Twenty-five COLIN LAMB’S NARRATIVE¹

I had to wait just a minute or two, then the door opened.
A big blonde Nordic girl with a flushed face and wearing gaycoloured clothing looked at meinquiringly. Her hands had been hastily wiped but there were traces of flour on them and there wasa slight smear² of flour on her nose so it was easy for me to guess what she had been doing.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but you have a little girl here, I think. She dropped something out of thewindow.”
She smiled at me encouragingly. The English language was not as yet her strong point.
“I am sorry—what you say?”
“A child here—a little girl.”
“Yes, yes.” She nodded.
“Dropped something—out of the window.”
Here I did a little gesticulation.
“I picked it up and brought it here.”
I held out an open hand. In it was a silver fruit knife. She looked at it without recognition.
“I do not think—I have not seen….”
“You’re busy cooking,” I said sympathetically.
“Yes, yes, I cook. That is so.” She nodded vigorously.
“I don’t want to disturb you,” I said. “If you let me just take it to her.”
“Excuse?”
My meaning seemed to come to her. She led the way across the hall and opened a door. It ledinto a pleasant sitting room. By the window a couch had been drawn³ up and on it there was a childof about nine or ten years old, with a leg done up in plaster.
“This gentleman, he say you—you drop….”
At this moment, rather fortunately, a strong smell of burning came from the kitchen. My guideuttered an exclamation⁴ of dismay.
“Excuse, please excuse.”
“You go along,” I said heartily⁵. “I can manage this.”
She fled with alacrity⁶. I entered the room, shut the door behind me and came across to thecouch.
“How d’you do?” I said.

分享到：