THE NEXT MORNING we were awakened early by a messenger delivering an enormous bouquet from Mrs. Stackpole.
“I told you she was kind,” Jordan said.
“Really thoughtful,” I murmured, overwhelmed by this huge assortment of lilies and roses and I didn’t know what all, not being horticultural. “It’s a good thing she left all those vases.”
While we were dealing with the bouquet, the bell rang again, this time heralding the entrance of Mrs. Grail, the cleaning woman, a pleasant-looking, plump person with short curly gray hair, decently attired in a black sweater and skirt. “Don’t worry about a thing,” she said, in a rich brogue. “She’s told me where everything is. Ah! The lovely flowers!”
“Yes, aren’t they? Mrs. Stackpole sent them.”
“Ah, God,” Mrs. Grail said. “They must have cost her a pretty penny. And she hasn’t that much to spare.”
“Yes, it was kind of her.”
“It looks like a funeral.” Her eye swept the sitting room. “She’s cleared it out, hasn’t she? And where are the slipcovers?”
I picked up the list from the desk. “They’re being mended,” I said.
“Mended, is it?” said Mrs. Grail. “They looked new to me.”
‘They’re being mended. She wrote the name of the shop right here.” I turned the paper over. In her large clear hand, Mrs. Stackpole had written, “Glenairlie, Pitwee, Firth.”
“There must be some mistake,” I said. “I think this is her address in Scotland.”
“There’s no mistake,” Mrs. Grail said grimly.
I went upstairs to Jordan, who was shaving in the bathroom.
“Look,” I said. “She wrote her Scottish address here instead of the name of the shop with the slipcovers.”
“Oh, she’s so absent-minded,” Jordan said, with a chuckle.
“I don’t think Mrs. Grail likes her,” I said.
“Ridiculous,” he responded. “It’s probably just Mrs. Grail’s way.”
The phone rang, two short bleeps. Eric answered it and handed it to me. It was Mrs. Stackpole.
“Which child was that?” she asked. “I don’t know which child that was.”
I told her it was Eric, the youngest.
“Ah,” Mrs. Stackpole said fondly. “The wee one.”
“Well, he’s seven. And we do want to thank you for the flowers. They’re so beautiful.”
“Oh, it was because Mr. Miller seemed to miss so many of my little bits. Pictures of the children, and so on. I’m afraid it looked a bit bare.”
“Well, it was kind of you. By the way …”
“Might I have a word with your husband?”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Only I don’t know how it happened, but you wrote your—”
“I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry,” Mrs. Stackpole said pleasantly. “I would just like a word with your husband.”
“Ask her about the slipcovers,” I whispered, handing him the phone.
“Yes,” he said. “Oh, it was lovely of you. You didn’t need to. Yes, I have your address. Yes, I’ll drop it in the mail. Yes. By the way—oh, yes. Listen, you forgot to leave the number of the slipcover man. Yes, you remember. His phone number. Oh. Well, what’s his name and address then? Yes, but I’d like that in case he doesn’t return them. When were they promised? Oh, but that’s a month from now. I mean, it’s only early June now. Give me his address and I’ll try to hurry him.”
There was a pause. “Oh,” Jordan said. “Well, all right if you … Yes.”
He hung up, looking puzzled. “She says he’s not on the telephone, he’s just a little man. I couldn’t exactly get his address. Anyway, she finally said she’s got a spare pair, locked away in a cupboard. She’ll come and get them out.”
“Do you mean they’ve been here all the time? Why didn’t she put them on the furniture?”
“Maybe they’re too ratty-looking,” Jordan said. “How about that little man who’s not on the telephone? I suppose he’s too little to reach the receiver?”
He went off to the office, amid waves of merriment. Soon the doorbell rang, and Mrs. Stackpole appeared in the hall, her hair blown, her eyes wild. “I must rush,” she cried, leaping up the stairs. In a moment she leaped down again, empty-handed. “I’ve brought the key to the wrong cupboard,” she cried. “I’ll be back.”
“What a shame,” I said to Mrs. Grail. “She’ll miss her train.”
Mrs. Grail grunted, leaning on her Hoover. “It’s too many cupboards and too many keys,” she said. “You won’t see her again.”
Mrs. Grail turned to her machine. “It’s the English, you know,” she said enigmatically, and pushed the switch. I hung around for a while, peering out the window through the glass curtain. I was just about to go upstairs and get dressed, when the bell rang again, and Mrs. Stackpole vaulted into the house like an alarmed gazelle. She bounded up the stairs, Mrs. Grail trailing after her, dragging the Hoover. In a few minutes Mrs. Stackpole came panting down, her arms filled with polished chintz slipcovers: large green flowers on a cream-colored background. They looked perfectly presentable to me.
“I’m terribly sorry to have kept you waiting,” she said, breathing heavily. “Here they are. The larger one is for the sofa and the smaller one is for the armchair.” She paused to let that information sink in. “The very small ones cover the cushions, of course. Mrs. Grail can help you. I must fly. Just tell your husband Mr. MacAllister will call round for the money,” she added, and was gone.
I began laboriously to stuff the cushions into the slipcovers. Mrs. Grail came into the sitting room and stood behind me.
“They’re very nice for a spare pair, aren’t they?” I said.
Mrs. Grail sniffed. “Well, they’re the very ones,” she said. “They’re the very ones was here the day I came to see her. They’re the only ones she’s got.”
“But … Maybe they’re identical….”
“Well, I stood there just now when she got them out, you know. I said, ‘Aren’t those the very slipcovers I saw, Mrs. Stackpole?’ And she said, ‘Yes, Mrs. Grail. I’m afraid they are.”’
“She lied to us,” I said, dumbfounded.
“It’s the English, you know,” Mrs. Grail told me seriously. “They’ll do you every time.”