Blue Bedroom and Other Stories (20 page)

“Get an accountant.”

“An
accountant?
”

“Don't say ‘
An accountant
' like that, as though it were something shameful. You look as though I was telling you to acquire a lover. Of course, an accountant, to do your sums for you. No more buts. You're onto a marvellous idea.”

“Supposing I didn't get any work?”

“You'll get more work than you can cope with.”

“That's even worse.”

“Not at all. You'll enroll some nice village ladies to help you. Give employment. Better and better. Before you know where you are, you'll be running a real little business.”

A real little business. Doing something creative, that she enjoyed and was good at. Employing people. Perhaps, like Cynthia, making money. She thought about it. After a bit, she said, “I don't know if I've got the nerve.”

“Of course you've got the nerve. And you've already got your first order. Mine.”

“It's James. I … don't
suppose
he'd mind?”

“Mind? He'll be thrilled to bits. And as for your daughter, it would be the best thing you could do for her. It's not easy for children to leave the nest, especially only children. If you're busy and happy, she need be devilled by no stirrings of guilt. It'll make all the difference to her, and your relationship with her. Come on! You've probably never had the chance to do something on your own, and now here it is. Grab it, Ellen, with both hands.”

Watching her, listening, Ellen suddenly began to laugh. Ruth wrinkled her brow. “Why do you laugh?”

“I realise now just why you were such a success on television.”

“I tell you why, because I've gone into what my children call my tub-thumping act. Cosmo always called me a rampant feminist, and perhaps I am. Perhaps I always was. I only know that the most important person in the world is oneself.
You
are the person you have to live with.
You
are your own company, your own pride. Self-reliance has nothing to do with selfishness … it's simply a well that doesn't run dry until the day you die and you don't need it any more.”

Ellen, oddly touched, could think of nothing to say to this. Ruth turned her head, looked into the firelight. Ellen saw the lines about her eyes, the generous curve of her mouth, the smooth grey hair. Not young, but beautiful; experienced, bruised, perhaps—probably sometimes exhausted—but never defeated. In middle age she had started a new life, in good heart, and without malice, on her own. Surely, with James behind her, it shouldn't be too difficult to follow her example?

She said, “How soon do you want your loose covers made?”

*   *   *

It was time, at last, to go home. Ellen stood up, pulled on her sheepskin coat, and picked up the empty basket. Ruth opened the door and they went out together into the frosty garden.

Ellen said, “You've got a mulberry tree. That'll give you shade when the summer comes.”

“I can't imagine summer.”

“If … if you are alone at Christmas, would you like to come and spend the day with James and me? I've made him sound stuffy but he's really very nice.”

“How very kind. I'd love it.”

“That's settled then. Thank you for the coffee.”

“Thank you for my before-Christmas present.”

“You've given me a before-Christmas present, too.”

“I have?”

“Encouragement.”

Ruth smiled. “That,” she said, “is what friends are for.”

*   *   *

Ellen walked slowly home, swinging the empty basket, her head buzzing with plans. As she opened the door and went into the kitchen, the telephone started to ring, and she picked up the receiver in her still-gloved hand.

“Hello.”

“Mummy. It's Vicky. I am sorry I haven't been in touch, but I just rang to let you know that I
am
going to Switzerland. I do hope you don't mind, but it's such a lovely chance, and I've never been skiing and I thought perhaps I could come home for New Year. Do you mind dreadfully? Do you think I'm being dreadfully selfish?”

“Of
course
I don't.” And it was true. She didn't think Vicky was being selfish. She was doing what she should be doing, making her own decisions, having fun, meeting new friends. “It's a wonderful opportunity and you must grab it with both hands.”
(Grab it, Ellen, with both hands.)

“You are angelic. And you and Dad won't be lonely on your own?”

“I've already asked someone to spend Christmas with us.”

“Oh, good. I imagined you both being gloomy and eating a chop and not having a Christmas tree.”

“Then you imagined wrong. I'll post your presents this afternoon.”

