Lamb in Love by Carrie Brown Read Free Book Online Page A

Vida was able to tell—Matron was Indian and had such a pronounced accent, full of wobbles, that Vida could hardly make out her trebled inflections—the employees were assembling luncheon trays for prison inmates. A plastic cup, plastic cutlery (no knife) wrapped in cellophane, and a paper serviette were put on each tray, and then the whole thing was sealed in more sticky cellophane by three young, overweight chaps stationed at the end of the table.
    Occasionally clients would look up at Vida and Manford as they passed with Matron. Their expressions—desperate and defeated, as though their tongues had been cut out—had made Vida feel frantic with sympathy. On a table by the door, an urn for hot water sputtered steam; a collection of mossy mugs and tea things were arranged on a tray on an old desk under the one window, its glass still greased over with streaks of whitewash. A box with half a tired-looking cake in it sat nearby on a folding chair. Someone had rather inexpertly painted a rainbow and several disproportionately large flowers on the wall near a hand-lettered sign that read: WE WORK QUIETLY. WE KEEP OUR HANDS TO OURSELVES. WE NEVER, NEVER BITE OURSELVES OR ANYONE ELSE.
    Manford had been positively ashen when they’d left, as if he’d been breathing in tiny, shallow breaths the whole while.
    Riding home on the bus that afternoon, after a comfortingly large lunch in a cheerful, busy tearoom, Vida had held Manford’s hand between her own and squeezed it often. He’d seemed subdued, and she had worried that she’d done the wrong thing by bringing him with her, though she didn’t know who else she would have left him with.
    That evening, Mr. Perry, who had been in London, had come home unexpectedly. Knocking at the door of his study that night, she had entered at the sound of his voice and stood before his desk, rigid with determination, to relate the events of the morning.
    â€œAnd under no circumstances,” she had said, finishing up, “will I remain in your employment any longer if you will be recommending that Manford attend such a facility.”
    Mr. Perry had looked up at her, surprised and faintly amused. “Why, Vida,” he said. “I never said
I
was in favor of it.”
    She had stopped. “No,” she said, hesitating. “No, I know you didn’t. I’m just saying—it was
awful.
I just thought you should—know that.”
    â€œWell, thanks.” Mr. Perry had smiled up at her. “Thanks for letting me know.”
    And after that, she’d put the matter of Manford’s occupation out of her mind—until just this summer, passing the bakery with Manford, the thought of it suddenly came to her again. She had stopped and stared in through the window at the glass cases with the cakes and buns, the loaves of bread stacked like bricks. She’d heard the bell jangle, heard Mrs. Blatchford laugh. A customer, leaving, tipped his hat to Vida and Manford, looked over Manford the way people who don’t know him do, taking a secretive second look as if they might have been mistaken about what they’d seen and were fearful of being rude. Manford looked back and then up at the sky, squinting. Vida patted his arm and then opened the door.
    â€œWell, good morning to you, Vida,” Mrs. Blatchford had said.
    â€œGood morning, Mrs. Blatchford,” Vida replied. Vida saw Manford look the buns over hungrily, though he’d just had egg-in-a-hole at home. He
is
a bottomless pit, Vida thought, always after something to eat.
    She asked Mrs. Blatchford for a loaf of wheat bread and looked around with what she imagined to be casual interest. “It’s a busy job you have here, Mrs. Blatchford,” she said. “Do you still do all the baking yourself?”
    â€œOh, yes. Myself and Mr. Niven,” Mrs. Blatchford said, sighing. “We can hardly keep up with it some days.”
    â€œYou’ve enough help,