Intimate Strangers by Katharine Susannah Prichard

Author:Katharine Susannah Prichard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ligature Pty Limited
Published: 2021-11-09T11:05:38+00:00

CHAPTER XIV

The children went back to school. Elodie began to give music lessons again. The days moved much as they had always done, except for Gloria, who had been reinstated. ‘Our morning Glory,’ Greg called her.

She arrived at seven in the morning and took charge of the household, as she had done while Elodie was ill. A chirpy little soul, wiry and energetic, she got breakfast, swept, dusted and washed dishes, singing at the top of her voice.

What she didn’t know about running a house and minding children wasn’t worth knowing, she had assured Greg when he first engaged her, and Greg believed it. Gloria was sixteen, the eldest of a family of six, and for years had been managing her mother’s house, ‘keeping the kids in order’, she said, ‘while Mum went out washing’. Her father had died of miners’ phthisis when his family was all in steps and stairs. Glory and her mother had battled along, until now, Angeline, a younger sister, could look after the children. ‘It’s only fair Gloria should have a chance to see something of life,’ Mrs. Montague explained.

Seeing life for Gloria did not mean much more than working all day at the Blackwoods’ and going home to sleep at night. But Gloria was very proud of and pleased with herself to have got a job: to be able to hand over wages to her mother at the end of the week, and to spend the two shillings mum insisted she should keep for pocket money on lollies and ice-creams for the youngsters, or on taking them to the pictures on Saturday night.

Elodie, grateful for small mercies in the way of domestic help, regarded Gloria as a boon in every way. Peg and Bill adored her. Gloria could be depended on for a story at any moment, no matter what she was doing; and for a game, if she could fit one in before dinner, or after she had washed-up. Peg and Bill were prodigal of offers to help with the washing-up if she would promise to play hidy or tell them a story afterwards. Even Greg made use of her cheery good humour to feed the fowls, or bring in wood, if he was late getting away in the morning. And Gloria polished his shoes, hunted for studs and papers he mislaid, with the best will in the world. More than recompensed by his casual thanks, or a chaffing:

‘Oh Glory, Glory Hallelujah, how did we ever live without you?’

He got no end of amusement out of her yarns about the pictures she had seen and her adoration of film stars, most of whom she talked of as though they were bosom friends: the secret reasons for their marriages and divorces all known to her. Greg liked to call out when he was shaving: ‘I say, Glory, is it true that Greta Garbo’s going to be married?’

To which Gloria, setting the breakfast table, would reply: ‘Oh no, Mr. Blackwood. Not that I know of. If you ask me, Greta’ll never marry.

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