There was an Old Woman Read Online Free PDF Page A

know what the infamous they was doing to her and, I guess, she was beyond calling for help.”
    We sat and talked for another twenty minutes. He asked me to call him Rupe at one point. “Can you imaginea mother calling her new baby Rupert?” he asked me, getting a little sentimental. I tried to change the subject, but he had started rambling and I couldn’t be sure what he was talking about any more.
    â€œIs the Nag’s Head your local pub?” I asked.
    â€œFixed point. Everything else is variable. Young Devlin is feeling his oats.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œKenneth Devlin. Of Wilson, Carleton, Meyers and Devlin. Devlin’s is the fresh face. Doesn’t much like this old face. Ambitious, that’s young Devlin. Julian Newby himself speaks highly of him and you know Julian Newby, QC, doesn’t scatter praise on barren ground. You’ll grow rheumatic before you hear him sound my praises.”
    â€œI’m not that set up with the innards of the local legal profession, Mr. McLay—I mean Rupe.”
    â€œYour state is the more gracious, I assure you.”
    Rupe called for another draft of beer from Bill, the waiter, and was denied. I called for one and slid it across the table. This way I was hoping for more useful information, and I would have had it but for two things: Rupe became even more confused in his talk so that I couldn’t tell whether he was talking or reciting things he’d memorized in school and I became very sleepy. Beer does that to me. I could see from the faces of Rupe, Bill and May that I was no credit to the Nag’s Head during its last winter season.

FOUR
    I let myself into my parents’ town house in the north end of the city. I always carried the key on my chain, it made me feel a little less adrift in the world. Although, what kind of anchor is decorated in burnt orange, I ask you? Ma was sitting in front of the television set, which was roaring away at top volume. She had her head buried in Barchester Towers. The continuous news station was being ignored while Ma lost herself in the last century.
    â€œOh, it’s you! I didn’t hear you come in, Benny.” I leaned over and gave her a hug and kiss, which she returned with Victorian propriety. “It’s a good thing I’ve got a roast in the oven. I must have had a feeling you were coming.”
    â€œMa, I usually come for dinner on Friday nights. Haven’t you noticed?”
    â€œMake yourself a cup of tea, I’m nearly finished this chapter.”
    I went into the kitchen, filled the kettle and plugged it into the socket on the stove. I could feel the heat coming from the oven. The teabags were in the usual tin. Since coming to know Anna Abraham a few years ago, I had started making tea in a pot when I could find one ratherthan in the cup, which was a family tradition. There was an old photograph of my father’s parents on a Lake Ontario beach, probably near Toronto, with a picnic hamper and an old brass samovar sitting in the sand. There was a large teapot set on top. The potless tradition must come from Ma’s side of the family. The teapot I finally found was part of a display tea service near the kitchen window. “Leeds Spray” were the words I read on the bottom as I emptied it of keys, bus tickets for seniors, pencil stubs and loose change. I heated it first under the hot tap and then with steaming water from the kettle.
    â€œWill you take a look at the roast, Benny. It’s been in the oven two hours. I like to brown it for the last hour.”
    â€œMa, I don’t see any potatoes or other vegetables.” I went around the entrance of the kitchen to face the chef. “Do you want me to put some potatoes around the roast?”
    â€œVegetables I’ve got in the cupboard. There’s mixed peas and carrots or corn. It doesn’t take two minutes to heat them. And I’m out of potatoes. I know you love my roast