Breakfast on the balcony again, she looks across the field of rowan and silver birch trees, over hawthorn and spindle, over the wee duck pond and, past the cobbled stone shelter of the bus terminus, to the cottage where the better part of her still lives. All locked and silent now, but for the creaks she still hears, at night, when the wind blows. The wooden sign, still hangs above the door “Welcome to the Melody House.” Not that there were many callers, save for utility peoples, the postie, and Freddie, with his fish on Fridays.
People said she should have sold the place. Ach, what do people know?
Oh, the money, the money rolled in these days. Only you couldn’t see it, never mind hold it. Just figures on a screen, decimals, points of interest, units not making a blind bit of sense.
She bought the newly refurbished, old manor house. As a small child, she thought the Queen herself owned it. Now it was… Now it belonged to her, Mary Foy. There were times she had to be reminded how many rooms there were! She knew well enough – and too right – how much at 1 point 3 million it had cost to buy!
And the money, rolled in. Mary Foy had never known such worry.
Arriane – her personal assistant – was suggesting she have smoked salmon for a breakfast. Whoever heard of boiled egg on toast with salmon? And purple asparagus, dearie me? Mary had to tell the girl, “Don’t start with that caviar, I retch at the thought.”
Life had changed.
“What time is this Thomas De Quincey due, Arriane?”
“It’s Quentin Twombly. He’ll be Zooming at Noon, Mary.”
Another well-groomed face on the screen. Arriane arranged these matters. All Mary wanted was to get her hands on a mountain of cash, then hide it, preferably in bricks, throughout the cottage. In case the day should come when she needed money. She kept this idea to herself. And cursed the singing competition that she won with its Mediterranean cruise first prize. She met Nyland J. Crabbe, the near blind, old Texan billionaire, didn’t she? who fell in love with her voice, didn’t he! then went and left her 40 million in his will. With a sizeable stake in a South American mining company, to boot.
It was all worries now. And advice from all directions. Invest in cobalt, copper, zinc, get into the Democratic Republic of the Congo… don’t miss out on Big Pharmaceutical opportunities…. don’t forget fossil fuels just yet…
Why did money have to work like this? What if… she should lose everything? What happens then?
Mary Foy buttered another slice of toast, poured herself a lukewarm tea from the Wedgwood pot, and stared, wistfully, in the direction of her previous life.
People said she should have sold the place. Ach, what do people know?
Oh, the money, the money rolled in these days. Only you couldn’t see it, never mind hold it. Just figures on a screen, decimals, points of interest, units not making a blind bit of sense.
She bought the newly refurbished, old manor house. As a small child, she thought the Queen herself owned it. Now it was… Now it belonged to her, Mary Foy. There were times she had to be reminded how many rooms there were! She knew well enough – and too right – how much at 1 point 3 million it had cost to buy!
And the money, rolled in. Mary Foy had never known such worry.
Arriane – her personal assistant – was suggesting she have smoked salmon for a breakfast. Whoever heard of boiled egg on toast with salmon? And purple asparagus, dearie me? Mary had to tell the girl, “Don’t start with that caviar, I retch at the thought.”
Life had changed.
“What time is this Thomas De Quincey due, Arriane?”
“It’s Quentin Twombly. He’ll be Zooming at Noon, Mary.”
Another well-groomed face on the screen. Arriane arranged these matters. All Mary wanted was to get her hands on a mountain of cash, then hide it, preferably in bricks, throughout the cottage. In case the day should come when she needed money. She kept this idea to herself. And cursed the singing competition that she won with its Mediterranean cruise first prize. She met Nyland J. Crabbe, the near blind, old Texan billionaire, didn’t she? who fell in love with her voice, didn’t he! then went and left her 40 million in his will. With a sizeable stake in a South American mining company, to boot.
It was all worries now. And advice from all directions. Invest in cobalt, copper, zinc, get into the Democratic Republic of the Congo… don’t miss out on Big Pharmaceutical opportunities…. don’t forget fossil fuels just yet…
Why did money have to work like this? What if… she should lose everything? What happens then?
Mary Foy buttered another slice of toast, poured herself a lukewarm tea from the Wedgwood pot, and stared, wistfully, in the direction of her previous life.
