Free M Is for Magic by Neil Gaiman Page B

questionnaire. Every now and then, she’d flip to the back of the magazine and check the relative points assigned to an A), B), or C) answer before making up her mind how she’d respond to the question.
    Mrs. Whitaker puttered around the shop.
    They still hadn’t sold the stuffed cobra, she noted. It had been there for six months now, gathering dust, glass eyes gazing balefully at the clothes racks and the cabinet filled with chipped porcelain and chewed toys.
    Mrs. Whitaker patted its head as she went past.
    She picked out a couple of Mills & Boon novels from a bookshelf— Her Thundering Soul and Her Turbulent Heart , a shilling each—and gave careful consideration to the empty bottle of Mateus Rosé with a decorative lampshade on it before deciding she really didn’t have anywhere to put it.
    She moved a rather threadbare fur coat, which smelled badly of mothballs. Underneath it was a walking stick and a water-stained copy of Romance and Legend of Chivalry by A. R. Hope Moncrieff, priced at five pence. Next to the book, on its side,was the Holy Grail. It had a little round paper sticker on the base, and written on it, in felt pen, was the price: 30p.
    Mrs. Whitaker picked up the dusty silver goblet and appraised it through her thick spectacles.
    â€œThis is nice,” she called to Marie.
    Marie shrugged.
    â€œIt’d look nice on the mantelpiece.”
    Marie shrugged again.
    Mrs. Whitaker gave fifty pence to Marie, who gave her ten pence change and a brown paper bag to put the books and the Holy Grail in. Then she went next door to the butcher’s and bought herself a nice piece of liver. Then she went home.
    The inside of the goblet was thickly coated with a brownish-red dust. Mrs. Whitaker washed it out with great care, then left it to soak for an hour in warm water with a dash of vinegar added.
    Then she polished it with metal polish until it gleamed, and she put it on the mantelpiece in her parlor, where it sat between a small soulful china basset hound and a photograph of her late husband, Henry, on the beach at Frinton in 1953.
    She had been right: It did look nice.

    For dinner that evening she had the liver fried in breadcrumbs with onions. It was very nice.
    The next morning was Friday; on alternate Fridays Mrs. Whitaker and Mrs. Greenberg would visit each other. Today it was Mrs. Greenberg’s turn to visit Mrs. Whitaker. They sat in the parlor and ate macaroons and drank tea. Mrs. Whitaker took one sugar in her tea, but Mrs. Greenberg took sweetener, which she always carried in her handbag in a small plastic container.
    â€œThat’s nice,” said Mrs. Greenberg, pointing to the Grail. “What is it?”
    â€œIt’s the Holy Grail,” said Mrs. Whitaker. “It’s the cup that Jesus drunk out of at the Last Supper. Later, at the Crucifixion, it caught His precious blood when the centurion’s spear pierced His side.”
    Mrs. Greenberg sniffed. She was small and Jewish and didn’t hold with unsanitary things. “I wouldn’t know about that,” she said, “but it’s very nice. Our Myron got one just like that when he won the swimming tournament, only it’s got his name on the side.”
    â€œIs he still with that nice girl? The hairdresser?”
    â€œBernice? Oh yes. They’re thinking of getting engaged,” said Mrs. Greenberg.
    â€œThat’s nice,” said Mrs. Whitaker. She took another macaroon.
    Mrs. Greenberg baked her own macaroons and brought them over every alternate Friday: small sweet light-brown biscuits with almonds on top.
    They talked about Myron and Bernice, and Mrs. Whitaker’s nephew Ronald (she had had no children), and about their friend Mrs. Perkins who was in hospital with her hip, poor dear.
    At midday Mrs. Greenberg went home, and Mrs. Whitaker made herself cheese on toast for lunch, and after lunch Mrs. Whitaker took her pills: the white and the red and two little orange