Page 125 - sons-and-lovers
P. 125

Everybody  was  mad  with  excitement.  William  was
         coming on Christmas Eve. Mrs. Morel surveyed her pan-
         try. There was a big plum cake, and a rice cake, jam tarts,
         lemon tarts, and mince-pies— two enormous dishes. She
         was  finishing  cooking—Spanish  tarts  and  cheese-cakes.
         Everywhere  was  decorated.  The  kissing  bunch  of  berried
         holly hung with bright and glittering things, spun slowly
         over Mrs. Morel’s head as she trimmed her little tarts in
         the kitchen. A great fire roared. There was a scent of cooked
         pastry. He was due at seven o’clock, but he would be late.
         The three children had gone to meet him. She was alone.
         But at a quarter to seven Morel came in again. Neither wife
         nor husband spoke. He sat in his armchair, quite awkward
         with excitement, and she quietly went on with her baking.
         Only by the careful way in which she did things could it be
         told how much moved she was. The clock ticked on.
            ‘What time dost say he’s coming?’ Morel asked for the
         fifth time.
            ‘The train gets in at half-past six,’ she replied emphati-
         cally.
            ‘Then he’ll be here at ten past seven.’
            ‘Eh, bless you, it’ll be hours late on the Midland,’ she said
         indifferently. But she hoped, by expecting him late, to bring
         him early. Morel went down the entry to look for him. Then
         he came back.
            ‘Goodness,  man!’  she  said.  ‘You’re  like  an  ill-sitting
         hen.’
            ‘Hadna you better be gettin’ him summat t’ eat ready?’
         asked the father.

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