(continued from The House At Longhope)
It was Friday.
‘They’ll not get here till lunchtime tomorrow’ she said, partly to herself and partly to the large rag doll in the back of the cupboard.
She brought him gently out into the daylight, as if aware, that having spent the winter cupboarding, he may find shock in the sudden presence of spring.
‘You’re starting to look rather forlorn Silas. That eye needs restitching and a good wash is in order’.
The ticking of the grandfather clock in the front room reminded her that Ellen was due for tea. And several minutes later a gentle knock on the door confirmed the thought.
But by then Suzette had laid out the trolley with scones and fancies, and the kettle on the Arga was starting to sing.
Charley, curled up on a chair in the tiny conservatory at the end of the house, stretched and yawned. A kettle boiling was a sign of teatime, a sign of teatime meant Suzette required a reminder that supper was not far away.
‘Yeow’ he said loudly, fluffed up and sleepy as he jumped down and sauntered into the sweet-smelling warmth of the kitchen.
Only just audible above the rattling of the tea trolley across tiles, came Suzette’s mildy exasperated reply.
‘Oh Charley dear, not now’.
From his new place at the bay window, Silas rolled his eyes discreetly.
The quiet of the winter cupboard had almost allowed him to forget about Charley’s ever-demanding stomach.
