The Shortest Journey (3 page)

‘I know,’ I said, ‘it’s really awful.’ Rosemary is my
best friend and I do worry at the way her horrible old mother is
wearing her out.

The waitress came to take our order and I said,
‘Shall we have some of those sugary buns with our coffee?’

Her eyes lit up like a child offered a treat.

‘Oh yes, let’s!’

We chatted about happy times in the past – mostly
very simple things, and I felt how sad it was that someone who had
had every material advantage and comfort should cling in her memory
to the relatively few moments of warmth and affection that Mother
and I had been able to give her.

I walked back with her through Jubilee Gardens and we
both exclaimed at the beauty of the almond and the winter cherry
blossom.

‘I do thank God every year,’ she said, ‘that I’ve
lived to see another spring.’

‘Oh yes,’ I said, ‘like the Housman poem–

“Fifty years is little room

To look at cherry trees in bloom.”

‘I think that wasting your life is the worst crime,
really,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Worse than suicide, even.’

I was startled. ‘But you,’ I said, ‘you haven’t
wasted your life. You ran that great big house, you did a lot for
the county– all that voluntary work – you brought up Alan and
Thelma...’

My voice died away. I couldn’t quite bring myself to
mention Colonel Rossiter.

‘Yes, of course, you’re right, dear, I’ve had a very
full life.’ Her voice was brisk. ‘Don’t take any notice of me –
it’s the spring, I expect!’

We got to the door of West Lodge and I hugged her in
farewell, but she didn’t go in.

‘I think I’ll just go for a little stroll along the
sea-front before lunch,’ she said. ‘Take care of yourself and give
my love to Michael. How lucky you are to have that dear boy. It
would have been lovely to have a grandchild – but, of course, with
the business – well, Thelma had to make a choice and I do quite
understand. God bless you, my dear.’

She walked round the corner and crossed over to the
promenade and I watched the slight figure slowly moving along
towards the harbour, occasionally stopping to look at the gulls
wheeling and swooping along the foreshore.

I suddenly remembered that I hadn’t returned my
library books so I turned back into the town. I was standing by the
trolley of returned books hoping, as I always did, that the fact
that other people had just been reading them might make them,
somehow, more desirable, when an arm reached past me to snatch up a
Catherine Cookson. I turned, half in protest at being jostled, and
saw that the eager reader was Annie Fisher.

‘Hello, Annie,’ I said, ‘how’s the world treating
you?’

‘Oh, Mrs Malory – mustn’t grumble, I suppose. But I’m
glad the year’s on the turn – I don’t like the winter and that’s a
fact.’

‘Yes, well, we’ve got the spring to look forward to
now,’ I said. Then, to make conversation, I went on, ‘I’ve just
been having coffee with Mrs Rossiter. I met her in Smiths.’

‘She’s never been let out, has she? That’s really
criminal. Poor lady, she’s been really poorly. That Mrs Wilmot –
calls herself a matron – no idea of looking after old people. They
need keeping warm and resting. Mrs Rossiter should still be in her
bed, not gallivanting all over the town!’

She appeared to be quite upset and I hastened to
reassure her.

‘She seemed all right to me,’ I said. ‘A bit thin, of
course, but that’s only to be expected after she’s been ill. She
was in very good spirits – we went to Baxter’s.’

‘You never made her go up all those stairs?’ Annie’s
sharp little face glared up at me so fiercely that I felt guilty
and uncomfortable. ‘Not with her heart being like it is!’

‘We took them very slowly, Annie, and she did enjoy
going there again.’

‘Well, it’s to be hoped that she went straight back
and had a nice lie down.’

I refrained from telling her about Mrs Rossiter’s
walk along the sea-front. I tried to remember if Annie had always
been as over-protective of her mistress in the old days but, of
course, when Colonel Rossiter had been alive she had been very
firmly kept in her place. To change the subject I asked if she had
any news of her brother in Australia. She became quite
animated.

‘Well, fancy you asking me that, Mrs Malory! I had a
letter from Sam only this morning. He says he’s coming over next
month – isn’t that wonderful? I know Mrs Rossiter will be so
pleased to see him again. It’ll be just like the old days.’

