Flowers Stained With Moonlight by Catherine Shaw Read Free Book Online Page A

might be a useful vantage point for many observations. The bolt, however, was firmly stuck. At first I was afraid to push as hard as I could, for fear of making a loud noise, but soon I was pulling and pushing at the knob till my fingers were red, alas with a complete lack of success. I sat down on the iron bedstead, upon which a lovely old spread embroidered with faded flowers covered over something unexpectedly soft and plump, which turned out upon examination to be a snugly agreeable feather eiderdown. Resting my hands, I proceeded to reflect.
    After several more attempts, including one with a pen which I broke, I decided that only a few drops of oil could have the slightest chance of success with a bolt which had obviously not been opened in a long time. I considered ringing for Sarah, but I was embarrassed, and even more, worried, at the idea that she might ask me what the oil was needed for, or even offer to do herself whatever I needed doing. Finally, I made up my mind to sneak silently and tensely down to the nether regions and try to slip into the kitchen and ask kind Mrs Firmin for an oily rag, with the excuse of some lock or other of mine. I was afraid that it would all be absurd and unseemly and most suspicious and unrealistic, so I descended the staircase very quietly, still not really certain whether or not I really meant to put my plan into action.
    Can you imagine – as I reached the bottom of the stairs, who should I see but Sarah, busily engaged in cleaning the front door! She had shined the brass knob and waxed the panels, and was now polishing them vigorously. On the ground next to her lay a whole panoply of cleaning substances and utensils. My eyes were instantly attracted by a tiny flask.
    My dear Dora, I need not go into details on the subject of the daring robbery which I then perpetrated, for there is not much to tell! I stood silently, wondering how I could manage to get a closer look, when Sarah rose creakingly to her feet and disappeared through the swinging door. It was but the work of a moment for me to dart forward and confirm that the tiny flask indeed contained oil. I dared not carry it off altogether, nor borrow one of her rags, lest she note its disappearance, so (I am ashamed to confess) Isoaked a tiny region of the hem of my petticoat and rushed back upstairs, where I immediately lifted the oily spot and began to rub and massage the bolt with it, so that the stain soon became black instead of yellowish.
    By dint of patience, rubbing, twisting, forcing and pulling, I felt the bolt begin to yield, and after some quarter of an hour, I finally succeeded in loosening it completely. It slid very silently to one side, and I twisted the handle of the door and opened it.
    I stood looking into a large, strange space. There was an astonishing contrast between my neat room with its little bed, carefully waxed and polished floor and starched curtains, and this damp ruin with partially crumbling walls, in which pieces of rotting wood and broken bits fraternised with old abandoned furniture and diverse objects. The floor was thickly tiled with bricks, and most of it was also covered over with great sheets of heavy burlap material, but it was easy to see how the water had eaten away at the mortar. Pails and buckets stood here and there, probably under the places of the worst leaks, and various strings and strands of material had been attached to the ceiling to guide the falling water into them. Parts of the ceiling were actually fallen away, revealing the underside of the roof.
    I leant into the room and peered about, noticing that both Camilla’s and Sylvia’s rooms gave onto it as well as mine. Quite near the wall, the floor appeared to be in reasonably good condition, and I hesitantly and a little nervously took a few steps along it, passing the door leading into Camilla’s room and stopping at Sylvia’s. My feet madea little scraping noise, and looking about me, I chose a piece of thick material