“And I'll post you mine. You are a darling to be so understanding.”

“Send up postcards.”

“I will. I promise. I will. And Mummy…”

“Yes, my darling?”

“Merry Christmas.”

*   *   *

Ellen replaced the receiver. Then, still wearing her coat, she went upstairs, past Vicky's bedroom, and on up to the attic. There it was, the scent of wood and camphor. There they were, the spacious windows and the wide skylight. There, her table would stand; here, the ironing board, here her sewing machine. Here she would cut, tack, and stitch. In her mind's eye stood images of bolts of linen and chintz, braiding for curtains, rolls of velvet. She would make a name for herself—Ellen Parry. A life for herself. A real little business.

She might have stood there all day, lost in plans, hugging herself with satisfaction, had not she suddenly caught sight of the box containing the Christmas tree decorations.

Christmas.

Less than two weeks away, and still so much to do. The mince pies, the cards, the presents to be posted, the tree to be ordered. She hadn't, she remembered without guilt, even washed up the breakfast things. Jerked back from the future to the even more exciting present, she crossed the empty floor and picked the box up in her arms, and then, bearing the precious load with considerable care, she made her way downstairs.

The White Birds

From the garden, where she was engaged in cutting the last of the roses before the frost set in, Eve Douglas heard the telephone ringing inside the house. She did not instantly rush indoors, because it was a Monday, and Mrs. Abney was there, pushing the vacuum cleaner around like a mad thing and filling the house with the smell of furniture polish. Mrs. Abney loved to answer the telephone, and, sure enough, a moment later the sitting-room window was flung open to reveal Mrs. Abney, waving a yellow duster to attract Eve's attention.

“Mrs. Douglas! Telephone.”

“Coming.”

Carrying the prickly bunch in one hand and her secateurs in the other, Eve made her way up the leaf-strewn grass, shucked off her muddy boots, and went indoors.

“I think it's your son-in-law, from Scotland.”

Eve's heart gave a faint lurch. She put the flowers and the secateurs down on the hall chest and went into the sitting room. The furniture was all over the place, the curtains draped over chairs to facilitate floor-polishing. The telephone stood on her desk. She picked up the receiver.

“David?”

“Eve.”

“Yes?”

“Eve … look … it's Jane.”

“What's happened?”

“Nothing's happened. It's just that we thought last night that the baby was coming … and then the pains sort of stopped. But this morning the doctor came, and her blood pressure was a bit high, so he's taken her into hospital…”

He stopped. After a little Eve said, “But the baby isn't due for another month.”

“I know. That's it.”

“Do you want me to come?”

“Could you?”

“Yes.” Her mind flew ahead, checking the contents of the deep freeze, cancelling small appointments, trying to work out how she could abandon Walter. “Yes, of course. I'll catch the five-thirty train. I should be with you at about a quarter to eight.”

“I'll meet you at the station. You're an angel.”

“Is Jamie all right?”

“He's all right. Nessie Cooper's keeping an eye on him; she'll look after him till you get here.”

“I'll see you, then.”

“I'm sorry to spring this on you.”

“That's all right. Give Jane my love. And, David…” She knew it was a ludicrous thing to say, even as she said it. “… try not to worry.”

*   *   *

Slowly, carefully, she replaced the receiver. She looked up at Mrs. Abney, who stood in the open doorway. Mrs. Abney's cheerful expression had gone, to be replaced by one of anxious concern which Eve knew was mirrored by her own. There was no need for spoken word or explanation. They were old friends. Mrs. Abney had worked for Eve for more than twenty years. Mrs. Abney had watched Jane grow up, had come to Jane's wedding wearing a turquoise two-piece and matching turban hat. When Jamie was born, Mrs. Abney had knitted him a blue blanket for his pram. She was, in every sort of way, one of the family.

She said, “Nothing's gone wrong?”

“It's just that they think the baby's on the way. It's a month early.”

“You'll have to go.”

“Yes,” said Eve faintly.

