Bridesmaids Revisited by Dorothy Cannell Read Free Book Online Page A

still not sure,” I said, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice, “about the coincidence. What connection does this cousin have to the people I am going to visit in Knells?”
    “Edna works for them.” Gwen could not have made the admission more reluctantly. “Has done for years. Long before I came to Upper Thaxstead.”
    “Does light cleaning.” Barney appeared blithely oblivious to his wife’s glum expression. “And she cooks the odd meal. At least that’s how it works now with the three ladies. She says she was on the go from morning till night working for the vicar.”
    “The one that fell dead in his Yorkshire pudding?” Mrs. Malloy displayed a flattering interest.
    “No, his son-in-law. The widower with the daughter. He took over the parish when he got back from being a missionary and stayed on till his death—some years after his daughter ran off to London to be a ballet dancer. I think Edna said she later married a cousin, one of the several-times-removed sort.”
    “She did,” I said.
    “Oh, you know about her?” Gwen had perked up.
    “She was my mother.” I sat there taking in the realization that she must have grown up in the Old Rectory, unless her father had sent her to live with relatives. I’d had no idea; not when she had taken me to visit the bridesmaids, or afterwards.
    “A truly lovely person from the sound of her.” Mrs. Malloy’s pinky finger flagged as she sipped her tea, but the rest of her remained every bit the lady ensconced at the Ritz. “Mrs. H. and I were talking about her earlier, as we quite often do. Me being so much a part of the family—not at all like household help in the usual sense of the word. Now, as to whether the same can be said of your cousin Edna in her situation, I couldn’t say.” She smiled kindly at Gwen. “But I’m sure those three ladies Mrs. H. calls the bridesmaids are grateful for all she does for them.”
    “Why call them the bridesmaids?” Barney asked the obvious.
    “It’s how my mother referred to them. I’ve no idea why.”
    “And it would be her mother who died in the Belgian Congo?”
    “I never heard where or how my grandmother died. All I know is that her name was Sophia.” My voice was stiff. The same was becoming true of the rest of me from sitting on the hard chair. I put down my cup and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Nearly one in the afternoon. It was more than time I got out to the car and on my way.
    “It’s so sad when people are snuffed out in their youth,” Gwen said, sounding quite emotional. “Am I right in thinking, Mrs. Haskell, that your own dear mother, the ballet dancer, has also passed on?”
    “Yes. She died in an accident. She fell down some steps on her way into the underground at Kings Cross ...”
    “Tragic.” Barney leaned forward in sympathy. “What happened? Some sort of dizzy spell?”
    “Darling, I’m not so sure Mrs. Haskell wants us to go on talking about this. It must bring back all sorts of sad memories.” Gwen got to her feet, where she teetered for a few seconds on her high heels before clicking over to the piano. From the array of photographs in fancy frames she selected the largest and returned to my side. “Perhaps you’d like to see what the children look like, Mrs. Haskell. Fiddler and I are very proud of all three, as I am sure you can well imagine. Of course, they aren’t children anymore, as you can see.”
    “A nice-looking group.”
    “They all went on to Cambridge, just like their teachers said they would from their very first days of starting kindergarten. No one ever had to help them with their sums. John got three degrees and Nancy and Patricia both got two each and all the best kind.”
    “Wonderful.” I did not let my eyes wander from the photographed faces of the sober-minded-looking Fiddlers to where Mrs. Malloy sat in her pale blue sweatshirt with its embarrassing proclamation that she too had been to Cambridge. No wonder Gwen had eyed her