The Dreaded Conversation

by Francesca

Golden afternoon sunlight gently drifted in through the windows of my little kitchen as I finished up the dishes from teatime. No easy task, as Mary had come over to visit Mr. Holmes and had consumed an alarming amount of food for a young woman. Ah, well, a young healthy person after a day on the Downs would have quite an appetite, I suppose.

There were simply too many dishes, and I had something to do. Uncharacteristically careless, I left them undone. I dried my hands on a dish towel and looked around for a familiar strawberry-blonde head. I had been meaning to talk to Mary (or Russell, as Mr. Holmes calls her) for some time about, well, the sort of things a young woman ought to know. She now had no mother to explain these subjects to her, and I sincerely doubted that academic textbooks would do the job. I knew that as of late, I was the closest thing Mary had to a mother. It was my responsibility. I stiffened my resolve as I spotted her in an armchair by the empty fireplace. Reading a book. Oh, the novelty.

Engrossed in my fascinating study of Hebrew feminine verbs and their role in the Old Testament, I must admit that although my studies with Holmes had sharpened my senses, I failed to hear Mrs. Hudson approach. This momentary lapse, however, was soon replaced with shock anew by what she said.

"Hello, Mary! What are you reading now?"

"A study of Hebrew verbs."

"Ahh... I see."

"Not to sound rude, Mrs. Hudson, but is there any particular reason you felt compelled to leave your tasks in the kitchen incomplete to come talk to me?"

She knew! How? I tried unsuccessfully to hide the expression of shock and admission that jumped across my face.

"It takes you a good fifteen minutes to clean up, especially after I've been through your delicious food. You only spent ten minutes in the kitchen, and the water was only running for seven."

Ah, the dear girl always seemed to know what went on.

"Well, Mary, the thing is, I'd, um, I'd like to talk to you about the sort of things a young woman ought to know."

There. I'd said it. And knowing Mary, after I was done with her she would never forgive me.

Oh, God. Oh, God. No, no, no. I would have much preferred the verbs to what I knew was about to come out of Mrs. Hudson's mouth.

"Oh - oh, no, Mrs. Hudson, it's quite alright, I've um, I've learnt enough from the anatomy textbooks resting in Bodley."

A futile shot, however - Mrs. Hudson always said I spent much too much time absorbed in my books. She would definitely not leave it at that.

"My dear Mary, what on earth are you talking about?"

I was thoroughly confused. What did she think I was about to say?

What? What on earth is she talking about? But as confounded as I was, I could not mistake the item that Mrs. Hudson drew from behind her back.

NOOOOO! This was, if possible, even worse.

"Why, Mary, whatever is the matter? You knew you'd have to learn to bake properly someday."