Читать книгу The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - Vicki Delany - Страница 20

The rare smell of frying bacon, sausages and fresh eggs wafted through the house, and Angus climbed eagerly out of bed. They were getting heartily sick of bacon, one of the staples of both the trail and the winter of near-starvation, but eggs were a rare, expensive treat. Anyone arriving late at the Sunday breakfast table would find himself eating the scraps, if he were lucky enough to have been left some.

Angus scooped a handful of cold water from the basin that rested on the table beside his bed, splashed it on his face, hastily pulled on trousers and a shirt and made his way to the outhouse.

When he returned, Mr. Mann was sitting at the table watching Mrs. Mann crack eggs into the huge, battered frying pan. A glass of pure white milk waited at his place.

“Only three places set? Where’s Ma?”

“Your mother left a note,” Mrs. Mann replied. “She wasn’t feeling well and asked me to leave her sleep this morning.”

“But she’ll miss her eggs!”

Mr. Mann slurped his coffee and leaned back to allow his wife to place a brimming plate in front of him. Bacon fried to a crisp, the plump sausages she called wurst, eggs with cheerful yellow centres and pure white edges. Plus two thick slices of fried bread.

“And the milk. She was looking forward to having real milk in her coffee today. She won’t mind if I wake her.”

“You shush and eat.” Mrs. Mann began preparing another plate, one containing almost as much food as Mr. Mann had been given. She tossed a generous hunk of bread into the pan. It sizzled and spat and drank up the grease.

Angus downed his entire glass of milk without pausing for breath.

“I’ll make your mother’s breakfast later,” Mrs. Mann said.

“If I’m late, I don’t get no breakfast.”

“Yous don’t pay for your breakfast, boy,” Mr. Mann said.

“You don’t get any breakfast, Angus.” Fiona stood in the doorway. The hair on her head poked into the air, and dark circles emphasized the tired droop to her eyes. She wore her red dressing gown, the one with a bold gold Chinese dragon streaking across the back, and she hugged it closely to her thin frame.

“You go back to bed, Mrs. MacGillivray,” Mrs. Mann ordered. “You don’t look at all well.”

“I’m fine, thank you. It’s hard to sleep when your cooking smells so wonderful.” She planted a kiss on the top of Angus’s head and took her seat.

Mrs. Mann handed him his plate, and Angus dove in head first.

The landlady poured a cup of coffee. “Milk’s on the table.”

“Milk,” Fiona repeated. “Real milk?”

“Inside the udders of a cow only yesterday.” Fiona lifted the blue pitcher and held it under her nose. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

Angus laughed. “You don’t smell milk, Mother. You pour it into your coffee and drink it.”

“Sometimes you have to stop and appreciate the moment.” Her tired eyes crinkled up at the edges, and the dark circles faded.

Mrs. Mann placed another sausage in the pan and sat at the table with her own coffee while it cooked.

“My red silk dress, the best one, with the lace skirt panel, was ruined last night,” Fiona said. “I’ll give it to you after breakfast. Perhaps you can cut it up and salvage some of the lace or the plumes.”

“I can repair,” Mrs. Mann said.

“Not this time, I’m afraid. It’s beyond saving.”

“What happened?” Angus’s fork chased down a liquid patch of egg yolk with a hunk of fried bread.

“A man fell down, far too enthusiastic on the dance floor. I tried to help him stand up, and he was bleeding from a bad crack on his forehead. Blood stains, you can’t wash them out, not once they’ve dried. And then he grabbed at me to steady himself and ripped the dress right down the front. It’s fit for nothing but rags.”

“Gee, that’s too bad.” Angus scraped the tines of his fork across his empty plate, trying to gather up every last bit of egg and grease. “That was great, Mrs. M. Any more?”

“No.” The landlady went back to the stove and tossed bacon into the pan.

“I’m sure Mrs. Mann and I won’t be able to manage to eat all of that bread.” Fiona nodded towards a tower beside the stove, awaiting its bath in bacon and sausage fat. The landlady always prepared extra for Angus, although she never admitted it.

“Thank you, Mrs. Mann, that smells like heaven.” Fiona picked up her fork. Mrs. Mann served them both and sat down. The frying pan popped and sizzled with grease and a new batch of bread.

“Hurry, woman,” Mr. Mann said. “Church time.”

She popped a slice of sausage into her mouth. “Plenty of time, dear. Plenty of time. But as you’ve finished already, perhaps you’ll fetch some water from the well.”

Mr. Mann grunted, but he picked up the bucket and went out.

Angus’s mother hid a smile behind a piece of toast and scraped her bacon onto his plate.