    â€˜Are you? I thought you were booked for a week. Rose, where did you put the key of number fourteen?’
    â€˜It’s occupied.’
    â€˜Fifteen, I said.’ He recovered himself quickly. ‘The key of fifteen, let’s see …’
    â€˜On the hook,’ the salesman said.
    â€˜Ah yes, of course. Excuse me. Terribly busy …’
    Although she hated paper work, Rose thought perhaps she should run the office and let her father carry the trays and bags.
    Abigail made the gravy. They didn’t have gravy with everything in Chicago, so she was especially drawn to it as a way to feel British.
    When she melted the beef dripping, it smelled of the strong hamburgers on Newcome beach, and Rose was Ruth again for a dizzy moment, caught half-way between two worlds, as if the people on the beach were calling her to come back.
    When Abigail asked, ‘Where’s the flour?’ Rose answered vaguely, ‘Oh –