The kettle, more or less

Several minutes after the young man had left, a woman of about Edith’s own age came in carrying a tray. The tray held a kettle, two cups, and a small plate with three biscuits on it. The biscuits were the kind that come in tins, slightly stale at the corners, dusted with what looked like very old sugar.

I thought you might like a tea, the woman said. She had the careful diction of someone who had been told, often, that her voice was too quiet. He said you were waiting.

Thank you, said Edith. I won’t, though.

The woman set the tray down on the low table anyway, and stood for a moment, her hands clasped in front of her like a child at the front of a class. It’s no trouble. I’ll leave it.

Please, said Edith. I really won’t.

The woman did not leave. She sat down on the floor, very neatly, as though she had practised the fold of her legs many times for many quiet rooms; and she said: Could I sit? and then, almost in the same breath, Are you sure I can’t pour you anything?

Edith looked at her. Up close the woman was younger than she had first thought, and tireder. Around the eyes she had the soft small lines that came from saying yes to too many people who did not deserve it. I’m very sure, Edith said, but her voice came out kinder than she had intended, and the woman heard the kindness, and stayed.

They did not talk, for a long time. Outside, the afternoon went on with its business. The clock ticked. Once, and only once, the woman reached over and adjusted the position of the biscuit plate, as though it had been the smallest fraction off-centre and her hands could not quite stand it. After she had done this she looked up at Edith with such sudden, unembarrassed clarity that Edith almost laughed.

I’m Marta, the woman said.

Edith.

I know, said Marta. He told me.

The kettle was no longer steaming.