Conveniently, my stomach gave a loud rumble. I’d only had the Wagon Wheel since my lunchtime repast of spaghetti hoops on toast.
She coughed politely. “You’ll stay for your tea, won’t you, Eleanor?
It’s nothing fancy, but you’re very welcome.” I looked at my watch.
It was only five thirty—an odd time to eat, but I was hungry,
and it would still allow me time to go to Tesco on the way home.
“I’d be delighted, Mrs. Gibbons,” I said. We sat around the small table in the kitchen.
The soup was delicious; she said she’d used a pork knuckle to make stock,
and then shredded the meat through the soup, which was also full of vegetables from the garden.
There was bread and butter and cheese, and afterward we had a cup of tea and a cream cake.
All the while, Mrs. Gibbons regaled us with tales of her neighbors’ various eccentricities and illnesses,
along with updates on the activities of their extended family,
which seemed to be of as little relevance to Raymond as they were to me, judging by his expression.
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