Free Appointment with Yesterday by Celia Fremlin Page A

she pointed out. “The things that won’t go in the dishwasher. The baking-tins. And the mincer. And the burnt chip-pan. And all that white, sticky stuff in the Mouli-Mixer—”
    “Oh dear. Well.” You could see that Mrs Graham was interrupting the recital because she knew it by heart. She must have gone through it many a time with My Other Woman and her predecessors, and she had learned, the hard way, that stupidity has to be humoured.
    “You want a rag, I suppose?” she diagnosed wearily. “I’ll see what I can find.” And with a huge sigh she got up from her typewriter and began rummaging in the bottom drawer of a big mahogany desk. Embroidery silks—hemstitched tray-cloths —postcards—cotton wool—they boiled up like soapsuds round her elbows as she stirred and prodded: and at last, in weary triumph, she produced a torn nylon slip and the half-unravelled sleeve of a knitted sweater.
    “ Here you are,” she said: and such was her air of having secured these objects against unimaginable odds that Milly hadn’t the heart to point out that they were almost useless for the job in hand, and that what she needed was something absorbent, like an old towel or piece of sheeting.
    So she simply thanked her employer meekly, and went back to the kitchen. It took much longer than it would have done, if only she’d had a proper rag, and the final result was not all that she could have wished: but it was certainly greatly improved, and Milly fairly glowed with pride when heremployer came in, an hour later, and surveyed the clean and shining surfaces with real approval.
    “They’re marvellous, aren’t they, these dishwashers?” she observed, looking blandly round at the results of Milly’s labours. “See how clean and tidy they keep the kitchen! You’ve no idea the mess we used to be in, before we had one! I’m going to make a cup of coffee now, Mrs Er, could you put the kettle on? I drink a lot of coffee when I’m working. I expect you’d rather have tea, Mrs Er, wouldn’t you?”
    Milly thought quickly. Did this mean simply that My Other Woman had preferred tea? Or was it a veiled command—coffee in short supply, or more expensive, or something?
    Well, and suppose it was a veiled command? Who was it, anyway, who had to be careful not to annoy whom? At this invigorating thought, Milly’s courage returned.
    “No—actually I prefer coffee,” she declared boldly: and registering only the faintest flicker of surprise, Mrs Graham took the Nescafé from the shelf, and proceeded to make coffee for the two of them.
    “I’m on a special diet, I don’t take sugar,” she observed, stirring two heaped teaspoonfuls into Milly’s cup as she spoke; and Milly accepted the sickly-sweet concoction without protest. In the first place, she could quite see how the specialness of Mrs Graham’s diet would be spoiled by other people not taking sugar either: and in the second, she could feel in her body an unwonted craving for sweetness. Even after all those Ricicles, she still felt half-starved, and she watched, almost dizzy with greed, as Mrs Graham reached for a tin of biscuits, opened it, and peered inside.
    “All sweet ones!” she said disgustedly. “Arnold—Professor Graham, that is to say—he will buy the sweet ones! I’ve told him a million times …! For two pins I’d do the shopping myself, but it’s so convenient for him, the supermarket’s right on his way back from the University….”
    Milly watched, sick with disappointment, as Mrs Graham began replacing the lid—but just at that moment, somethingseemed to arrest Mrs Graham’s attention. She cocked her head on one side, and set the biscuit tin absently on the table: and Milly, pretending to think it had been passed to her, snatched greedily into the tin.
    Had this behaviour looked very odd? Mrs Graham was staring at Milly unbelievingly, and Milly, covered with shame and confusion, was just about to apologise, when Mrs Graham herself began to