Why Aren't They Screaming? Read Online Free PDF Page A

finding a bowl in which to heap the potatoes. In the background, Clara was talking to herself.
    â€˜Now where’s my list?’ She began to search through the heap of letters, bills and envelopes which lay at the window end of the table, finally drawing out a crumpled piece of paper.
    â€˜Bridget can’t come, so that’s one less,’ she murmured. That leaves me, Loretta, Imo – are you here for dinner, Imo?’
    â€˜Certainly am!’
    â€˜Plus Robert. Not the Etterbekes, silly old fools. Did I tell you, darling, Charles Etterbeke won’t come to dinner because of the peace camp? Ellie and Here, that makes, um, six. And Gilbert. Oh, and one of the girls from the camp will be here,’ she added, looking first at Imo and then at Loretta. ‘She only arrived yesterday, poor thing, and she got rather a bang on the head when they pulled her tent down. The hospital says she’s all right but I want to keep her here for a couple of days just to make sure. Perhaps you can bring her back in Robert’s car, darling? I said I’d collect her but as you’re going up there anyway ... Her name’s Peggy and she’s got blonde hair. So that’s how many?’
    â€˜Eight,’ supplied Loretta.
    â€˜And can I leave pudding to you, my sweet? I thought we’d have hate cake. The biscuits are in the top cupboard.’
    â€˜Oh, goody,’ said Imo in a surprisingly childish voice.
    â€˜Hate cake?’ queried Loretta.
    Clara smiled. ‘An old family recipe,’ she said. ‘We call itthat because we love it so much. Biscuit crumbs and chocolate and honey. Delicious.’
    Loretta wasn’t so sure; it sounded just the sort of disgusting mess that children would have been expected to eat in the nursery eighty or a hundred years ago. But she maintained a tactful silence.
    â€˜I think we’ll have to have that
boeuf bourgignon
I put in the freezer last week,’ Clara went on. ‘It’s no good looking like that, darling, there isn’t anything else. Are you sure you can cope with all those potatoes, Loretta?’
    Loretta nodded vigorously, fearing that the potatoes might well turn out to be the most edible part of the meal. As the others got on with various tasks connected with the meal – Loretta watched in secret horror as Imo mixed together the ingredients of the hate cake – she began to wonder how Clara intended to fit eight people into such an awkwardly shaped room. The kitchen table was hardly big enough even for six and any attempt to move it into the centre would bring it into contact with the handsome oak dresser on the opposite wall. Her question was answered, however, when she finished the potatoes and Imo suggested taking her upstairs to the study.
    â€˜I’ll come too,’ said Clara, wiping her hands. ‘We’ll have to bring my work table down before anyone arrives – I thought we’d eat in the hall.’
    Loretta followed the two women up the stairs and found herself on a spacious landing. A sash window looked out on to the road; at the back of the house its double gave on to the back garden. As she faced the front of the house the wall to her left was completely taken up with bookshelves; that to her right was dominated by a large abstract painting.
    â€˜Come and admire my view,’ Clara instructed, leading the way to the window overlooking the garden.
    Loretta obeyed, unprepared for the sight that met her eyes. It was, she thought, as though she had been transported back several decades. A grassy terrace ended in a low stone wall, beyond which fell away a lawn starred with wild flowers. Towards the bottom of the lawn, slightly to the right, was a disused circular pond, its cracked stone base suggesting it had weathered innumerable dry summers. To one side a magnolia dripped its heavy blossom over the pond’s edge.All that was needed to complete the scene was a group of women in