Free The Scent of Water by Elizabeth Goudge

either of them. What had happened to the furniture? What had happened to the oak chest and the little things? Feeling now thoroughly discouraged she went downstairs to the kitchen and found the Rayburn out. Her stoking the night before could not have been to its taste. Looking into the larder she found milk and cereal, bread and marmalade for breakfast, but her whole being ached for hot tea. She must have an oil stove, or calor gas, or something that would ensure a cup of tea when she wanted it, and eventually she must put in electricity. But it was not a priority. There were things far more pressing in this house than electricity.
    After breakfast she fetched her writing case and went into the little parlor to make a list of these priorities. It was a lovely day but she was cold after a tealess breakfast and put a match to the fire. She sat down beside it with her blotting pad on her knee. There was a small window beside the chimney breast that looked west into the kitchen garden, and she saw to her delight that just outside it was a blossoming apple tree. The light of the flames was warmly reflected in the paneling and the sound of them was a voice murmuring of pleasant things beside her. She began to feel more cheerful. Like all women she enjoyed making lists, and even a list of her lists, and she lost track of time noting down repairs to the house in order of priority. Then she made another list of those of her possessions in storage in London which would be suitable here, and another of those that would not. She was hard at it when Mrs. Baker’s head came around the door.
    “The Rayburn’s out, dear. Now that’s a funny thing. It never goes out. You made it up?”
    “Yes, Mrs. Baker. I’m sorry.”
    “It’s your riddling that’s at fault. I’ll show you before I go. Now I’ll light it again and bring you a cup of hot tea. But first I must get the fowl on for your lunch. A boiler, and should eat soft. Baker took the liberty of killing one of ours for you. Give you a good start, we thought, with soup from the bones. And he also took the liberty of inquiring of Jack Beckett at the pub if you could keep your car there, seeing as you’ve no garage. You’re welcome, Jack says. There’s plenty of room in the barn where he keeps his. We hope you don’t mind, dear.”
    “Of course not, Mrs. Baker. Thank you very much.”
    Tired and cold, she felt near to tears. Strong and self-reliant woman that she was, no one had looked after her since John had died. Mrs. Baker looked at her. “A cup of tea is what you need, dear. And I’ll get Baker to bring you down my little spirit stove and kettle. Then whether the Rayburn’s out or in you’ll always be able to get yourself a cup of tea.”
    The tea when it came in the beautiful Staffordshire teapot was placed beside her on the little plush-covered table. “Mrs. Baker, can you tell me of a good builder and decorator?” she asked.
    “Well, there’s Roundham in Westwater. But he’ll charge you a pretty penny. And there’s my husband’s nephew Bill Baker in Thornton. He’s a good worker, Bill is, and employs good men. Not so classy as Roundham but more reliable.”
    “I’ll have Bill Baker,” said Mary. She looked around. “Is there a telephone?”
    “Telephone? No, dear. What would poor old Miss Lindsay have been doing with a telephone? Drop Bill a line. Twelve Mount Street, Thornton. Say I told you of him and he won’t keep you waiting.”
    Mary put down her teacup and said hesitantly, “Mrs. Baker, when I was a little girl, and came here to see my cousin, a glass case was on this table and under it a whole host of little treasures. My cousin showed them to me and I loved them. Did she give them away?”
    “No, they’re here. I packed them away in one of the drawers in the escritoire, for safety. The glass case is in a cupboard in one of the spare rooms. Miss Lindsay would never have parted with the little things. They were for you. She’s told me time