Scones, Clotted Cream, Jam and Tea
We counted on her for the most
delicious of rescues – she’d jump
in the car and speed over to
us before we had time to fret
or even put the kettle on
-she’ll take care of everything! – just
like being held in the arms of
Jesus, and after scones, clotted
cream, jam and tea, we’d get started.
Solving the woes of the world looks
like hocus-pocus but if it
works, it works. She looked the house up
and down. We’ll scrub it of its bad
energy. Scrub the walls and paint.
Men are filth, especially
those with dangling arms and lizard
eyes, she said. They’re bad news, honey.
Few things are more satisfying
than opening a can of good
paint, stirring until the colour
emerges, fresh and thick. That’s a
good colour, she said. The room looks
south and can take a warm blue like
this. She poured the paint into a
tray and dragged her roller through it.
The first swath of blue-green on the
wall was breathtaking. She put her
arm around us. Sometimes, honey,
you’ve got to make an effort for
things to turn around, go in your
favour. We painted until the
sun slanted and set; by then the
whole room was done. The sunroom is
not a big room, but it’s enough.
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