She had been going to go anyway, had everything planned for next month. Walter's sister was going to come up from the south to keep him company and do the cooking, but there could be no question of her coming now, at such short notice.

Mrs. Abney said, “Don't you worry about Mr. Douglas. I'll keep an eye on him.”

“But, Mrs. Abney, you've got enough to do—your own family…”

“If I can't make it in the mornings, I'll nip up in the afternoons.”

“He can make his own
breakfast
…” But somehow that only worsened the situation, as though poor Walter was capable of nothing more than boiling an egg. But it wasn't that, and Mrs. Abney knew it. Walter had the farm to run; he was out working from six o'clock in the morning until sunset or later. He needed, got, and consumed meals of enormous proportions because he was a big man and a hard-working one. He took, in fact, a good deal of looking after.

“I—I don't know how long I'll be away.”

“All that matters,” said Mrs. Abney, “is that Jane's all right and the baby too. That's your place … that's where you've got to be.”

“Oh, Mrs. Abney, what would I do without you?”

“Lots of things, I expect,” said Mrs. Abney, who was a true Northumbrian and didn't believe in showing emotion. “And now, why don't I make us a nice hot cup of tea?”

The tea was a good idea. While she drunk it, Eve made lists. When she had finished drinking it, she got out the car, drove the short distance to the local town, went into the supermarket and there stocked up on all the sort of food that Walter could, if necessary, cope with for himself. Tins of soup, quiches, frozen pies, frozen vegetables. She stocked up on bread, butter, pounds of cheese. Eggs and milk came from the farm, but the butcher wrapped chops and steaks and sausages, found scraps and bones for the dogs, agreed to send a van out to the farm should the need arise.

“Going away?” he asked, slicing a marrow bone in two with his cleaver.

“Yes. Just up to Scotland to stay with my daughter.” The shop was full and she did not say why she was going.

“That'll be a nice change.”

“Yes,” said Eve faintly. “Yes, it will be very nice.”

*   *   *

She got home and found Walter, who had come in early, sitting at the kitchen table and eating his way through the stew, boiled potatoes, and cauliflower cheese which Mrs. Abney had left for him in the bottom oven of the Aga stove. He wore his old working clothes and looked like a ploughman. Once, and it seemed a long time ago, he had been in the Army; Eve had married him as a tall and dashing captain, and they had had a traditional wedding with herself in flowing white and an archway of swords awaiting them as they emerged from the church doorway. There had followed postings in Germany and Hong Kong and Warminster, always living in married quarters, never having a home of their own. And then Jane arrived, and soon after that Walter's father, who had spent his life farming in Northumberland, announced that he had no intention of dying in harness, and what was Walter going to do about it?

Eve and Walter made the great decision together. Walter said goodbye to the Army, spent two years at an Agricultural College, and then took over the farm. It was a decision neither of them regretted, but the hard physical work had left its mark on Walter. He was now fifty-five, his thick hair quite grey, his brown face seamed with lines, his hands permanently engrained with engine oil.

He looked up as she appeared, borne down with laden baskets. “Hello, darling.”

She sat down at the other end of the table without even taking off her coat. “Did you see Mrs. Abney?”

“No, she'd gone before I came in.”

“I have to go to Scotland.”

Across the table their eyes met. “Jane?” said Walter.

“Yes.”

The sudden shock of anxiety seemed, visibly, to drain him, to diminish him in some horrible way. Every instinct was to comfort him. She said quickly, “You mustn't worry. It's just that the baby's going to arrive a little early.”

“Is she all right?”

Matter-of-factly, Eve explained what David had told her. “These things happen. And she's in hospital. I'm sure she's getting the best of attention.”

Walter said what Eve had been trying not to tell herself ever since David's telephone call. “She was so ill when Jamie was born.”

“Oh, Walter,
don't
…”

“In the old days she'd have been told never to have another child.”

“It's different now. Things are so different. The doctors are so clever—” she went on, vaguely, trying to reassure not only her husband, but herself. “You know … scans and things…” He looked unconvinced. “Besides, she wanted another child.”