Almshouses -- Fiction; Older women -- Fiction; Villages -- England -- Fiction; Women cleaning personnel -- Fiction
She drank the soup gratefully, glad that she had no need to set about
any cooking for herself, and ate a piece of her own excellent currant
bread. Her currant loaves, indeed, were quite famous in the district,
so much so that there were people who ordered them from her every
week. Miss Marigold was fond of them, too, and so was Tibbie—Tibbie,
who wrote that even the children said she could not make them like
Granny! Miss Marigold was to have a loaf as a wedding-gift when next
she came home; in the excitement of moving she must not forget that.
But once up at the new house she would have plenty of time for her
loaves—loaves fit to set before the King, if by any chance the King,
or the local gentry, who unconsciously ranked so much higher in her
country mind, should honour her with a call.
She felt so energetic after the sleep and the soup that she longed
to begin pulling the cottage to pieces at once. The almshouse was
furnished, of course, and after a fashion that took your breath, but
she had no doubt that there would be room for her few bits of sticks
as well. They would be Tibbie’s and the children’s after she was
gone, and in any case she did not want to part with them just yet.
The apparently lifeless furnishings of a house register always the
joys and sorrows of those to whom they belong, and everything in the
cottage was beautiful to Mrs. Clapham because here Tibbie had lived
and laughed.
But of course there could be no moving for a day or two yet, even
although already she was hungering to be off. It would seem almost
indecent to grab at the house like that; greedy, anyhow, and not
quite nice. In any case, she felt sure it would have to be cleaned
first, just as the spot she was leaving would have to be scrubbed
throughout. Still, there was no reason why she shouldn’t take a look
at the place, and amuse herself by making her joyful plans. Her
heart rose and danced again at the pleasing prospect, as the motes
danced in the silently passing sun. With hands that trembled a little
she washed Mrs. James’s china and set it aside to return, and then
climbed the stairs to the little bedroom to tidy herself and change.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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