Raisins and almonds - Poisoned Pen Press (UK)

Raisins and Almonds 1
used as a pantry someone—Mrs. Smythe?—had put a fresh jug
of milk and a brown paper bag of biscuits.
Miss Lee, with sacramental care, made tea and bit into a biscuit.
It was the oatmeal and treacle mixture called an Anzac.
‘I’m home,’ she said to herself, recalled to reality. Nothing
was more real than an Anzac. It seemed to leave no room for any
other taste. ‘I’m here in my own flat and I’ve got my life back,
my shop and my city. I’ll never leave you again,’ she promised
the room, and took another biscuit.
Dot met her at the door, coinciding with a huge bunch of
flowers preceding Mr. Abrahams, and a babble of journalists.
‘I don’t know how they found out, Miss, but do you want
to talk to them or shall I call the cops?’ asked Dot, scowling at
a mannerless young man with a notebook and a strong sense of
the Freedom of the Press.
‘I’ll talk to one of them,’ said Miss Lee, perfectly collected.
‘Come in, Mr. Abrahams, what lovely flowers.’ She scanned the
assembled multitude and picked out a young woman who was
being squashed. Cameras flashed and she blinked.
‘You,’ said Miss Lee, ‘if you please. No, not you, the lady.’
The journalist fought her way to the front with some fine hip
and shoulder work doubtless learned from a childhood shared
with bigger brothers. Miss Lee allowed her to enter, and shut the
door on a groan of disappointment and more flashes.
Dot went to interview the landlady about a vase, Mr.
Abrahams sat down in the boarder’s parlour, and Miss Lee asked
the journalist, ‘What do you want to know?’
‘How do you feel about being released?’ gasped the girl, who
was in possession of a scoop and was wondering how she had
managed it. Her chief was going to eat his words. He said that
women could not hold their own in the rough and tumble of
journalism, and she had fought for this assignment. He had only
sent her because all his male journalists were out.
‘Very happy,’ said Miss Lee.
‘And…er…what are you intending to do now?’
‘I shall go back to running my shop, of course.’