Free The House of All Sorts by Emily Carr

over sounds. Grannie flew up to my flat and down like a whiz cash-box. The wind caught her as she turned the corner of my stairs, exposing a pink flannelette Grannie one week and a blue flannelette Grannie the next. She was very spry, never having to pause for breath before saying, “Tell those folks above us to wear slippers—tell them to let go their taps gently—have a carpenter fix that squeaky floor board.”
    Then she whizzed downstairs and the door gave back that jerky smack that says, “Back again with change!”
    ON SUNDAY MORNING the house was usually quiet. Settling in families was always more or less trying. I determined to have a long late lie, Grannie and family being well established. At seven A.M . my bell pealed violently. I stuck my head out into the drizzling rain and called, “What is wanted?”
    Grannie’s voice squeaked—“You!”
    â€œAnything special? I am not up.”
    â€œRight away! Important!”
    I hurried. Anything might have happened with that boy in the state he was.
    When I opened the door, Grannie poked an empty vase at me, “The flowers you put in our flat are dead. More!”
    THE GIRL AND the boy sat in my garden at the back of the house. It was quiet and sheltered there, away from the stares the boy couldnot bear. The monkey was perched in her cherry tree, coy as Eve, gibbering if some one pulled in the clothes-line which made her tree shiver and the cherries bob, stretching out her little hands for one of the pegs she had coveted all the while that the pyjamas, the dresses and aprons had been drying. The girl told him about it all, trying to lighten his awful dark by making word-pictures for him—the cat on the fence, the garden, flowers, me weeding, the monkey in her cherry tree.
    â€œIs that monkey staring at me?”
    â€œNo, she is searching the dry grass round the base of the cherry tree for earwigs now. Hear her crunch that one! Now she is peeping through the lilac bush, intensely interested in something. Oh, it’s the Bobtails!”
    I had opened the gates from dog-field and puppy-pen. Bobtails streamed into the garden. People sitting with idle hands suggested fondling, which dogs love. They ringed themselves around the boy and girl. The mother dog led her pups up to them—the pups tugged at his shoelaces, the mother dog licked his hand. He was glad to have them come of themselves. He could stoop and pick them up without someone having to put them into his arms. He buried his blackness in the soft black of their live fur. A pup licked his face, its sharp new teeth pricked his fingers, he felt its soft clinging tongue, smelled the puppy breath. The old dog sat with her head resting on his knee. He could feel her eyes on him; he did not mind those eyes. The sun streamed over everything. His taut nerves relaxed. He threw back his head and laughed!
    The girl gathered a red rose, dawdled it across his cheek and forehead. She did not have to tell him the colour of the rose; it had that exultant rich red smell. He put his nose among the petals and drew great breaths.
    Suddenly the back door of their flat flew open— PLOSH !—Out among the flowers flew Grannie’s dishwater. Grannie was raised in drought. She could not bear to waste water down a drain.
    OLD GRANNIE OVER-FUSSED the young folks. She was kind, but she had some trying ways. Afternoon house-cleaning was one of them.
    The new bride in Lower East was having her post-nuptial “at home” and Grannie must decide that very afternoon to house-clean her front room. She heaved the rugs and chairs out onto the front lawn; all the bric-a-brac followed. She tied the curtains in knots and, a cloth about her head, poised herself on a table right in front of the window. Everyone could see the crochet edging dangling over the flutes of black stocking. She hung out—she took in; her arms worked like pistons. The bride’s first guest met a cloud