Sad Cypress (8 page)

“I thought I was going to die when I was a probationer at St. Luke's. I felt I could never stick it for three years. But I did.”

They had sorted through the old man's clothes. Now they came to a tin box full of papers.

Mary said:

“We must go through these, I suppose.”

They sat down one on each side of the table.

Nurse Hopkins grumbled as she started with a handful.

“Extraordinary what rubbish people keep! Newspaper cuttings! Old letters. All sorts of things!”

Mary said, unfolding a document:

“Here's Dad's and Mum's marriage certificate. At St. Albans, 1919.”

Nurse Hopkins said:

“Marriage lines, that's the old-fashioned term. Lots of the people in this village use that term yet.”

Mary said in a stifled voice:

“But, Nurse—”

“What's the matter?”

Mary Gerrard said in a shaky voice:

“Don't you see? This is 1939. And I'm twenty-one. In 1919 I was a year old. That means—that means—that my father and mother weren't married till—till—
afterwards.
”

Nurse Hopkins frowned. She said robustly:

“Well, after all, what of it? Don't go worrying about that, at
this
time of day!”

“But, Nurse, I can't help it.”

Nurse Hopkins spoke with authority:

“There's many couples that don't go to church till a bit after they should do so. But so long as they do it in the end, what's the odds? That's what I say!”

Mary said in a low voice:

“Is that why—do you think—my father never liked me? Because, perhaps my mother
made
him marry her?”

Nurse Hopkins hesitated. She bit her lip, then she said:

“It wasn't quite like that, I imagine.” She paused. “Oh, well, if you're going to worry about it, you may as well know the truth: You aren't Gerrard's daughter at all.”

Mary said:

“Then
that
was why!”

Nurse Hopkins said: “Maybe.”

Mary said, a red spot suddenly burning in each cheek:

“I suppose it's wrong of me, but I'm glad! I've always felt uncomfortable because I didn't care for my father, but if he
wasn't
my father, well, that makes it all right! How did you know about it?”

Nurse Hopkins said:

“Gerrard talked about it a good deal before he died. I shut him up pretty sharply, but he didn't care. Naturally,
I
shouldn't have said anything to you about it if this hadn't cropped up.”

Mary said slowly:

“I wonder who my real father was….”

Nurse Hopkins hesitated. She opened her mouth, then shut it
again. She appeared to be finding it hard to make up her mind on some point.

Then a shadow fell across the room, and the two women looked round to see Elinor Carlisle standing at the window.

Elinor said:

“Good morning.”

Nurse Hopkins said:

“Good morning, Miss Carlisle. Lovely day, isn't it?”

Mary said:

“Oh—good morning, Miss Elinor.”

Elinor said:

“I've been making some sandwiches. Won't you come up and have some? It's just on one o'clock, and it's such a bother to have to go home for lunch. I got enough for three on purpose.”

Nurse Hopkins said in pleased surprise:

“Well, I must say, Miss Carlisle, that's extremely thoughtful of you. It
is
a nuisance to have to break off what you're doing and come all the way back from the village. I hoped we might finish this morning. I went round and saw my cases early. But, there, turning out takes you longer than you think.”

Mary said gratefully:

“Thank you, Miss Elinor, it's very kind of you.”

The three of them walked up the drive to the house. Elinor had left the front door open. They passed inside into the cool of the hall. Mary shivered a little. Elinor looked at her sharply.

She said:

“What is it?”

Mary said:

“Oh, nothing—just a shiver. It was coming in—out of the sun….”

Elinor said in a low voice:

“That's queer. That's what I felt this morning.”

Nurse Hopkins said in a loud, cheerful voice and with a laugh:

“Come, now, you'll be pretending there are ghosts in the house next.
I
didn't feel anything!”

Elinor smiled. She led the way into the morning room on the right of the front door. The blinds were up and the windows open. It looked cheerful.

Elinor went across the hall and brought back from the pantry a big plate of sandwiches. She handed it to Mary, saying:

“Have one?”

