Perfectly Pure and Good by Frances Fyfield Read Free Book Online Page B

while she earned them. Which was why, on a whim, in a state of indecision and not relishing the next task, she found herself in the hairdresser's. Hairdressers knew things and it was a place to sit.
    Òn holiday, are you? You've been in here before, haven't you? I'm sure I know you from somewhere.'
    `No,' said Sarah, smiling her disarming smile. `No to both. I'm working. For the Pardoes. Do you know them?'
    The woman towelling her wet head of hair did not pause for a moment, but chuckled.
    `Course. Everyone does. I got no worries. I pay my rent. How do you find Mrs Pardoe?
    Comes in Monday mornings, all the clobber. Mad as a hatter, but still independent, you know. I suppose they'll have to get someone to look after her soon. Poor little Mouse.'
    Ì haven't met her yet. I'm not due up there until this evening. Thought I'd have a look around first.'
    Ànd get your hair done? Good idea.' They eyed each other in the mirror. 'Blow dry, or set?'
    Sarah looked at the row of four ancient hairdryers, beneath which sat a selection of dozing women with hair tortured into rollers, their hands crossed on ample stomachs, a comfortable sight, along with the smells. In the ample bosom of Sylvie, conversation and coiffure would be more rewarding.

    `What kind of work are you doing for the Pardoes?' The curiosity was mild, so innocuous it demanded an answer. Sarah never saw the virtue of being entirely honest when a vague evasion would serve the same purpose and, besides, she wasn't entirely sure. Ernest had been infuriatingly vague. You need an unsullied mind, he had said.
    Òh, something to do with their house.' The woman nodded, understandingly.
    Òh yes? I've heard they could do with a bit of decoration. Mr Pardoe was always adding bits on.
    He was a dreamer. Never finishing anything of
    Perhaps Sarah's clothes, smart in comparison to what she had seen outside, suggested interior decorator rather than woman of letters. She smiled again as her hair was brushed with rough efficiency.
    `That bad, is it?'
    `Well, old Mrs Pardoe isn't up to doing much, poor soul, is she? Daughter does her best and all that, the doctor's too busy, I expect, and that Edward's no more use than a sick headache, spiteful, lazy little sod. If only his sister would see it, but she won't, worships the ground he walks on.
    Funny things, families. Mary!' she half turned to yell at her girl assistant. 'Turn Mrs Smith off, will you? Otherwise she'll melt.'
    It was pleasant to be spoken to as if she knew them all.
    `Poor Mr Pardoe,' she said solicitously. 'How long is it since he died?'
    `Fell off his roof with his heart attack, you mean? About a year, I suppose. Mind,' she lowered her voice and switched off the dryer, 'there's other things he could have died of, only I think he'd given that up.'
    `Such as?' Sarah ventured. The blow-drying started again.
    `Falling off a big woman!' Sylvie yelled, breaking into raucous laughter, then subsiding into the confidentiality of a stage whisper audible from a hundred yards. 'He did a lot of that in his time.
    All right, Mrs Jones? You waiting for me? Please yourself.' She coughed impatiently.
    `That Mrs Pardoe was wise, though,' she continued shouting. `Never complained. She just pretended she didn't notice, waited for him to stop his nonsense. They all come back in the end, don't they?'
    Sarah nodded, slightly unsure of what kind of worldly wisdom it was she was endorsing. It never seemed to her worthwhile to wait for anyone to come back. Her head was hot, her hair floating away from the brush.
    `Lovely colour,' Sylvie yelled. 'Natural, I can tell. Used to have a customer with hair exactly like this. What was her name, now? Oh, hallo. Look what the cat's brought in.'
    The door of the shop had opened, the bell clattering. On the threshold stood a large young man, twenty-one or so, Sarah guessed. For all his astounding good looks, he had an air of shy uncertainty. Next to him, standing proudly in his shadow, was a boy the colour of