Marrying Off Mother Read Online Free PDF Page B

she asked me in a husky whisper. ‘Vodka, whisky, bourbon, gin?’
    â€˜I’d like a Scotch,’ I said, somewhat startled.
    She ran her finger along the Coca-Cola bottles and finally chose one, smelt it and poured a heavy measure into a glass, added ice and a dash of Perrier and handed it to me.
    â€˜The best sort of Coca-Cola,’ she said smiling, ‘and it doesn’t upset Fred.’
    The Scotch was excellent.
    I went upstairs, showered and changed and started down to face Miz Magnolia’s tea party.
    A door on the landing opened and a tall, cadaverous-looking man emerged, wearing a black velvet dressing gown with scarlet piping and a Panama hat.
    â€˜Sir, is there any news?’ he asked me.
    â€˜About what?’ I asked.
    â€˜About the war, sir, the war. Mark my words, it will be a sad day for the South if they win,’ he said, and turning he went back into his room and closed the door.
    I continued, somewhat mystified, downstairs.
    â€˜Oh, you darling man,’ said Miz Magnolia, engulfing me in a frail embrace of sweetly smooth rustling garments and a scent that made the senses reel. ‘I am so happy to have you hayer. And I know that you are going to be so happy to meet mah dearest and loveliest friends.’
    They came in as animals were supposed to come into the Ark, two by two. Miz Magnolia presented them rather in the way that a ringmaster of a circus would.
    â€˜Now, this is Miz Florence Further Cause. The Further Causes are, of course, widely known.’
    When five of them were clustered together it gave me the feeling of an animated flowerbed talking a language you don’t know.
    â€˜This,’ said Miz Magnolia, ‘is Marigold Nasta . . .’
    I bowed gravely.
    â€˜And this is Miz Melancholy Delight.’
    I took an instant liking to Miss Melancholy Delight. She looked like a bulldog who has — by mistake — been put through a washing machine. Nevertheless, I felt that any woman who had survived through life being called Melancholy Delight demanded my masculine support.
    They were all magical. Fragile as anything an archaeologist can produce from the tombs of Egypt, twittering like birds, as conscious of themselves as girls at their first ball. But having got over the excitement and gravity of my intrusion they reverted to the smooth rolling way of life they were used to.
    â€˜Did you hayer about Gray-ham?’ one of them asked.
    They all leant forward like vultures seeing a movement from a lion who might leave his kill.
    â€˜What about Gray-ham?’ they all asked with relish.
    â€˜Well, Gray-ham has run away with Patsy Donahue.’
    â€˜He hasn’t!’
    â€˜He has.’
    â€˜He hasn’t!’
    â€˜He has, and left that adorable girl Hilda on her own with three children.’
    â€˜Hilda was a Watson wasn’t she, before she married?’
    â€˜Yes, but the Watsons were a mixed-up bunch. Old grand-pappy Watson married that Ferguson girl.’
    â€˜You mean the Fergusons who lived out near Mud Island?’
    â€˜No, no, these are the Fergusons from East Memphis. Their grandmother was a Scott before she married Mr Ferguson and their aunt was related to the Tellymares.’
    â€˜You don’t mean old man Tellymare who committed suicide?’
    â€˜No, that was his cousin, Arthur, the one with a limp. That was in 1914.’
    It was like listening to an amalgam of the Almanac de Gotha, Debrett, and the Social Register being read aloud simultaneously. These old ladies could track everyone and their antecedents back to the fifth generation and beyond with the tenacity of bloodhounds. Gray-ham and his misdemeanour with Patsy were now lost in a genealogical confusion with all the complications of a plate of spaghetti.
    â€˜It was Tellymare’s cousin Albert who was married to that Nancy Henderson girl who divorced him because he set fire to himself,’ said Miz Melancholy Delight.
    The group