“Oui, je connais un endroit qui est près d’ici, madame,” says Mr. Pryce, “il y a cet endroit juste ici à Winchelsea.” “Très bien, alors quel est le nom de cet endroit, M. Pryce ?” asked Madame Morançais. “Le Café de Frédérique,” answered Mr. Pryce.
Then Madame Morançais grabbed her purse and pocketbook and went out the doorway. “Attendez-moi !” yelled Mr. Pryce. Then he went to feel his way and catch up with Madame Morançais.
Mr. Pryce made his way, by feeling, to Madame Morançais and asked her if he could get into her vehicle. “Excusez-moi, madame,” Mr. Pryce questioned, “mais puis-je monter dans votre voiture, Mme Morançais ?”
Madame Morançais immediately responded, “Bien sûr que vous pouvez, M. Pryce.” Mr. Pryce then felt his way to her passenger door and felt it to open it. Then Madame Morançais got into her car and drove, following Mr. Pryce’s directional skills.
“Mme Morançais,” Mr. Pryce asked, “pourriez-vous me parler dans votre meilleur anglais ?” “Yes, I can, sir,” Madame Morançais responded in her best British accent, “well, my name is Mrs. Morançais.” “Do you have a first name?” Mr. Pryce replied back. “If so, what is it?”
“No, kind sir,” Madame Morançais responded, “what’s your first name?” Mr. Pryce responded, “Nah, I can’t tell you that.” “Oh, okay,” Madame Morançais calmly responded, “well, I’m married, but I can’t tell you my husband’s name.”
Mr. Pryce said, “Okay, I understand.” “Good, thanks for understanding.” Madame Morançais responded. Then Mr. Pryce gave her the directions to Le Café de Frédérique to the best of his ability.
Then they entered together and ordered coffee and tea. Madame Morançais then took Mr. Pryce back home and left, and Mr. Pryce went to sleep.
The next morning came, and Mr. Pryce awoke from a deep slumber. After a long night of riding with Madame Morançais in her car, “What a long night,” exclaimed Mr. Pryce. “How much could I take from a French mistress?”
Mr. Pryce got up and felt his way around his home, and walked the entire way from his master bedroom into his kitchen.
Then Mr. Pryce got something to eat, and as he finished, he felt and walked his way to his greenhouse, where there he found an unusual unwelcome guest at the doorway of his greenhouse. “Hello,” said the unwelcome guest.
“Who are you?” Mr. Pryce wondered. “Hello, I’m Patricia Frances Carter,” said the guest, “but I go by Patty.” Mr. Pryce asked, “Why are you here? And where are you from?”
The guest thought out loud and concluded. “I’m here for a reason,” exclaimed the guest. “I’m from Bentleyville, Texas.” “Why are you here?” she asked. Mr. Pryce told the guest about his story and how he became the world’s finest greenhouse master in all the lands of Winchelsea.
Mr. Pryce replied, “I live here. You silly little girl.” “Silly?” she questioned weirdly, “What do you mean by silly?” Mr. Pryce wanted to be the nicest possible, but she mistook Mr. Pryce for a mean old man.
“What’s your problem?” She questioned angrily, “I’m just a little girl!” Mr. Pryce didn’t mean to hurt or crush the little girl’s feelings, but what he said, the girl took by mistake.
At nine, at four-feet-four-inches, Patty’s hair was light brunette. Her eyes were hazel, she was normal, somewhat muscular, and she was American.
Mr. Pryce didn’t want her to take everything that he said for granted, but she was a little misunderstood with her own true feelings.
“Well, sorry sir,” Patty said, “I didn’t mean to take that for granted.” “It is fine,” Mr. Pryce said back, “there is no need to apologize.” “But I insist,” she insisted. “I apologize for my own actions.”
Mr. Pryce surely did not think that she needed to apologize, but Patty did anyway. Then Patty wanted to come into Mr. Pryce’s house, but Mr. Pryce told her not to, and that it was rude of her.
“C’mon into my greenhouse, ma’am,” Mr. Pryce said. “It’s just in my backyard.” “Why?” asked Patty, “it’s not like I live right down the corner.”
“Then where do you live?” Mr. Pryce asked. “Lemme tell ya a story.” “Okay,” Mr. Pryce answered. “It all began when mama told me to go outside. She would have my baby bro walk with me till the dawn of the moon.”
Patty continues her story, “Mama wouldn’t have let me have my baby bro out of my sight. She would kill me, plus my Dada would do it before her. My bro is the only thing my parents care about except myself.”
As Patty finished her story, “Dada would have loved for me to take care of my baby brother like my life depended on it.” Then Mr. Pryce looked puzzled at Patty.
“He’s only four-and-a-half years old,” Patty continued, “Dada would murder me before mama could.” “Ah,” Mr. Pryce said, “I see.” “Only God can judge me,” Patty said faithfully. “And don’t forget about his lovely son, Jesus Christ.”
“Yes, fair lady,” Mr. Pryce replied. “Why do you call me that?” Patty questioned. Mr. Pryce had to think deeply and smoothly about his own answer. “It’s just a polite way to address and form a kind girl. Mr. Pryce continued, “As yourself, my lady.”
Mr. Pryce insisted, “You call me master. It’s the polite way to address a man.” “Really?” Patty asked, “shall I politely call you, master?”
“Yes, fair lady,” Mr. Pryce replied, “Call me Master or Mr. Pryce.” Then Patty headed to Mr. Pryce’s doorway and to the backyard and tried to open the door. Mr. Pryce then stopped Patty in his doorway.
“Where would you be going?” Mr. Pryce questioned, “Nobody but me is first out of my doorway to my greenhouse.” “Yes, master,” Patty answered, “sir, I sincerely apologize.”
Mr. Pryce then felt his way to Patty and felt her face. “Ah, yes,” he said, “What’s your name again?” “My name, sir?” questioned Patty. “It’s Patricia Frances Carter. but I go by Patty. Why?”
“How old are you, Patty?” asked Mr. Pryce. Patty replied, “I’m nine, sir.” “Nine, huh?” Mr. Pryce said. “I remember when I was nine. Let me tell you a story.” And a story Mr. Pryce told. “Mummy would take me to the bus stop every day of school.
She would always hold my tiny hands and tell me, “it’s going to be a fine day at school, right?”
I would answer back, “Yes, mummy,” and she would send me on the bus ride to Chelmswood Primary School, where I would sometimes get beat up by Skylark Parker, who’s a bully.”
“What would Skylark do to you?” Patty wondered. “He would give me Indian burns, punch and kick me, call me stupid and ridiculous names, and other things that bullies do.”
“Ooh, ouchie!” Patty said, “that must have hurt you, huh?” Mr. Pryce replied, “Yes, but that’s my past.” “What’s an Indian burn?” Patty asked.
“An act of placing both hands on a person’s arm,” Mr. Pryce continued, “and then twisting it with a wringing motion to produce a burning sensation.”
“Ouchie,” Patty stood still, “that must have hurt when that mean old bully did that to you.” “Yeah, but that’s still my past,” Mr. Pryce told Patty again. “There’s nothing I could do about it. He could beat me up all he wanted, but that’ll never hurt my pride and joy.”
Then a while passed, and Mr. Pryce made his way by feeling to the greenhouse, where Patty followed him from the back. “You’ll see fresh flowers and flower pots, ma’am.” Mr. Pryce said. “What kinds?” Patty asked.