somehow, he’d noticed my red, sore hands, although he didn’t make a hullaballoo about it.
He’d merely nudged me away from the sink and thrust a tea towel—
a rather jaunty one with a Scottie dog sporting a tartan bow tie—into my damaged fingers.
The tea towel was soft and fibrous, as though it had been washed many times over,
and had been ironed carefully into a neatly pressed square.
I cast an eye over the plates before stacking them on the table for Raymond to put away.
The crockery was old but good quality, painted with blowsy roses and edged in faded gilt.
Mrs. Gibbons saw me looking at it. There was certainly nothing wrong with her powers of observation.
“That was my wedding china, Eleanor,” she said. “Imagine—still going strong almost fifty years later!”
“You, or the china?” Raymond said, and she tutted and shook her head, smiling.
There was a comfortable silence as we worked on our respective tasks.
“Tell me, are you courting at the moment, Eleanor?” she asked. How tedious.
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