The Matchmaker by Stella Gibbons Read Free Book Online Page B

hand. “Oh—good morning,” recognising her.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Hoadley. I hope I’m not disturbing you. Can you tell me what happens about letters here? Does the postman come or do we have to fetch them?”
    “Sometimes she does (it’s an old lady—or was, before she was taken ill a month ago) but most days we have to ride down to Burlham for them.”
    She paused, obviously waiting for Alda to thank her, and go away; her manner was perfectly civil and equally perfectly designed to keep Alda at a distance.
    “I see. That won’t always be convenient for us,” said Alda, who sometimes did not notice when people intended to keep her at a distance. “What a nuisance.”
    “Yes, it is. Mr. Hoadley or one of the men has to go down there every day, never mind the weather or the work.” She did not add an offer to let one of them bring Alda’s letters.
    “You are going to let us have our milk, aren’t you?” Alda went on, eager to get the details of their new life into working order.
    “Yes.” Here Mrs. Hoadley’s eyes strayed to Meg.
    She was sitting on the low brick wall supporting the wooden porch and kicking her boots and trousered legs against it, and such looks as she had were not improved by wet tails of hair hanging out of her pixie hood on either side of her fat pale cheeks. Her attitude and manner, which were detached to indifference, were not attractive unless the beholder happened to like children.
    “Don’t kick holes in the wall, please, it’s bad enough now,” said Mrs. Hoadley with a cross smile.
    Meg stopped kicking and gazed up at her with interest. Then (for she was not accustomed to a tone lacking in affection) she turned inquiring eyes upon her mother.
    “Perhaps you’d better take the milk now, it’ll save one of us a journey later,” went on Mrs. Hoadley. “I won’t ask you in, it’s so wet and children make such a mess, don’t they? I’ll go and get it.”
    She turned back into the house, leaving the door open, and with one impulse Alda and Meg peered into the hall to see what this cross lady’s house was like.
    All was in noticeably good taste; grey-papered walls, an etching of a cathedral, a grandfather clock with J. F. Cole, Horsham painted upon his face in a wreath of flowers, and on the floor a grey drugget. How boring, thought Alda, whose taste certainly did run to the Christmas Supplement in Colours. I would have white paper all over red grapes and green leaves, a brick floor, apple-green paint——
    “Here you are,” said Mrs. Hoadley, reappearing, and she handed her two open zinc cans filled with milk.
    “Thank you, but I’m afraid I can’t take them now; I’ve got Meg to carry and I can’t manage both,” said Alda decisively, putting them down on the brick coping. “I’ll come back for them later.”
    Mrs. Hoadley was plainly preparing to open her compressed lips with something hasty when a man came up the path, saying, “Letters from Ironborough, Molly,” at the same time putting a packet into her eager hand; and when she did speak all that came out was:
    “Here is Mr. Hoadley; he may have some letters for you.”
    “Yes, I have. We saw your lights last night and knew you must be in,” smiled Mr. Hoadley and handed Alda a bundle which included two from Germany. Her face lit up.
    “Oh, thank you. How kind,” she said.
    “Somebody has to go down anyway (there’s always a pile of forms for me to fill up by every post) so we may as well save you the journey. Is this your milk?”
    Mrs. Hoadley, apparently losing interest in the proceedings, had hurried with her letters into the house.
    “Yes. I was coming back for it later. I’ve got this to carry,” giving a little shake to Meg, who was now on her back, “and I can’t manage both.”
    “I’ll take the milk for you, I’m going up that way,” and he picked up the cans. “Gone up to see Mr. Waite if anyone wants me, Molly; shan’t be long,” he called to his wife, who was standing by the