Thinking no harm, for the family would not come, never again, somesaid, and the house would be sold at Michaelmas perhaps, Mrs McNabstooped and picked a bunch of flowers to take home with her. —
She laidthem on the table while she dusted. She was fond of flowers. —
It was apity to let them waste. Suppose the house were sold (she stood armsakimbo in front of the looking-glass) it would want seeing to—it would.
There it had stood all these years without a soul in it. —
The books andthings were mouldy, for, what with the war and help being hard to get,the house had not been cleaned as she could have wished. —
It was beyondone person’s strength to get it straight now. She was too old. Her legspained her. —
All those books needed to be laid out on the grass in the sun; —
there was plaster fallen in the hall; —
the rain-pipe had blocked over thestudy window and let the water in; —
the carpet was ruined quite. —
Butpeople should come themselves; they should have sent somebody downto see. —
For there were clothes in the cupboards; they had left clothes in allthe bedrooms. —
What was she to do with them? They had the moth inthem—Mrs Ramsay’s things. Poor lady! —
She would never want THEMagain. She was dead, they said; years ago, in London. —
There was the oldgrey cloak she wore gardening (Mrs McNab fingered it). —
She could seeher, as she came up the drive with the washing, stooping over herflowers (the garden was a pitiful sight now, all run to riot, and rabbitsscuttling at you out of the beds)—she could see her with one of the childrenby her in that grey cloak. —
There were boots and shoes; and a brushand comb left on the dressing-table, for all the world as if she expected tocome back tomorrow. —
(She had died very sudden at the end, they said. —
)And once they had been coming, but had put off coming, what with thewar, and travel being so difficult these days; —
they had never come allthese years; just sent her money; —
but never wrote, never came, and expectedto find things as they had left them, ah, dear! —
Why the dressing-table drawers were full of things (she pulled them open), handkerchiefs,
bits of ribbon. Yes, she could see Mrs Ramsay as she came up the drivewith the washing.
“Good-evening, Mrs McNab,” she would say.
She had a pleasant way with her. The girls all liked her. —
But, dear,many things had changed since then (she shut the drawer); —
many familieshad lost their dearest. So she was dead; and Mr Andrew killed; —
andMiss Prue dead too, they said, with her first baby; —
but everyone had lostsome one these years. —
Prices had gone up shamefully, and didn’t comedown again neither. —
She could well remember her in her grey cloak.
“Good-evening, Mrs McNab,” she said, and told cook to keep a plate ofmilk soup for her—quite thought she wanted it, carrying that heavy basketall the way up from town. —
She could see her now, stooping over herflowers; —
and faint and flickering, like a yellow beam or the circle at theend of a telescope, a lady in a grey cloak, stooping over her flowers, wentwandering over the bedroom wall, up the dressing-table, across thewash-stand, as Mrs McNab hobbled and ambled, dusting, straightening.
And cook’s name now? Mildred? Marian?—some name like that. —
Ah, shehad forgotten—she did forget things. —
Fiery, like all red-haired women.
Many a laugh they had had. She was always welcome in the kitchen. —
Shemade them laugh, she did. Things were better then than now.
She sighed; there was too much work for one woman. She wagged herhead this side and that. —
This had been the nursery. Why, it was all dampin here; the plaster was falling. —
Whatever did they want to hang a beast’sskull there? gone mouldy too. —
And rats in all the attics. The rain came in.
But they never sent; never came. Some of the locks had gone, so thedoors banged. —
She didn’t like to be up here at dusk alone neither. —
It wastoo much for one woman, too much, too much. She creaked, shemoaned. She banged the door. —
She turned the key in the lock, and left thehouse alone, shut up, locked.