I must have looked puzzled for she said impatiently,
‘Sam used to be gardener up at the Manor before he went away.’

‘Yes, of course, I remember now.’

My memories of Sam Fisher were of a rather
disagreeable man, lazy and (when he had the opportunity) dishonest.
Colonel Rossiter had eventually dismissed him – not for either of
these faults but because once, after spending a rather long
lunch-hour in the local pub, Sam Fisher had been ‘insubordinate’.
Annie appeared to have forgotten the circumstances of her brother’s
departure from the Manor and seemed genuinely pleased at the
thought of reuniting, as she saw it, two old friends.

‘That will be nice for you,’ I said, with that sort
of over-emphatic warmth that we use when we are not quite sincere.
‘And I believe you told me that he’s been doing very well in
Australia. It must be a beautiful country. Does he have a family
over there?’

A shadow crossed her face. ‘His wife went off and
left him a couple of years ago and took their daughter with her.
I’ve never seen my niece, only photos. But he’s well rid of his
wife – a flighty piece from what I’ve heard. Sam’s always been
respectable, like me. Yes, he’s done very well for himself. Got his
own business, a garage – always been good with his hands, well, you
remember that. And, then, of course, there’s the Church

It seemed that Sam Fisher was a born-again something
or other. She went on at some length about his standing in the
local community and this rather evangelical church. I let the words
flow over me as I so often did when Annie was in full flood and
made polite murmuring noises that seemed to satisfy her.

‘I’ll pop down and see Mrs Rossiter this afternoon,’
she said, ‘and give her the good news. Sam said he’d be hiring a
car while he’s here so we can take her for a drive up over the
hill. Have a nice cream tea out somewhere.’

‘I’m sure she’d like that,’ I said, feeling once more
a touch of guilt that it was Annie, who had so little, who was
going to give Mrs Rossiter this treat and not I, who had so much.
Perhaps the same thoughts were going through Annie’s mind, for she
gave a small nod of satisfaction.

‘Well, I must be getting on,’ she said. ‘Can’t stand
here talking all day.’

She moved over to the counter with her Catherine
Cookson and I went rather morosely to scan once more the biography
shelves in case something exciting had materialised in the last
five minutes.

Later, as I was cutting up some heart for the
animals, I tried to analyse just why I disliked Annie so much.

‘I suppose it’s her manner, really,’ I told Foss, who
was weaving round my ankles, uttering low meat-demanding cries.
‘I’m sure she has a heart of gold and she is truly devoted to Mrs
Rossiter. It’s just that she always seems to put me in the wrong –
as if there’s some lack of consideration in me. I suppose I’m the
selfish one – just wanting poor Mrs Rossiter to be there when I
feel like going to see her, but not every day, like Annie. I expect
Mrs Rossiter has left her something in her will. I don’t suppose
Thelma would do anything for her – too fond of money on her own
account.’

I broke off and gave a sudden cry. Foss had stopped
weaving and, impatient with my dilatoriness, had jumped on to my
shoulder (with his claws out to help him balance) to get a closer
view of the food. I lifted him carefully off and rubbed my shoulder
ruefully.

‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’ll get on with the matter in
hand.’

A few days later I picked a large bunch of primroses
and a few violets (I know they never last in water but I couldn’t
resist their delicate mauve faces) and took them along to West
Lodge for Mrs Rossiter. In the entrance hall I met Mrs Wilmot, the
Matron, who greeted me effusively.

‘And who’s the lucky person who’s going to have those
beautiful flowers? Such a lovely posy, quite like a painting!’

‘They’re for Mrs Rossiter, actually.’

‘Well now, she has got a visitor – but, of course,
you are old friends, aren’t you? It’s Mrs Douglas, her daughter.
What a nice surprise for you! She told me that it’s her mother’s
birthday this week and she always likes to come down to see her
round about then. Isn’t that nice! But, of course, I don’t have to
tell you, Mrs Malory, how thoughtful Mrs Douglas is and how good
she’s always been to her mother – not like some I could mention.
The tales I could tell you! It takes all sorts, I suppose. Still,
it is so nice to see a daughter so devoted to her mother. Quite
restores one’s faith in human nature, you might say.’

