LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER 1 Upper Quintern

      ‘ “Bring me,” ’ sang the ladies of Upper Quintern, ‘ “my Bow of Burning Gold.” ’

      ‘ “Bring me,” ’ itemized the Hon. Mrs Foster, sailing up into a thready descant, ‘ “my Arrows of Desire.” ’

      ‘ “Bring me,” ’ stipulated the vicar’s wife, adjusting her pince-nez and improvising into seconds, ‘ “my Chariot of Fire.” ’

      Mrs Jim Jobbin sang with the rest. She had a high soprano and a sense of humour and it crossed her mind to wonder what Mrs Foster would do with Arrows of Desire or how nice Miss Preston of Keys House would manage a Spear, or how the vicar’s wife would make out in a Chariot of Fire. Or for a matter of that how she herself, hard-working creature that she was, could ever be said to rest or stay her hand, much less build Jerusalem here in Upper Quintern or anywhere else in England’s green and pleasant land.

      Still, it was a good tune and the words were spirited if a little far-fetched.

      Now they were reading the minutes of the last meeting and presently there would be a competition and a short talk from the vicar, who had visited Rome with an open mind.

      Mrs Jim, as she was always called in the district, looked round the drawing-room with a practised eye. She herself had ‘turned it out’ that morning and Mrs Foster had done the flowers, picking white japonica with a more lavish hand than she would have dared to use had she known that McBride, her bad-tempered jobbing gardener, was on the watch.

      Mrs Jim, pulling herself together as the chairwoman, using a special voice, said she knew they would all want to express their sympathy with Mrs Black in her recent sad loss. The ladies murmured and a little uncertain woman in a corner offered soundless acknowledgement.

      Then followed the competition. You had to fill in the names of ladies present in answer to what were called cryptic clues. Mrs Jim was mildly amused but didn’t score very highly. She guessed her own name, for which the clue was ‘She doesn’t work out’. ‘Jobb-in’. Quite neat but inaccurate, she thought because her professional jobs were, after all, never ‘in’. Twice a week she obliged Mrs Foster here at Quintern Place, where her niece, Beryl, was a regular. Twice a week she went to Mardling Manor to augment the indoor staff. And twice a week, including Saturdays, she helped Miss Preston at Keys House. From these activities she arrived home in time to get the children’s tea and her voracious husband’s supper. And when Miss Preston gave one of her rare parties, Mrs Jobbin helped out in the kitchen, partly because she could do with the extra money but mostly because she liked Miss Preston.

      Mrs Foster she regarded as being a bit daft; always thinking she was ill and turning on the gushing act to show how nice she could be to the village.

      Now the vicar, having taken a nervy look at the Vatican City, was well on his way to the Forum. Mrs Jobbin made a good-natured effort to keep him company.

      Verity Preston stretched out her long corduroy legs, looked at her boots and wondered why she was there. She was fifty years old but carried

Скачать книгу