Saints and Sinners by Edna O’Brien Read Free Book Online Page A

as they should, and swept her hair back severely with side combs.
    Their breakfasts were on the table for when they sat down—the fry, a pot of tea, a jug of hot water, and a jug of instant coffee. She had also left a small dish of mandarin oranges. They were to help themselves. Often with guests, she would linger in the breakfast room and learn of faraway places — the coral reefs, or the wildly contrasting climates in different parts of Australia, or Table Mountain in Cape Town, where it seemed the condensation formed a tablecloth of cloud over the flat plateau. But she did not talk to this bunch, did not even pop her head through the door to ask if they required more toast or more coffee.
    It was as they were leaving that she took her revenge. There they were, a family tableau of harmlessness, with their suitcases, the wife's of black fiber, the girl with a blue rucksack, and the husband with a brown leather attache case. She was, as she said, only charging them for the one room, since, by her reckoning, only one room was fully occupied. She saw that they understood but chose maddeningly not to react. The husband handed her a five-pound note, some single notes, and silver that covered the cost of the two rooms. She insisted he take some back, but he refused, as did his wife. It got quite spiteful then. The husband showed his displeasure by baring his upper teeth and the wife remarked on the scarcity of towels in the bathroom and as for the jerky, antediluvian lavatory chain, that went out with the Ark. The daughter smirked as she sucked on tiny crescents of mandarin orange. Eventually, the husband thrust the three notes and the coins inside the dipping pocket of her overall, and determined not to be outdone, she hurled them lasso-wise along the chipstone gravel. The coins glittered in the bright morning sunshine.
    They were on the other side of the gate now, the parents putting the luggage into the boot, when the daughter ran back to pick up the money, then stuck her tongue out in brazen defiance.
    She watched until the car was well out of sight. Then she flopped onto the grass and began to cry. She cried from the pit of her being. Why was she crying? "Why am I crying?" she asked aloud. It was not over them or the unsavouriness of the night. It was to do with herself. Her heart had walled up a long time ago, she had forgotten the little things, the little pleasures, the give-and-take that is life. She had even forgotten her own sins.
    The grass was soft and silken and not too dry, nourished from rain and spells of sunshine.

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Madame Cassandra

    AT LAST AT LAST. I have been perambulating for the best part of an hour ... luckily I had my brolly to keep off that glaring sunshine. It must be at least twenty-three Celsius ... the poor earth is baked ... even the old weeds are passing out and the foxglove expiring. I always love the way the bees snuggle into the foxglove ... for the coolth and the nectar ... make themselves at home—"Where the harebell grows and the foxglove purple and white" ... a favorite verse ... from the anthologies.
    My, my ... what a pretty caravan ... so gaily colored and flowers, flowers. Steps painted in three different shades. Madame Cassandra—how beautiful, how ancient. You know your mythology I am glad to see. It says "No appointment necessary" but Madame your door is shut ... your half door is shut and your heavy red curtain is drawn all along your picture window. I am a little weary ... trudging here and so forth ... not to mention the inconvenience of having to ask people directions, when I alighted from the bus. I shall rest a little on one of your steps, on one of your painted steps.
    Eureka. I know what it is ...you are expelling, if that is the word, the karma of the previous incumbent and a good thing too ... I must say I would love a glass of water or a glass of angostura bitters ... such a thirst— parched. I see you collect stones, large stones, small stones, rocks, and that