Chapter 28 chapter eight

Mrs. McNab stooped to pick a bouquet to take home.It didn't matter, she thought, because it was said that the family would never come back; and perhaps the house would be sold by Michaelmas.While she was cleaning, she put the bouquet on the table.She likes flowers.It would be a pity to let them go to waste.Assuming the house was sold (she stood with her arms akimbo in front of the mirror), it too would need tending—it would.Over the years, no one has lived in this house.Those books and items were moldy.For, partly because of the war and partly because it was not easy to get helpers, the house was not as clean as she had hoped.Now it is impossible to put it in order by relying on the strength of only one person.She is too old.Her legs were in excruciating pain.All those books needed to be out on the lawn to bask in the sun; the plaster was peeling off the living room walls;The family should have come and seen it themselves; they should have sent someone to come and see.Because, there are still clothes in the closet; they have left clothes in all the bedrooms.How should she deal with them?The clothes had moths in them--Mrs Ramsay's clothes.poor lady!She doesn't need them anymore.She died, people said; years ago, in London.There is still the gray cloak she wore when she worked the garden (Mrs. McNab fingered it).Mrs. Ramsay's style is still vivid in her memory. When she walked up the driveway in front of the door with the laundry, she could see Mrs. Ramsay bending over her flowers (now the garden is depressed and everything is in turmoil.) Disorganized, rabbits rushing out of the flower bed towards you and running away.)—she could see her in that gray cloak, and one of those children was always with her.And boots and shoes; hairbrushes and combs were left on the dresser, exactly as if she would be back tomorrow. (She died suddenly, people say.) Once, they came soon, but postponed the date (because of the war, and because of the bad traffic these days); Sending money, but never sending a letter, never looking back; but hoping to come back here and find everything just as it was when they left, oh dear!Why was the dresser drawer stuffed with handkerchiefs and ribbons (she opened them all).Yes, at that time, when she came up that driveway with the laundry, she could see Mrs Ramsay.

"Good evening, Mrs. McNabb," she would say. She treats her kindly.The girls liked her too.But, my God, how much has changed between then and now (she closed the drawer); many families have lost their dearest.She's dead; Mr. Andrew's been killed; and Miss Prue's dead, I hear, with the first-born child; but everybody's losing their loved ones these days.Prices are going up shamefully and never come back down.She could still recall Mrs Ramsay's voice and smile in her cloak. "Good evening, Mrs. McNabb," she said, and ordered the cook to leave her a pot of cream soup—she had come all the way from town with her heavy basket, and she really felt that she wanted something to eat.I can still see the lady's figure now, stooping over her flowers; as Mrs. McNabb limped along, sweeping and tidying here and there, a shadowy figure, flickering, flickering, like a A yellow beam or aperture at the end of a telescope, and a lady in a gray cloak, stooping over her flower-bed, wandered up and down the room, over the bedroom wainscot, to the dresser, and past the washstand.What is the cook's name?Madeleine?Mariana? — Kind of like that name.Ah, she forgot—how forgetful she was.The cook was as anxious as all red-haired women are.They had a great laugh together.She is always a hit in the kitchen.She would make them laugh, and she could do it.Back then, life was much better than it is now.

She sighed; it was too much work for a woman to do so much.She kept shaking her head.This used to be the nursery.Ouch, it's all wet in here; the lime is peeling off.Why did they nail a beast's head to the wall?It was also moldy.The little attic on the top floor was full of rats.Rainwater leaked in.But they never write; they never come.Some of the locks had come off, so the doors were banging in the wind.She doesn't like coming here alone at night.A woman can't take it, can't take it, can't take it.Her footsteps creaked, and she sighed sadly.She slammed the door, turned the key in the lock, and was gone, leaving the house alone, closed, and locked.