Colouring In by Angela Huth Read Free Book Online Page A

a boost. So I poured the wine – very dark coloured stuff, don’t know how they can drink it – down the sink and put the bottle with the other empties in the re-cycling bin. Then I screwed up the used serviettes still on the table and threw them in the machine. Mrs. Grant usually does that when they’ve been entertaining – she says she doesn’t like me to arrive and find a lot of mess. So perhaps they were especially late. It was nice and warm in the kitchen, always a cheery place, what with the yellow paint, even on a grey day. There was a smell of flowers that hadn’t been there yesterday: can’t have been the old African violet that’s been struggling half-dead for years, I thought. Then I saw a pot of gardenias on the table by the fire. Mrs. Grant must have bought them yesterday afternoon, or perhaps one of the guests brought them. Four beautiful flowers, no less, not far open and sending their perfume all round the room. I put my nose to one of them. My, was it heady. A bit too rich for me. I don’t think I’d want a gardenia at home. My little room wouldn’t be able to accommodate such perfume. I got out the hoover. Its noise is a sort of music to me, companionable. I began. I could hoover every room in the house with my eyes shut, I know every corner so well.
    When Mrs. Grant came down at ten-thirty, I could see at once she was in one of her most preoccupied moods. When her mind is still upstairs she puts on a certain little smile, and is as polite and interested as ever, but I know she’s not really with me as she is on other days. On the occasions she’s distracted I choose only a paragraph or two from the Daily Mail : something to make her laugh, and she’s drunk her coffee and is up and off in less than our usual ten minutes.
    This morning, I’m not sure why, I didn’t get the paper out of my bag at all. Mrs. Grant seemed so deep in thought. Far be it from me to interrupt the creative process, I think they call it. I can imagine, when you’ve a talent like Mrs. Grant, your mind doesn’t run at all like other people’s, and we more normal people should respect that.
    Anyhow, she did say there’d been company for dinner: Miss Cartwright, who I hardly know, and an old friend of Mr. Grant’s back from America. She said it had all been very enjoyable and she’d cooked a nice fish. But…I don’t know. I had a feeling it hadn’t been one of the very best evenings. I had a feeling Mrs. Grant hadn’t enjoyed it as much as some. But there again, I’m only guessing. Nine years of sharing morning coffee and you get to understanding your employer without many words necessary. But who knows if my guess was right? She wasn’t down long. She said sorry about the mess (there wasn’t any mess to speak of) and was back upstairs inside of six minutes.
    On the way home – I never enjoy that journey – I tried to think what might have gone amiss. Perhaps the fish. She doesn’t like cooking. But it was no use trying to imagine. There are bits of other people’s lives you can’t begin to picture, no matter how well you know them. That’s probably one of the good Lord’s wisest blessings. Everyone should be granted some private life and thought. I mean, although Mrs. G. is the most understanding woman I’ve ever met, I wouldn’t dream of telling her about all the hoo-ha with Barry, all those years ago, which still brings tears to my eyes. It’s my belief there are things that should be kept in our hearts, not confided. I know that’s a very unfashionable belief but I for one shall stick to it. I shall stick to it always. But I couldn’t quite get Mrs. G’s odd restlessness out of my mind. I felt concerned about her most of the afternoon, till Gary phoned, then of course I had to attend to matters of my own.
BERT
    Daresay I can’t expect to be completely normal for a few more days. Jet lag’s taken its toll. So last night was seen through rather groggy eyes. I know I’ve got to get down to