Free The Angel in the Corner by Monica Dickens Page B

could not be ignored, but it suddenly looked less like an injury, and more like an integral part of her face.
    ‘Mrs Martin?’ Virginia asked, her own name sounding strange. She had not expected the woman to contradict her, and so was not taken off her guard when she nodded. She had known as soon as the door opened that this was her father’s wife. She had expected it to be, and in that moment of shock when she saw the disfigured face, she was certain. Everything fell into place. Her father, hypercritical, intolerant of physical or mental defects, had been irritated beyond endurance by Virginia’s mother, with her carefully-groomed poise. He had found fault with her appearance even when it was almost perfect. Now he had found himself a woman who was so imperfect that she must be above criticism. There would be no need for intolerance any more.
    ‘Can I help you?’ Mrs Martin asked. Her voice was quiet and friendly. She made no attempt to turn her face to one side.
    ‘I represent the Colgate-Palmolive Company,’ Virginia said, remembering the lines she had rehearsed. ‘We’re conducting a survey on consumer habits. If you wouldn’t mind, I would like to know which of our products you use, and why you like them.’
    ‘That’s nice,’ the woman said amiably. ‘I’ve heard of people being asked things like that, but no one has ever done it to me. The only thing is, I’m not sure which are your products. There are so many different new things, and they all have such attractive names. I buy all sorts of things I see in advertisements, to see if it’s as good as they say. They never are. Oh, but I shouldn’t say that to you, I suppose.’
    Virginia had the impression that Mrs Martin was talking to gain time. Her remarks were a little at random, as if there were something else she really wanted to say.
    ‘That’s all right,’ Virginia said. ‘I’m not in the advertising department. Perhaps if you could let me see your kitchen, I could find out which of our products you have.’
    It was easier to get into the house than she had expected. The woman stepped aside at once, as if she were glad of the chance to ask her in, and Virginia entered her own house feeling like a stranger.
    The house did not look the same. There were more rugs onthe floor. The walls, which Helen had kept pale and austere, were covered with a lively paper and hung with intelligible pictures. The dark passage to the kitchen had new lighting. The kitchen itself, which had defeated Tiny and the daily woman with its cheerlessness, was now a place of gay curtains and bright linoleum, with the old yellow dresser painted white and hung with floral china.
    Virginia could imagine how her mother would scoff. ‘Homey,’ she would say. ‘Revoltingly snug.’ Helen had disliked the house so much that she had not bothered to try and make anything of it. If she had redecorated it, it would never have been in this way.
    ‘I was just going to have some coffee,’ Harold’s wife said. ‘Sit down and I’ll pour it.’ She took an old-fashioned coffee-pot from the back of the stove. Homey again. Virginia could hear the voice of her mother, who would never drink coffee from anything but an electric percolator.
    They talked of the weather, and of nothing in particular. Mrs Martin still seemed to have something on her mind, which she was trying to voice. Perhaps she had sensed from the start that Virginia was an impostor. However, since she said nothing, the impersonation must be carried through. Virginia had got into the house. She had seen her father’s wife, and the kind of surroundings in which he now lived. It was time to go.
    ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I had better get down to business.’ She took out the reporter’s notebook which she had bought for the
Northgate Gazette.
‘If I could just see your soap powders, and polishes, and – and those things.’
    ‘Look, my dear.’ Virginia looked at Mrs Martin and saw that she was blushing. The flush on