Blindfold by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online Page A

away. She came all over goose flesh at the mere idea, and by exhibiting an unusual amount of energy and securing a place as housemaid at Mrs Freddy Gilmore’s she stopped Aunt’s mouth, and was graciously permitted to ask Ernie to tea.
    Ernie was finding the occasion rather formidable. He was wearing a high stiff collar which hurt his neck, and his best suit, which had not kept pace with his vigorous development. He was a large young man—a motor-mechanic by trade. He had advanced political opinions and a good deal of bony wrist and thick dark hair. Flossie’s aunt made him come over hot about the ears and moist about the hands. She kept a steely eye upon him, as if she expected at any moment to find him out in something he shouldn’t be doing, and she called him Mr Bowden at least once in every sentence. It was quite horribly daunting. During tea she talked about all the promising girls she had known who had married drunkards and declined prematurely into their graves. Even Flossie was subdued.
    It was a little better after tea when the table had been cleared. He and Flossie were allowed to sit up to it side by side whilst she showed him the photographs in the family album, an immensely thick and heavy book with an embossed leather binding, gilt edges, and a portentous clasp. It was possible to hold Flossie’s hand when she was not turning a leaf. Mrs Palmer, knitting by the hearth, could only see the table-cloth and the heavy album tilted on an aged copy of Stepping Heavenward . She had stopped talking, and he gathered, to his immense relief, that it was now Flossie’s business to entertain him.
    They lingered over the faded pictures of whiskered young men and chignoned young women, hairy old gentlemen with beards flowing down over their waistcoats, and old ladies, all shawl and cap and skirt.
    â€œThat’s Auntie’s grandfather,” said Flossie. “A builder in a very good way of business he was—wasn’t he, Aunt?”
    Mrs Palmer’s needles clicked.
    â€œAnd a life-long teetotaller,” she said.
    Flossie trod on Ernie’s foot.
    â€œHad a lovely house up in Hampstead—hadn’t he, Aunt?” she said.
    â€œTook the pledge at five years old and never broke it,” said Mrs Palmer. She drew out a needle and stabbed it into the sock she was knitting. “And a pity there are not more like him, Mr Bowden.”
    Flossie tossed her head.
    â€œYou needn’t think Ernie drinks, Aunt, because he doesn’t!”
    â€œSo he says,” said Mrs Palmer. She sat bolt upright in a chair with a leather seat and a curly walnut back, her firm, high-busted figure tightly cased in a black stuff dress with a high-collared front of cream net over white silk. A gold locket with raised initials hung down upon the front, and an agate brooch which was exactly like a bull’s eye fastened the collar. Her thick wiry grey hair was brushed tightly back from her forehead and temples and fastened in a plaited coil about half way up the back of her head. She had a high, fixed colour, sharp grey eyes, and practically no lashes. A formidable person.
    Flossie passed quickly to the next page.
    â€œThat’s my mother,” she said. “D’you think I’m like her? I’m called after her, you know. I don’t remember her hardly at all. I’m Florence after her, but they called her Flo, and me Flossie. I like Flossie best—don’t you?”
    The enamoured Ernie turned a deep puce in reply to this challenge. He squeezed the hand which he found conveniently near his own and said nothing. Neither of them noticed that Mrs Palmer had stopped knitting. Her lips were pressed together. She was frowning as if she had dropped a stitch. Presently the needles clicked again.
    â€œMy dad was killed in the war, you know,” pursued Flossie. “No, of course I don’t remember him! Coo, Ernie—however old d’you think I am?