It was three weeks now since the funeral.
Mamma and Aunt Bella sat in the dining-room, one on each side of the
fireplace. Mamma looked strange and sunken and rather yellow in a widow's
cap and a black knitted shawl, but Aunt Bella had turned herself into a
large, comfortable sheep by means of a fleece of white shawl and an
ice-wool hood peaked over her cap.
There was a sweet, inky smell of black things dyed at Pullar's. Mary
picked out the white threads and pretended to listen while Aunt Bella
talked to Mamma in a woolly voice about Aunt Lavvy's friendship with the
Unitarian minister, and Uncle Edward's lumbago, and the unreasonableness
of the working classes.
She thought how clever it was of Aunt Bella to be able to keep it up like
that. "I couldn't do it to save my life. As long as I live I shall never
be any good to Mamma."
The dining-room looked like Mr. Metcalfe, the undertaker. Funereal
hypocrisy. She wondered whether Roddy would see the likeness.
She thought of Roddy's nervous laugh when Catty brought in the first
Yorkshire cakes. His eyes had stared at her steadily as he bit into his
piece. They had said: "You don't care. You don't care. If you really
cared you couldn't eat."
There were no more threads to pick.
She wondered whether she would be thought unfeeling if she were to take a
book and read.
Aunt Bella began to talk about Roddy. Uncle Edward said Roddy ought to go
away and get something to do.
If Roddy went away there would be no one. No one.
She got up suddenly and left them.