by Rhys Bowen
“Queenie, if you don’t enjoy working for me, you’re very welcome to stay here and find another American lady to work for,” I said, “but if you come with me you’ve got to stop this complaining. I want a proper lady’s maid, and one who does her job cheerfully and willingly. Is that clear?”
“Yes, my lady,” she said sheepishly.
I wasn’t too hopeful.
Mummy had rented a car and driver to take us to Reno as quickly as possible. It was a spectacular journey over mountains, past lakes and forests until finally we came to the dry scrub and heat of Nevada. Mummy was a bundle of nerves all the way.
“I can’t think how he found out about it,” she kept on saying. “Now I’m finished. He’ll never divorce me and Max won’t be able to marry me and everything is ruined. Everything I hoped for gone, destroyed, vanished.”
You can see she was able to be dramatic and eloquent even in despair.
I sat in the little bungalow at the ranch while she went in search of Homer, awaiting the worst. But it wasn’t long before I heard the tap of her high heels running up the path to the front door. Mummy burst in, her hair out of place, her face alight with joy.
“It’s all all right, darling.” She was beaming. “I saw Homer and everything is going to be wonderful. He didn’t even know I was here, can you imagine? He came to Reno because he wanted to get a quickie divorce from me. He’s found someone he wants to marry and suddenly he’s not quite so religiously puritanical anymore. Isn’t that brilliant? So we’ll be divorced in a few days and free to go home.”
“What about Mr. Goldman’s funeral? Aren’t we supposed to attend that?”
Mummy shrugged. “Oh, darling. There will be millions of people. Who would notice if we were missing—and it’s not as if we were bosom friends or anything. And to be truthful, I’ve had enough of America. I want to be back home where there are no silly ideas of equality and I can buy a decent face cream. I can’t wait, can you?”
Actually no, I couldn’t wait.
