330. the Hidden Heart

‘I’ve never laid out a more beautiful corpse,' Mrs. Bootle said dramatically, throwing open the door and waddling into the room, her vast bulk seeming to dominate the delicately polished furniture with its innumerable little knick- knacks. The girl sitting by the fireplace sewing black braid on to a heavy black serge skirt looked up. ‘Can I go upstairs?’ she asked. Mrs. Bootle advanced towards her like a tidal wave. ‘I should wait a moment or so, dearie. Give yourself time to think. It’s always a bit of a shock the first time you sees one. Cold as marble, yet beautiful in their own way. And beautiful your mother is, you can take it from me, and after thirty-five years as the best layer-out in this neighborhood I should know what I’m talking about. ‘I’m sure you do,’ Sylvia said gently. All the same she rose to her feet, slipping the heavy skirt from her knees on to a stool beside her chair. Mrs. Bootle settled herself in the armchair. ‘Now before you goes upstairs to have a good cry,’ she said, I could do with just a little something. Mine’s a hard job, though, mind you, it’s a good one as jobs go and . . . well, when it’s over it’s usual for me to take a little refreshment. ’‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Bootle, ’Sylvia said quickly. ‘You must think me most neglectful. I will get you something to eat—and drink—but I’m afraid there is nothing... but tea. ’‘That will have to do then,’ Mrs. Bootle said graciously. ‘I could have done with something a little bit stronger, mark you; but there, it’s always the same when there’s no man in the house! A cup of tea and something to eat it’ll do me fine, my dear. What did you say was in the larder? ’‘I think there are some eggs,’ Sylvia replied, ‘and the remains of a pie.’‘That’ll do me splendidly/ Mrs. Bootle said. ‘Very lightly poached, if you please, and I could eat those while you’re heating up the pie, couldn’t I? And don’t forget,* she added as Sylvia moved towards the door, ‘that I like my tea strong, really strong. I need something to put a little life into me. 'I will be as quick as I can,’ Sylvia promised and hurried from the sitting-room across the dark hall and down the uncarpeted stone steps which led to the basement kitchen. There was a smell of must and damp which no amount of cleaning could eradicate, but it was warm from the red glowing coals in the big black range. She put the kettle on to boil and went to the larder for the eggs. There were only two, and she realised that when Mrs. Bootle had finished the remains of the pie there would be nothing at all left for her own supper. I don’t want anything,’ she told herself, but was conscious nevertheless of something like a pang of hunger within her. She had eaten nothing since her mother died. Somehow the mere idea of food had seemed nauseating, but now she admitted to herself honestly that she was hungry. She made some toast for Mrs. Bootle’s eggs and cutting off the crusts ate them herself with something like relish.