The Uninvited Guests by Sadie Jones Read Free Book Online

very dignified, Mother.
    ‘You’re a darling,’ said Charlotte, patting her head and stepping lightly away from her up the stairs.
    ‘I shall see about Smudge,’ called Emerald after her and, ‘Yes, why don’t you?’ was her mother’s faint reply.
    ‘Smudge?’ There was no answer from behind Smudge’s bedroom door.
    ‘Smudge?’ cooed Emerald again, before turning the knob. The doorknobs at Sterne were all different, and nobody knew why. This particular one was china and undecorated; others were painted, some coloured glass, or brass, still others were of carved or plain wood. The Torringtons blamed the Victorians.
    Smudge was asleep. Emerald sat on her bed and held the hand that lay outside the covers. When she opened her eyes she said, ‘Hello, small Smudge, would you like me to bring you something?’
    Smudge was blurry. ‘Oh, no, or yes.’
    ‘Are you pretending this illness or is it authentic?’
    ‘Authentic, I think.’
    ‘Shall I fetch Dr Death?’
    This was not his real name, of course. He wasn’t even a Dr D’Eath or Dethe – his name was actually Harris. His nickname had become increasingly morbid and hideous during the course of their father’s illness, but was too entrenched to discard. It had, in the last desperate days of his life, become funny once more. They had all, including the weakened Horace, shrieked with laughter at the uttering of the name Dr Death on more than one occasion. Laughed until they cried.
    ‘I don’t know. Would he come?’
    ‘Of course. What are your symptoms?’
    ‘My symptoms?’ The child’s white forehead creased.
    ‘Have you a headache? Are you in pain? Do you have any appetite at all?’
    ‘I’m not hungry very much, but I know the reason for that. I ate a tin of sugar biscuits that I had under my bed.’
    Emerald bent down to look. Sure enough, there was an open tin there, revealing a golden interior lightly scattered with crumbs.
    ‘You’re not to bring biscuits up here, we’ll get mice.’
    ‘We’ve mice already; we may as well make them welcome.’
    ‘It’s no use arguing with invalids.’
    Smudge giggled.
    ‘Mother wants you down for supper,’ said Emerald, although their mother had made no such statement. At this, the child rallied marvellously.
    ‘Then I will be. With the guests? Topping!’
    ‘Where on earth did “topping” come from?’
    ‘Clovis.’
    ‘Don’t say it.’
    ‘Only when I need to.’
    Emerald took the biscuit tin and stood up. ‘Have you had any other visitors?’ she asked.
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Clovis, or Mother, or Mrs Trieves…’
    ‘Only animals, but I don’t think they like ill people.’ All at once, Smudge began to cry. ‘They went away again,’ she said.
    Emerald bent and kissed her.
    ‘You silly,’ she said, ‘I’ll fetch you soup and bread. You’re light-headed. The dogs adore you and so does Lloyd. Look! Here he is!’
    The brindled cat had crept heavily into the room, with the air cats have of saying, I understand you’re talking about me, but I shan’t look at you.
    He affected surprise as Emerald heaved him up and deposited him on Smudge’s bed, where he suffered himself to be pinned down and began to purr.
    With Lloyd to keep her company, Smudge’s tears were very soon over. Emerald left her, and went away to find soup. The kitchen was in uproar. It was a miracle that evidence of it hadn’t seeped into the main house. Florence Trieves and Myrtle were hard at it, barely visible among the clouds of flour and puffs of steam, as they flew between the counter and the table – pausing, in heated, fervent disarray to look up and ask: ‘What is it?’
    An earthenware bowl held a dozen eggs, bright yolks mesmerised by glassy whites. Two anaemic chickens, spatchcocked, lay broken on a board. The rhubarb had been cleaned, chopped and heaped into three bright pink mountains.
    ‘I was wondering if there might be a little soup,’ offered Emerald nervously, as Florence’s pointed face