Ghastly Comfort XXI

Dearest Mother,

Yes, the sky remains ever-gray even as the days lengthen and the temperature rises. And yes, the sea remains ever tumultuous as far as I can see from the cliff upon which the inn sits, the very one gifted to me those years ago by unsigned letter.

Yet the passing of the seasons does not go unnoticed here.

Why, with so much gray, I do love to see the flowers come up in the beds: the graphite geraniums, the cornflower blue daffodils, the slate peonies, the smokey irises, gunmetal gardenias, ash azaleas, taupe tulips–they are all just lovely!

And they have been especially lovely this year, as we have a new gardener. Or, should I say, a new old gardener. He is a man of about seven and a half feet in height named Glorm, who apparently worked here before. On his application, he explained his decision to leave and desire to return in big block letters as: “NUFF (sic) TIME PAST (sic) SAFE FOUR (sic) GLORM SHOW FACE AGAN (sic).” So perhaps he had some sort of communicable rash? And it has finally cleared up?

I cannot say for sure because Glorm does not say much at all himself. He simply goes about the work. Which makes it particularly odd how Hugo and he seem to have some sort of feud. At least, that is how I interpret Hugo’s constant demands that I fire him. “You will be sorry when the guests start disappearing, ma’am,” he says to me almost daily. But the truth is, I am not upset at all! I love that we have such lush flora that guests can be lost from view behind flowers and perfectly trimmed hedges!

In terms of how he manages to get the plants to grow so well, he will not say. I asked him if he uses plant food once, and he nodded, but when I inquired as to which kind, he said only, in a deep voice, “Organic matter.” I hope he is not paying for whatever it is out of his own pocket.

At any rate, I have supplied him with a pair of new hoses. They are expandable, so that when they are not in use, they remain compact, but when Glorm attaches them to each other and runs the water, they stretch to fifty feet. It is also very lightweight, but this is not a concern for Glorm as I often see him carrying boulders and planters and large black garbage bags whose hefty contents sometimes appear to wriggle as he walks. Strong as a horse, he is!

I would love for you and father to meet him and see his handiwork. Though, of course, I will not call him ‘strong as a horse’ in front of father; I know how he hates such comparisons that speak to equine braun but omit equine intelligence.

Do let me know when you plan to come!

Sincerely,
Miranda Prillchisky
Proprietor
The Dread Inn at Death Rock