As she made her way up the field towards the house she saw Mrs. Underwood’s car on the gravel. Ranger was cocking his leg on one of the tires while Mrs. Underwood waited on the step, arms crossed over the buttress of her expansive bosom, her face sagging in repose.
“Hello!” Miranda shouted, quickening her pace. “I’m so sorry, I’ve been delayed. Got to sort out that cottage for the gardener.” She checked herself, remembering the woman’s husband. “The landscape gardener.” Mrs. Underwood nodded. “I haven’t seen Mr. Underwood yet, I assume he’s in the garden.”
“Oh aye, keeping himself busy, I should imagine. Hard to keep that man down.” Miranda unlocked the door. Mrs. Underwood sighed. “Sign of the times. In my day, no one locked their doors. We were in and out of each other’s houses all day long. It’s not like it was.”
“Well, you didn’t have microwaves and e-mail, mobile phones and satellite telly, did you? So, it’s not all bad.”
Mrs. Underwood looked appalled. “What do you need all that rubbish for? They don’t save time, just give you more time to fill up. Everyone’s running around like headless chickens. In my day we all had time for a chat.” Miranda thought it best not to argue. People like Mrs. Underwood were content to sit in the past and lament the wicked ways of the modern world.
Miranda hid the scrapbook in her study, then took Mrs. Underwood into the kitchen to discuss wages and hours. She noticed Mr. Underwood had filled the log baskets and lit the fires while she had been out. The air smelled of burning wood. Mrs. Underwood commented on it proudly. “Mrs. Lightly always had the fires lit. Not that she ever felt the cold. Oh no, Mrs. Lightly wore short sleeves even in snow and I never saw her shiver.” Now Miranda’s curiosity had been aroused, she wanted to know more about the woman in the scrapbook.
“Let’s have a cup of tea, Mrs. Underwood,” she suggested, pulling out a stool. “What will you have? Earl Grey?”
“Allow me, Miranda.”
“You sit down, Mrs. Underwood.”
“I insist. I can’t sit like a pudding being waited on by my employer. It’s not right.” She took the kettle from Miranda and held it under the tap. “Besides, I’ve got to get to know the kitchen. It’s changed since Mrs. Lightly was here.”
Miranda sat on the stool. “What was Mrs. Lightly like?” she asked. “I’ve heard all about her beautiful gardens, but nothing about her.”
Mrs. Underwood paused a moment. “She was an original. God broke the mold when He made her. Mr. Lightly was very English. Tall as a tree, with a big friendly smile. Everyone liked Mr. Lightly. He was the sort of man who always had time to talk. Mrs. Lightly, she was an eccentric. She’d come alive like a fire, telling funny stories and entertaining everyone, then she’d suddenly run out of fuel, make her excuses and leave. You always knew when she’d had enough. Those that didn’t would find themselves talking to the walls. She’d be out in her garden, alone on that bench, enjoying the silence. She liked to be on her own best of all, though that’s not to say she didn’t love her children and Mr. Lightly. Besides them, I’d say she liked and tolerated, but she wasn’t a sociable person like Mr. Lightly. Mr. Lightly liked having guests in the house. You’d never imagine for a moment that she didn’t like entertaining. But she didn’t. I could tell. She was happier when she had the house to herself.”
“What did she look like?”
Mrs. Underwood plugged the kettle in and took two cups down from the cupboard. “She wasn’t beautiful like you, Miranda. She was handsome, I’d say. Her features were so alive, her expression so kind and sensitive that she became beautiful the better you got to know her. Some people are like that, aren’t they? Mrs. Lightly wasn’t vain. She didn’t plaster her face with makeup or do her hair all fancy. It was long and curly. She’d twist it up on the top of her head and stick a pencil through it, then spend all afternoon looking for her pencil.” She chuckled again. “She was scatty. The house was full of clutter because she never put anything away. She had a wonderful sense of humor. Everything had a funny side, even the bad times. Though I don’t imagine her finding a funny side to Mr. Lightly’s sickness. After that I didn’t see much of them. They stopped entertaining and withdrew. She looked after him herself.” She shook her head, popping two teabags into the pot. “That’s love, isn’t it? If my old man got sick I’d do the same for him. They drive you up the wall, but you love them. Wouldn’t want to be without them.”