Mary took one. Elinor stood watching her for a moment as the girl's even white teeth bit into the sandwich.

She held her breath for a minute, then expelled it in a little sigh.

Absentmindedly she stood for a minute with the plate held to her waist, then at the sight of Nurse Hopkins' slightly parted lips and hungry expression she flushed and quickly proffered the plate to the older woman.

Elinor took a sandwich herself. She said apologetically:

“I meant to make some coffee, but I forgot to get any. There's some beer on that table, though, if anyone likes that?”

Nurse Hopkins said sadly:

“If only I'd thought to bring along some tea now.”

Elinor said absently:

“There's a little tea still in the canister in the pantry.”

Nurse Hopkins' face brightened.

“Then I'll just pop out and put the kettle on. No milk, I suppose?”

Elinor said:

“Yes, I brought some.”

“Well, then, that's all right,” said Nurse Hopkins and hurried out.

Elinor and Mary were alone together.

A queer tension crept into the atmosphere. Elinor, with an obvious effort, tried to make conversation. Her lips were dry. She passed her tongue over them. She said, rather stiffly:

“You—like your work in London?”

“Yes, thank you. I—I'm very grateful to you—”

A sudden harsh sound broke from Elinor. A laugh so discordant, so unlike her that Mary stared at her in surprise.

Elinor said:

“You needn't be so grateful!”

Mary, rather embarrassed, said:

“I didn't mean—that is—”

She stopped.

Elinor was staring at her—a glance so searching, so, yes, strange that Mary flinched under it.

She said:

“Is—is anything wrong?”

Elinor got up quickly. She said, turning away:

“What should be wrong?”

Mary murmured.

“You—you looked—”

Elinor said with a little laugh:

“Was I staring? I'm so sorry. I do sometimes—when I'm thinking of something else.”

Nurse Hopkins looked in at the door and remarked brightly, “I've put the kettle on,” and went out again.

Elinor was taken with a sudden fit of laughter.

“Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on—we'll all have tea! Do you remember playing that, Mary, when we were children?”

“Yes, indeed I do.”

Elinor said:

“
When we were children
… It's a pity, Mary isn't it, that one can never go back…?”

Mary said:

“Would you like to go back?”

Elinor said with force:

“Yes…
yes
….”

Silence fell between them for a little while.

Then Mary said, her face flushing:

“Miss Elinor, you mustn't think—”

She stopped, warned by the sudden stiffening of Elinor's slender figure, the uplifted line of her chin.

Elinor said in a cold, steel-like voice:

“What mustn't I think?”

Mary murmured:

“I—I've forgotten what I was going to say.”

Elinor's body relaxed—as at a danger past.

Nurse Hopkins came in with a tray. On it was a brown teapot, and milk and three cups.

She said, quite unconscious of anticlimax:

“Here's the tea!”

She put the tray in front of Elinor. Elinor shook her head.

“I won't have any.”

She pushed the tray along towards Mary.

Mary poured out two cups.

Nurse Hopkins sighed with satisfaction.

“It's nice and strong.”

Elinor got up and moved over to the window. Nurse Hopkins said persuasively:

“Are you sure you won't have a cup, Miss Carlisle? Do you good.”

Elinor murmured, “No, thank you.”

Nurse Hopkins drained her cup, replaced it in the saucer and murmured:

“I'll just turn off the kettle. I put it on in case we needed to fill up the pot again.”

She bustled out.

Elinor wheeled round from the window.

She said, and her voice was suddenly charged with a desperate appeal:

“Mary…”

Mary Gerrard answered quickly:

“Yes?”

Slowly the light died out of Elinor's face. The lips closed. The desperate pleading faded and left a mere mask—frozen and still.

She said:

“Nothing.”

The silence came down heavily on the room.

Mary thought:

“How queer everything is today. As though—as though we were waiting for something.”

Elinor moved at last.

She came from the window and picked up the tea tray, placing on it the empty sandwich plate.

Mary jumped up.

