The Sensitive One (1931) by C. H. B. Kitchin

Author:C. H. B. Kitchin [Kitchin, C. H. B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Valancourt Books
Published: 2014-07-27T21:00:00+00:00

VII

JUNE

“Lole, Lopside, Loda, Lultanas, Lime-juice, Liphons (3) do. Lole.”

The book-keeper at the big store in Shoreston made capital S and T like L.

Margaret was doing the housekeeping books in her bedroom that faced the sea. It was the last day in June. The sea hardly moved, and a vast semicircle of mountainous clouds, their regular bases ten degrees above the horizon, made Cliff House the centre of a universe. The clouds were slowly gliding inwards, and seemed to compress the air till it was more solid than the sea. Suddenly the air and the whole house quivered at five deep explosions—blasting at Midhampton quarry eight miles away. Margaret looked at her watch. It was half past three. Blasting was only allowed at that time and at half past eleven. The ledger in which she was making an analysis of the books had to be ready for Mr. Moxhay by a quarter past five. Till then, he would be sleeping. There was plenty of time. She had managed her catering badly during the previous week. Every item came to more than the average. (She had had to work out the averages and memorise them). Over the essentials of life Mr. Moxhay was not mean. He was prepared to pay for as much milk, meat and bread as his family would eat, but he made careful inquiries about luxuries, cherries, tins of sardines and chocolate biscuits.

“Lole.”

How was it they had had “lole” three times? She looked idly at the horizon, while searching for an explanation. A broad semicircular shadow ran round the edge of the sea, leaving a thin strip of clear water beyond. Nearer at hand were other shadows, less regular and more complex. As one watched them, they seemed to rise out of the flat surface, forming dark hills over which passed a gentle and transparent movement, as if a delicate vegetation were putting forth a quick bloom. Then the hills themselves, overladen, dissolved and sank, and distant gulls, like scraps of white paper whirling in a sunlit street, flashed upwards out of nothing, catching and losing the light. The sea was as she enjoyed it most—full of quiet and concealed interests, like the lives of people of whom one does not read in the newspapers.

“Lole.”

On Saturday night the curate at the Parish Church had come to dinner. On Tuesday—— There was a sound of panting and a heavy tread on the stairs. Margaret’s eyes left the sea and narrowed into a firm alertness. But when Alice came in, she did not say, “Please Miss, the master would like you to go to his room,” but, “Please, Miss, Mr. Hector has called.”

“Mr. Hector?”

“Yes, Miss. He’s in the garden.”

“All right, Alice. I’ll be down in five minutes.”

In five minutes she had finished the books.

“Hector!”

“So this is the nest. Do you like it?”

“Immensely. Let’s go and sit lower down. There’s a seat at the top of the rock. Unless you want——”

“No, I don’t.”

“Euphemia’s resting, and father’s asleep. Have you come from London?”

“Yes, in my new car.

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