Bucket to Greece Short 1 by Bucket V.D

Author:Bucket, V.D.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-05-12T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

Good Enough for Scarlett O’Hara

Shaking me awake, Marigold deposited a tender kiss on my forehead and passed me a coffee. It was still pitch-black outside. “What time is it?” I groaned, squinting at the alarm clock through bleary eyes.

“It is unspeakably early,” Marigold told me as I clocked it was only 4 am. “You have a very early start, dear. I thought you could do with a decent breakfast inside you before the off.”

Marigold appeared to be in a surprisingly good mood considering she was, for her, up at an unheard-of hour. Usually, when deprived of a lie in, her voice is devoid of such a cheery lilt. Hoping to take advantage of her good humour, I thought it was worth suggesting, “Bacon and eggs, darling.”

“You don’t want your cholesterol playing up on the way to Albania,” Marigold chided. “But I’ll do you a soft-boiled chuck egg and some toast to go with your muesli. You take a shower whilst I see to it.”

“I must say, I am surprised to find you up and about so early,” I commented.

“I wanted to be up to see you off. And I’ve masses to do,” Marigold said blithely as though being up before dawn was a regular occurrence for her. “As soon as you’ve got rid of Guzim, I need to take his sheets to the bins and fumigate the mattress. Then, I thought I’d make the most of the peace and quiet by relaxing with a good book; it’s been quite impossible to grab a quiet moment during the last few days.”

“It will be lovely and peaceful for you once we drive Guzim away.”

“If you would bring up some logs before you go, dear, I could snuggle up with the cats in front of a roaring fire.”

Since Marigold’s words painted quite the cosy picture, I felt a stab of jealousy. There would be no cosying up in the hearse and most likely we would be battling against inclement weather.

Savouring my aromatic coffee, I volunteered, “I’ll get some logs for you now.” There was no point in getting all sweaty after my shower.

After lugging logs up the outside stairs, showering and breakfasting, I carried a bowl of muesli through to Guzim and woke him up, ready for the off. As he hauled himself into a sitting position, I was fixated by the bruises on his face. Where only a day or two earlier his face had been black and purple, the bruises now stood out in a lurid shade of yellow and green: as an aside, yellow is really not Guzim’s colour, making him look washed out. In stark contrast, the white bandage encircling his forehead dazzled me with its whiteness: Violet Burke must have changed the grubby white cotton gauze he had been sporting the previous day.

Greedily tucking into the muesli, Guzim’s face contorted in disgust. Spitting it out, he complained that he wasn’t eating bird feed. Considering how adventurous Guzim had been in sampling such foreign delights as curry and trifle, his reaction surprised me.

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