The Miracle Man Read Online Free Page B

her off balance and into the sideboard full of glasses. Margaret slowly lowered her eyes and looked at the grey liquid with the globules of fat floating in it. Around the inner rim of the plate there was already a dark tideline beginning to form and lumps of some unknown substance moved turgidly beneath the surface.
    Mrs Megarrity was halfway to the kitchen when Margaret Garrison’s voice boomed out.
    “What – is this?”
    The squeaking of the trolley stopped abruptly. The Winter Cook turned on her heel, her eyes glaring.
    “That,” she said, with the authority of an official declaration, “is the best of mutton soup.”
    Mr Pointerly gave a muffled cough, his spoon clinking against his plate.
    “Mutton – soup?” Margaret Garrison said, her face contorting. “Who ever heard of mutton soup? It’s disgusting.”
    Cissy, who had been craning over her bowl, spoon gently parting the rapidly-forming crust of yellow fat, gave a little shriek, dropped her spoon with a splash and squeaked, “There’s a piece of wool in my soup! A fleece!”
    “Jesus save us!” From the trolley Mrs Megarrity came stamping across to the table and peered into Cissy’s bowl. “What is it, for God’s sake? I never met as fussy people in my life. HolyGod, if this was in our house, they’d have this lot cleared and the hand ate off ye as well. Where is it?” she demanded of Cissy who had one hand clamped over her mouth. She jabbed a finger at the bowl. With practised ease Mrs Megarrity’s grubby finger hooked out the half dozen strands of curly wool. “Ah, sure it’s only a bit of oul’ wool. Clean meat never fattened a pig,” she said, and with a deft flick of her hand fired it away behind her. Mr Pointerly, who had been straining for a sight of Cissy’s bowl, as though expecting to see nothing less than a crocodile hauled from its grey depths, was caught in the eye by the projectile, dropped his spoon and sent half the contents of his bowl down the front of his trousers. At his frightened yelp, Mrs Megarrity turned and came towards him as he leapt to his feet. “God Almighty, what’re ye doin’ to yerself now, Mr Pointerly? You’re a terrible man for accidents.” He stood with his hands in the air, steam gently rising from the front of his trousers. “Here, let me get that.” So saying, the Winter Cook took a tea towel from her apron strings and began to rub vigorously at Mr Pointerly’s crotch.
    “Please – Mrs Megarrity – please – stop!”
    “Now now, Mr Pointerly, don’t be getting yourself into a sweat. I’m a married woman and a former nursing assistant. If I’d a pound for every one of them I’ve handled, I’d be wearing fur knickers.” She gave a final sweep with the cloth, making Mr Pointerly flinch. “There now,” she said with a wink, “that’ll put a bit of colour back in your cheeks.”
    Wide-eyed, the Misses Garrison had sat watching Mrs Megarrity. As the Winter Cook returned to her trolley, Margaret regained her composure and demanded of her,
    “What, might I ask, is for the main course?”
    “Well, boiled mutton, what else! Waste not, want not.”
    “But – I don’t like boiled mutton!” Margaret Garrison said with a stamp of her foot, her voice leaping two octaves in perfect parody of a spoilt child. The Winter Cook’s face took on a savage look.
    “It’d be a fine thing if we only got what we wanted in this life, so it would. Most’ve us’ve just got to take what we can get and lump it. The food money I get from him upstairs wouldn’t keep a cat in fish heads. Mutton it is and mutton ye’ll get!” She grasped the handles of her trolley, bent low behind it and began to push. “And I’ll thank ye to be quick about it too,” she threw over her shoulder. “I’ve still got them toilets to muck out before I finish and by the state of that one at the back, there must’ve been an acrobat in it.” And, mumbling to herself, she squeaked her way into the kitchen and slammed the