Different Drummers Read Online Free PDF Page B

my garden while you sort yourself out. My husband Otis, Bobby’s daddy, is asleep in the next room so I’d be obliged if you wouldn’t make no noise.”
    Kathleen gave a little nod. “Yes, thank you. I’ll be fine now.”
    The woman moved toward the door. “Selma’ll be home soon. That’s Bobby’s sister. When she gets here, it’ll be time to eat.”
    She held on to the doorknob for a few seconds, her face working as she looked at Kathleen, then to the floor as if struggling to think of something to say. When she abruptly turned and left the room, Kathleen closed the door quietly behind her. She eased her feet out of the crippling shoes, then took off her hat. Through the open window she watched her mother-in-law lumber back to her garden and pick up her hoe. She began weeding her vegetables, as though her daughter-in-law from three thousand miles away, whom she’d never even seen until fifteen minutes ago, had never even arrived.
    Tears of self-pity welled up in Kathleen’s eyes as she turned from the window and lowered herself onto the bed. She suddenly remembered Bob’s letter, the one which had said how much his mother loved to garden. In her mind’s eye she’d seen a genteel Southern lady, woven basket over her arm with gardening gloves on her elegantly manicured hands, and wearing a huge brimmed hat to guard her delicate skin from the searing summer sun. This lady had been cutting roses to arrange in her exquisite lead crystal vases. Kathleen could have screamed with laughter. Bob had meant a vegetable garden. There was nothing wrong with that of course, but never could she have conjured up a picture of Beulah Conroy tending it, never in a million years. Looking back she had to ask herself why she had taken it for granted Bob’s home would be, well, at least elegant. She’d noticed his strange way of talking, his drawl, but lots of people in the movies talked that way. And in his American soldier’s uniform, it was all part of his charm.
    This had to be some kind of horrible dream and soon she’d wake up. She’d either be on the Belgravia with Georgina, or even back in Chester with her family. But who was she kidding? Smells didn’t come into dreams, and the odors of the house, of mustiness and stale sweat, combined with the strange cooking smells coming from the kitchen, seeped even here into the bedroom.
    The faintness eased as she lay still, eyes focused on the peeling ceiling. Finally, she swung her legs to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. Self-pity wouldn’t solve anything. There had to be a better way. She stood up and smoothed the wrinkles out of her dress with her hand. She opened the door and saw the tiny bathroom at the end of the hall. At the same moment the door of the next room opened and a man stared at her uncomprehendingly. Otis Conroy appeared to be in his late forties and bore a faint resemblance to his son. He was clad only in the briefest of shorts, which left nothing to the imagination, but seemed unaware or unconcerned by this.
    â€œWho are you and what are you doin’ in my house?”
    Kathleen blinked and stuck out her hand. “Good afternoon, sir. You must be Bob’s father. I’m Kathleen. Kathleen from England. I’m Bob’s wife.”
    His hand was limp and clammy and it was all she could do not to snatch her own hand away. Slowly and deliberately his eyes roamed over her body until he eventually looked up and at the same time let go of her hand. His eyes were light brown, almost amber. There was a fervor in their depths, a zeal she’d never seen in other eyes. The unsmiling mouth was thin lipped, giving his face an almost cruel look. His voice surprised her by sounding perfectly normal.
    â€œSo you’re Bobby’s English wife. I’d forgotten this was the day you’d be arrivin’. I hope you found everythin’ to your