“Oh, Miss Elinor, let me.”

Elinor said sharply:

“No, you stay here. I'll do this.”

She carried the tray out of the room. She looked back, once, over her shoulder at Mary Gerrard by the window, young and alive and beautiful….

IV

Nurse Hopkins was in the pantry. She was wiping her face with a handkerchief. She looked up sharply as Elinor entered. She said:

“My word, it's hot in here!”

Elinor answered mechanically:

“Yes, the pantry faces south.”

Nurse Hopkins relieved her of the tray.

“You let me wash up, Miss Carlisle. You're not looking quite the thing.”

Elinor said:

“Oh, I'm all right.”

She picked up a dishcloth.

“I'll dry.”

Nurse Hopkins slipped off her cuffs. She poured hot water from the kettle into the papier-mâché basin.

Elinor said idly, looking at her wrist:

“You've pricked yourself.”

Nurse Hopkins laughed.

“On the rose trellis at the Lodge—a thorn. I'll get it out presently.”

The rose trellis at the Lodge
… Memory poured in waves over Elinor. She and Roddy quarrelling—the Wars of the Roses. She and Roddy quarrelling—and making it up. Lovely, laughing, happy days. A sick wave of revulsion passed over her. What had she come to now? What black abyss of hate—of evil… She swayed a little as she stood.

She thought:

“I've been mad—quite mad.”

Nurse Hopkins was staring at her curiously.

“Downright odd, she seemed…” so ran Nurse Hopkins' narrative later. “Talking as if she didn't know what she was saying, and her eyes so bright and queer.”

The cups and saucers rattled in the basin. Elinor picked up an empty fish paste pot from the table and put it into the basin. As she did so she said, and marvelled at the steadiness of her voice:

“I've sorted out some clothes upstairs, Aunt Laura's things. I thought, perhaps, Nurse, you could advise me where they would be useful in the village.”

Nurse Hopkins said briskly:

“I will indeed. There's Mrs. Parkinson, and old Nellie, and that poor creature who's not quite all there at Ivy Cottage. Be a godsend to them.”

She and Elinor cleared up the pantry. Then they went upstairs together.

In Mrs. Welman's room clothes were folded in neat bundles: underclothing, dresses, and certain articles of handsome clothing, velvet tea gowns, a musquash coat. The latter, Elinor explained, she thought of giving to Mrs. Bishop. Nurse Hopkins nodded assent.

She noticed that Mrs. Welman's sables were laid on the chest of drawers.

“Going to have them remodelled for herself,” she thought to herself.

She cast a look at the big tallboy. She wondered if Elinor had found that photograph signed “Lewis,” and what she had made of it, if so.

“Funny,” she thought to herself, “the way O'Brien's letter crossed mine. I never dreamt a thing like that could happen. Her hitting on that photo just the day I wrote to her about Mrs. Slattery.”

She helped Elinor sort through the clothing and volunteered to tie it up in separate bundles for the different families and see to their distribution herself.

She said:

“I can be getting on with that while Mary goes down to the Lodge and finishes up there. She's only got a box of papers to go through. Where is the girl, by the way? Did she go down to the Lodge?”

Elinor said:

“I left her in the morning room….”

Nurse Hopkins said:

“She'd not be there all this time.” She glanced at her watch. “Why, it's nearly an hour we've been up here!”

She bustled down the stairs. Elinor followed her.

They went into the morning room.

Nurse Hopkins exclaimed:

“Well, I never, she's fallen asleep.”

Mary Gerrard was sitting in a big armchair by the window. She had dropped down a little in it. There was a queer sound in the room: stertorous, laboured breathing.

Nurse Hopkins went across and shook the girl.

“Wake up, my dear—”

She broke off. She bent lower, pulled down an eyelid. Then she started shaking the girl in grim earnest.

She turned on Elinor. There was something menacing in her voice as she said:

“What's all this?”

Elinor said:

“I don't know what you mean. Is she ill?”

Nurse Hopkins said: