Untimely Graves by Marjorie Eccles Page A

plaque on its gatepost, decorated with flowers of unknown origin, proclaiming it to be Wych Cottage.
    No one who has ever experienced their home being flooded can have any idea what it’s like, Cleo thought as they surveyed the task they were to undertake. Daphne’s washing machine had once flooded the kitchen at home, and what seemed like tons of water had reached right across into the dining-area, where it had lifted the parquet flooring. The carpet tiles in the kitchen, despite their claim to be washable, had taken weeks to dry. But at least
it was clean, soapy water and there was only a measurable amount of it.
    The ground floor of old Mrs Osborne’s home had been under eighteen inches of dirty river water for over a week, and now that it had receded it had left a thick, stinking layer of alluvial mud over everything. Somebody had already got rid of at least the top layers of it, but a lot – and the stink – remained. She told them tearfully that the upholstery on her sofa and three chairs had been utterly ruined, though her precious Persian rugs, now at the cleaners, might be salvaged. What still had to be assessed was the damage done to her other furniture. Luckily, the boys from the farm had come over and carried the more portable pieces upstairs before the worst of the water came seeping in. Lucky was the word, Cleo thought when she saw those tables and chairs. Most of them had to be antique, and expensive antique at that.
    Mrs Osborne, a deceptively frail-looking old woman in her seventies, insisted on making them mugs of coffee, which they drank while they worked, since it would otherwise cut into their cleaning time.
    ‘She’s getting under the feet, I know, but never mind. Drink it or the old duck’ll be offended,’ Sue whispered to Cleo as they attempted to make inroads into the devastation, while Mrs Osborne sat on the window seat and chatted, drawing her legs to one side every time anyone came near her. Perhaps she wanted to keep her undoubtedly sharp eyes on them: if they looked like missing a corner, she wasn’t slow to point it out.
    She told them she’d once lived up at the farm proper, up the lane, but it had been sold when her husband died and she’d moved down here into this cottage. She seemed an unlikely farmer’s wife, and not averse to the change; the cottage was obviously the pride of her life. She sighed as she said, ‘I was never much of a farmer’s wife. To tell the truth, I never was one, very much. I’ve occupied my life with much more interesting things.’ What they were, she didn’t say, as she smoothed her coral pink skirt and matching jacket and adjusted the string of pearls around her neck.
    Cleo could imagine the interior of the cottage as it had been before the flood: the chintz and china, the pretty ornaments on the walnut tables and chests, the Persian rugs on the polished
stone floors. These thick stone slabs made getting the mud off much easier than if they’d been wooden floorboards, and with all the windows and doors open to let the brisk, blowy wind through they were drying quickly, after several sluicings followed by a thorough scrub. It surprised Cleo what six hours brisk work could accomplish. Once they’d managed to make the floors presentable, they had washed down the walls right up to the low, beamed ceilings so as not to leave further tidemarks. ‘No way can you wash half a wall,’ said Sue, speaking from experience.
    ‘We can get some of your furniture down for you now, seeing the floor’s nicely dry,’ she told Mrs Osborne at last. ‘Then we can give a quick once-over upstairs, and next time we come, do a proper spit and polish on everything. A good rub-up and these flags’ll come up a treat.’
    ‘Oh, could you? But no, it isn’t really necessary for you to move the furniture back. The boys will do it!’
    ‘We‘ve time to shift some of the smaller bits, anyway, so it’ll start looking more like home,’ Sue said, conscientious about not