Janette Turner Hospital Collected Stories by Janette Turner Hospital Read Free Book Online Page B

confusion seemed to her irrelevant. A petty point. The kind Bessie Cotter had never been known to let slip. “Both of them used to say it. My Harold and my Winston. It takes a crisis.”
    â€œIn the midst of life …” said Mr Cotter sombrely.
    There was a silence.
    â€œWell, of course, people have a right to their privacy” – Ada Watts was looking pointedly at the Hamiltons – “but I always say, if you can’t confide in your friends …” Ada Watts came from a family which had lived in the town for generations; consequently she never needed to bother herself about other people’s rules. She wore tweeds, though the last of her horses had been sold years ago, before Harold or Winston or whoever had died. She hitched one leg up over the other with casual inelegance to expose a large fish-pale bulge of thigh above her garter. Mrs Phillips looked away quickly; Arthur Cotter stared with undisguised interest.
    â€œI never pry into other folks’ business.” Mrs Watts’ thigh, coming to an arrangement with the sofa, stressed her point.
    â€œNobody wants to move, we all know that,” Bessie Cotter offered helpfully.
    The Hamiltons knew they were under siege; that reasons were called for.
    â€œIt was the wife’s parents, you see.” Jack Hamilton cleared his throat. “First her father last Easter, and now her mother’s gone. Left us their house up country, you know. Huge place, family antiques, death duties, taxes, you know …” He spoke in a rush. “Had to sell one of the properties.”
    Well of course the others knew … a death in the family, something like that.
    The Hamiltons, naturally, had investigated the possibility of selling the country house instead, but there was the problem of moving the furniture. “Very expensive, you see,” Jack Hamilton said. “We inquired. Believe me, we inquired. And then again it just didn’t seem to fit here. Belongs in the other house, if you know what I mean.”
    â€œOh well, in that case. Yes, yes, of course. Can’t be helped.” Ada Watts was unexpectedly onside, catching the sofa off guard. It made a sucking noise between her legs. “I tell my boys: those Queen Annes get moved from here over my dead body and you can tell your prissy wives: don’t think I won’t know, when I’m gone. The Queen Annes stay. As long as the house does.”
    The Hamiltons, with a surge of relief and warmth, spoke of how greatly they would miss the neighbourhood; and Bessie Cotter, sorrowful, commented on the improbability of a new owner looking after the rhubarb properly. Yes, the Hamiltons sighed. Leaving the garden was the worst.
    â€œIt takes a crisis. As my Harold used to say.”
    â€œYour Winston.”
    â€œEh?”
    â€œYour Winston. Harold was your brother.”
    â€œIf Harold and Winston were here, they’d keep an eye on the rhubarb.”
    Bessie Cotter announced with a hint of tartness: “Mr Cotter will keep an eye on it, won’t you, Arthur? Remember how you used to mow the Watts’ lawn for them because Winston was always away with the horses?”
    â€œI’ve known you since three weeks after Noah came out of the ark, Bessie Cotter, and you haven’t changed one bit. Never could resist putting in your two cents’ worth.”
    â€œShe came out of the ark flashing those hams,” said Arthur Cotter in a ruminative mumble, thinking aloud. “Winston bait. Poor chap could never keep his eyes off her garters.”
    There was a stunned hush, followed by a gust of laughter from bare-thighed Ada Watts.
    â€œIt takes a crisis,” she said. “We should have been doing this for years.”
    Yes, they all agreed. Yes. Such a good neighbourhood.
    And who, Ada Watts wanted to know, were the buyers? Could they hope for kinfolk, or must they fortify themselves against a further siege of students?
    No. Not