" And those, she reflected, were the only
cookery lessons she ever got. How like Mother!
Mrs. Wrackgarth had died in the past year, of a complication of
ailments.[8] Emily still wore on her left shoulder that small tag of
crape which is as far as the Five Towns go in the way of mourning. Her
father had died in the year previous to that, of a still more curious
and enthralling complication of ailments.[9] Jos, his son, carried
on the Wrackgarth Works, and Emily kept house for Jos. She with her
own hand had made this pudding. But for her this pudding would not
have been. Fantastic! Utterly incredible! And yet so it was. She was
grown-up. She was mistress of the house. She could make or unmake
puddings at will. And yet she was Emily Wrackgarth. Which was absurd.
[Footnote 8: See "The History of Sarah Wrackgarth," pp. 345-482.]
[Footnote 9: See "The History of Sarah Wrackgarth," pp. 231-344.]
She would not try to explain, to reconcile. She abandoned herself to
the exquisite mysteries of existence. And yet in her abandonment she
kept a sharp look-out on herself, trying fiercely to make head or
tail of her nature. She thought herself a fool. But the fact that
she thought so was for her a proof of adult sapience. Odd! She gave
herself up.
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