The Chimney Sweeper's Boy by Barbara Vine Read Free Book Online Page A

tennis, the shop, the hairdresser’s, the bar. She and Pauline had had a drink in that bar, but they hadn’t stayed for dinner. She wasn’t sure where the dining room was. There were glass cases on the walls full of jewelry and ceramics and beachwear.
    A young woman with long red hair stood behind the reception desk, checking something in a ledger against a computer screen. She looked up as Ursula approached, and she said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Candless.”
    So much for introducing herself as Ursula Wick.
    â€œWe were all so sorry to hear about Mr. Candless,” said the redheaded girl, then added very conventionally, “You have our deepest sympathy in your very sad loss. I believe Mr. Schofield did write to you to express the sympathy of the staff?”
    Ursula nodded, though she couldn’t remember. Hundreds of letters had come.
    â€œNow, how may I help you, Mrs. Candless?” said the girl in a very caring, earnest way.
    â€œI want to know if you still need baby-sitters.”
    The girl pursed her lips. They were juicy red lips, like the inside of a cut strawberry. “We always need them, Mrs. Candless, and especially at this time of the year. Did you wish to recommend someone?”
    â€œYes,” said Ursula. “Me.”
    It took some sorting out, as Ursula had known it would if they knew who she was. She had to explain that, yes, she was serious, that she really would like to baby-sit for the children of hotel guests, say twice a week. She was fond of children. It would be a change; it would—and here, somewhat to her shame, she found herself obliged to use an excuse, the widow’s excuse ofwanting to get out of the former marital home in the evenings. This the redheaded girl understood. The manager, Mr. Schofield, arriving opportunely, also understood.
    â€œAnything we can do to help you in your bereavement, Mrs. Candless,” he said, as if he was doing her a favor instead of she him.
    â€œThank you for your letter, by the way,” she said.
    â€œMy pleasure,” said the manager, going rather red as he perhaps realized this wasn’t quite the thing to say.
    â€œStart on Thursday, then,” the redheaded girl said, evidently adhering to the principle that the sooner therapy begins, the better. She put something down in her ledger. Ursula thanked them and wondered, as she made her way out to the road, what exchanges about her strange behavior had taken place between them as soon as she was out of earshot. Once back at Lundy View House, she went straight into the little room they called the morning room, where she had piled all the letters of condolence on the small round table.
    The stamps on the envelopes told her that they had come from all over the world. It was a pity she didn’t know some boy or girl who collected stamps, but perhaps she would meet one when she started her baby-sitting. After all, it wouldn’t be babies, but children up to ten. Ursula fetched a large black plastic bag from a roll in the cupboard under the sink and a pair of scissors from the workbox, which had been her mother’s, in the living room.
    She cut all the stamps off the envelopes, finding it a soothing and indeed enjoyable task. There were stamps from the United States and Australia, Sweden and Poland, Malaysia and Gambia. Some of them were very beautiful, with birds or butterflies on them. When she had finished, she had accumulated sixty-seven foreign stamps. She put them into a new envelope and then she dropped all the letters, all of them unopened, into the black plastic bag. It was a relief to have decided not to answer any of them.

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    When the guests had gone, Peter said, quoting Goethe or someone, “They are pleasant enough people, but if they had been books, I wouldn’t have read them.”
    â€”T HE F ORSAKEN M ERMAN
    H OPE GOT TO THE RESTAURANT MUCH TOO EARLY. She hid herself inside the Laura Ashley shop on the opposite side of the