The Icelandic Canadian - 01.12.1946, Qupperneq 40

38
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
Winter 1946
3ive Cen tJ cA Cup
By CAROLINE GUNNARSSON
★
Madam Mystic’s sturdy feet carried
her briskly toward the little restaurant
through the drizzling rain, before the
threatened downpour could catch up
with her. Inside the door warm air gush-
ed through the grate, caressed her chill-
ed ankles and stole slowly over her
whole body. She nodded casually to
Bill Mason, the proprietor, at the cash
register, then went on to the cloak room.
This would be a busy afternoon. It
was one of those dull, dreary days when
spring sulks coldly in mid-air; when
people’s troubles tighten around them
and they drift listlessly into cheerful
little gypsy tea rooms. Madam Mystic
could never quite decide whether they
came for the sake of huddling together
or to draw hope from the things she
read in their tea leaves. Anyway, tea
cup reading was a great help to those
who had faith in it.
In the cloak room she ran into Harriet,
the pretty little blonde waitress, gazing
intently into the mirror of her compact
and carefully dabbing powder around
her eyes.
“Hello, Harriet,” she said lightly.
“Miserable day.”
“Yeah.” Then hesitantly, “Listen - -
think you might get a chance to read
my cup today?”
“Of course, child. I’ll make a chance.
Meet me at the little corner table after
Six. I’ll do it before I go home.”
Madam Mystic was disturbed. Noth-
ing should be allowed to irritate that
tender heart of Harriet’s. Something
would have to be done. She remembered
herself as a young girl, leaning eagerly
toward a fortune teller in a quaint little
tea room. Suddenly her biggest wish
had seemed too precious to trust to a
tea cup, so she quickly withdrew it and
substituted a lesser one. Yet every word
spoken by that wizardly old woman
across the table from her had seemed
to interpret her hidden wish and its
happy realization. How her heart had
echoed that comforting reassurance.
She bustled to a table and sat down
beside a young girl. Picking up her cup
and shaking it dry, she looked toward
the door. Two middle aged women were
entering.
In their flat-heeled black oxfords and
cotton stockings that wrinkled slightly
around the ankles they walked heavily
to a table. One stout figure was rigidly
corseted and neatly dressed in black.
It’s owner tucked a few stray hairs of
gray under her shabby hat and sat
down. Her companion wore a flowered
dress. She bulged where she would and
straying hairs were left to stray. “Not
much rain on their coats,” thought
Madam Mystic. “Live in a boarding
house close by likely. Seems to be plenty
on their minds, and one of them can’t
take it. She’s letting herself go.”
As she prattled gaily to the girl be-
side her, she felt her thoughts drawn
toward the older women, who craned
their necks eagerly toward her voice.
“Wonder if she’s any good,” said the
one in the flowered dress.
“Good as most of them I guess,” ans-
wered her friend, tapping the table with
a gold-banded finger that was obviously
on good terms with strong, hot soap
suds.
Harriet brought their tea on a tray.
She was a pretty child. Madam Mystic
saw Bill Mason’s eyes soften and rest
with pleading warmth on her small,
quick hands as they emptied the tray.
Madam Mystic moved from table to
table, stopping now and then for a word
with the waitresses. The two elderly
ladies had tipped their cups.
“Ethel has the Children,” remarked
the lady in black.
The other woman toyed listlessly with
a spoon. “Oh, sure,” she said bitterly.