Game Show by Allie Cresswell

Author:Allie Cresswell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2013-06-05T00:00:00+00:00

Celia

Mrs Jeffries bustled in with Michael and Timothy happily in tow.

'Good afternoon, Madam!' she said cheerily. She had been told a dozen times to call Celia by her first name, but point blank refused, and preferred to be addressed as Mrs Jeffries. She was slim and quite pretty, but her resolutely business-like demeanour came across as humourless and rather dour. She hadn't any of the softness which Celia would have looked for in a child-minder. But she was an excellent and efficient cook, and Celia had no doubt the children's meal would be something appetising and nutritious, a far cry from the burgers, nuggets and pizzas she tended to serve up night after night. The children liked Mrs Jeffries well enough but she remained an enigma to Celia. Something about her did not add up. There didn't seem to be a Mr Jeffries, for a start, and she held what Celia considered to be an unnaturally elevated position in Kate's household.

'Just let me cope with everything, Mrs White,' she said now, in the tone of voice that a voluntary worker might use with an elderly house-bound person. 'You go and get ready. I left Mrs Robinson soaking in the Jacuzzi enjoying a vodka and tonic. Would you like me to bring you one up while you soak?'

'Goodness, no,' said Celia, thinking that she didn't have any vodka and in any case wouldn't like to have Mrs Jeffries breezing into the bathroom while she bathed. 'Is that Michael's kit? Oh please don't feel you have to...'

'You leave that entirely to me. I'll pop it in with Timothy's while I'm cooking the children's dinner. It'll be washed and dried and ironed by the time you get home tonight.'

'I don't usually iron it...' Celia began, half ashamed, but Mrs Jeffries had shed her coat and already had hot water in the sink and a bleach-soaked cloth in her hand, swabbing down the work surfaces and polishing the draining board. Celia hovered by the door, guiltily eyeing the crumbs under the toaster and the grime escaping from the lip of the waste bin. Presently, when she had established a level of hygiene that looked as though it would allow, if necessary, a tonsillectomy to be performed on the breakfast bar, Mrs Jeffries unpacked the children's supper from her basket; a wholesome shepherd's pie, a Tupperware box full of peas and sweetcorn and a homemade Victoria Sponge.

'Won't you let me help?' Celia asked, pathetically.

'Not at all. Mrs Robinson was quite specific, Madam. You're to be ready at seven for the taxi, and I'm to take care of everything else. Now you'd better go up and run your bath so the water can heat up afterwards for those two muddy footballers.'

Celia did as she was told and went upstairs.

After her bath Celia sat in the gloom of the bedroom in front of her dressing table mirror; the centre light bulb had gone last weekend and no-one had had time to replace it. The light from the bedside lamps was muted; she was glad of it; she didn't feel up to facing herself.

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