Читать книгу Miss Lamp - Christopher Ewart - Страница 22

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Smiles Are Always Free.

Miss Lamp in Room 32 receives a crisp knock at the door.

‘Room service, ma’am. Room service?’

Miss Lamp doesn’t enjoy waiting for her dinner on the edge of her bed.

Room Service Boy forgot to fix his cuff after picking up such absurdly hot stoneware. Pi-ckles have entered his mind seven times since the dance show in the kitchen.

Miss Lamp rises in her flannel pyjamas patterned with many Mounties on horseback or standing in salute. She shakes her hair in the mirror on the wall, giving it necessary tousle. The door clicks open and hushes on the carpet.

‘Campbell’s Tomato Soup and grilled cheese with a pickle, ma’am.’ Room Service Boy grins with chalky teeth, fresh breath and a spotty face.

Miss Lamp’s winking eye twitches once or twice.

‘How was your flight, ma’am?’ Room Service Boy wants to collect Air Miles.

Miss Lamp clears her throat. ‘Did you make this soup with moomoo? Because it has to be made with moomoo.’

‘Moomoo … ? Ma’am? Do you mean – ’

‘Moomoo!’ She says it more clearly. ‘What kind of moomoo did you use? Skim moomoo? Two-percent moomoo? Homo moomoo? What kind? You didn’t use powdered moomoo, did you?’ She examines the soup for lumps. ‘I can’t eat Campbell’s Tomato Soup with any old kind of moomoo.’

Thoroughly confused, he replies, ‘I didn’t make the soup, ma’am, The Cook did, and I’m absolutely sure he made this exact bowl of soup with no less than one part milk, um, moomoo, because it gives the soup its calcium factor, pinkish hue and nice creamy taste. In fact, I would guess the soup is made with whole moomoo, and it may be getting cold.’ He stares down at the soup, steam dwindling above his cuffs.

‘All right then.’ Miss Lamp, with thoughtfully messy hair, flannel Mountie pyjamas and glasses for reading, continues. ‘I can’t have any old kind of moomoo, you know. That skim moomoo stuff is blue. Put it on the table over there, beside the chair. I think the chair is broken, by the way.’

She turns her attention to the food. ‘Is the grilled cheese cut to corners? Yes. And the pickle? Good. And a bendy straw for my juice? You did use old cheddar, right?’

‘Sure did, ma’am, old cheddar. Cracker Barrel. Dairy section. Aisle 8, ma’am.’

Miss Lamp hovers over her food with a sharp nose, a rabbit sniffing at a carrot that’s too clean. ‘Good. This will do fine.’

Room Service Boy counts fibres in the berber.

‘Yes, looks quite delicious. It will do just fine.’

Miss Lamp wonders if she repeats herself.

Head down, Room Service Boy fixes his cuffs, then turns his eyes up to Miss Lamp. She removes thin glasses with green rims from her silver glasses case. Her thin glasses rest slightly above her nose as she sits on the rough wooden chair. Flannel Mounties offer slight protection from slivers. Room Service Boy reaches out his hand, turning an open palm. Head down.

‘No, no, this will be more than adequate. Thank you, and please tell the front desk I wish not to be disturbed. I do have a lot of reading to do.’

Miss Lamp shakes her sandy-brown hair in the mirror and picks up the spoon from its resting place. She unfolds the yellow napkin on her lap. The spoon breaks the thin film of milk, tomato, cracked black peppercorns and fresh parsley.

Room Service Boy steps back into the hall cautiously. ‘Thank you, ma’am. Um, enjoy your meal then.’

He turns his hand back to his thigh. The door sweeps shut.

Miss Lamp puts down her spoon and gives the plastic daisy a sniff. Coughing at dust, she picks up her spoon once more. Her mouth moistens to its corners.

Miss Lamp craves peaches for dessert.