I gave Mrs Wilmot a brief, false smile and made my
way up to Mrs Rossiter’s room. It was Thelma’s voice that called
out ‘Come in’ in response to my knock and it was Thelma who took
the bunch of primroses from my hand.

‘Look, Mummy, at the lovely flowers that Sheila has
brought you – isn’t that kind of her?’

I felt cheated. I had wanted to put the flowers into
Mrs Rossiter’s hand and see her eyes light up as they always did
when I brought her some small remembrance. She was pleased, of
course, but gave only a polite little murmur and a shy smile.

‘I know how you love primroses,’ I said, hearing my
voice sound too emphatic. Thelma Douglas is one of those small,
slim, energetic women who make me feel like a large, ponderous,
slow-thinking, unfashionable provincial. From her neat dark head
(untouched by grey) to her small feet in their ridiculously
high-heeled shoes she epitomised everything that was urban and
elegant. It is an extraordinary paradox, I suppose, that one should
feel inferior to people one really despises. Not for one moment
would I ever want to be like Thelma – but still, I couldn’t help
wishing that I wasn’t wearing an old camel jacket and a tweed skirt
– both embellished with dog-hairs – and a pair of flat, comfortable
shoes.

Thelma came back from the bathroom with a vase full
of water and picked up the primroses.

‘Aren’t they lovely! I adore the spring, such an
exciting time of the year!’

She tucked the primroses neatly into the vase,
pausing when she had finished with the violets in her hand.

‘I’m afraid these won’t go in properly. I always
think it’s such a pity to pick them really – they never last in
water.’

Mrs Rossiter got up from her chair and quickly took
the violets from her daughter.

‘They’re so beautiful. Look, I’ve got this tiny glass
vase – they’ll just fit nicely. And did you know,’ she smiled at
me, ‘they drink through their faces, so if you turn them upside
down at night they last for days.’

Thelma laughed. ‘What extraordinary things you know
about, Mummy,’ she said. And, turning to me, ‘Now do tell me what
you’ve been doing – all the gossip in the town. I always think that
real life is lived here and not in London!’

This was so palpably untrue that I didn’t even bother
to reply, but said, ‘Oh, nothing ever happens here – what about
you? How is Gordon? Your mother tells me that the business is doing
splendidly, you must both be so busy.’

‘My dear, it’s frantic, just a madhouse from morning
to night. But so
stimulating
– I do feel my brain would
atrophy
if I didn’t have at least half a dozen problems to
be solved every day! But yes’ – she lowered her voice as she
prepared to talk seriously about the one thing that really mattered
to her – ‘the business is doing very well indeed. We have these two
new accounts.’ She mentioned brand names that we had heard of even
down in Taviscombe.

‘Goodness,’ I said, impressed in spite of myself,
‘you must be doing well.’

‘We’re at a tricky stage, of course. We ought to be
expanding to take advantage of big accounts like those – new
offices, bigger staff – but there’s a cash-flow problem. When is
there not? But it’s a difficult time to raise the finance, as you
can imagine, with the City being a bit jumpy and 1992 almost upon
us.’

She held forth for some little time on this theme and
then, as if deciding that it was probably all above my head, she
said, ‘But I expect all this seems dreadfully mundane to an
intellectual like you.’

The fact that I have written some articles and a few
books of literary criticism always made Thelma refer to me in this
(to me) repellent way. But I was used to it by now and no longer
protested.

‘I think it all sounds quite fascinating,’ I said,
‘and I shall expect to be invited to the party when you and Gordon
make your second million!’

She laughed again but looked, I thought,
complacent.

‘What about tea?’ she said, and rang the bell.
Amazingly quickly a cheerful woman in a green overall appeared.

‘Oh, Ivy,’ Mrs Rossiter said, ‘can you manage tea for
my daughter and for Mrs Malory?’

‘Oh yes, Mrs Rossiter, right away.’ She turned to me.
‘Nice to see you, Mrs Malory. How’s Mr Michael getting on then in
London?’

‘Oh, he’s having a lovely time, thank you, Ivy. I’ll
tell him you were asking for him.’

‘Ivy used to work for my mother.’ I explained to
Thelma’s raised eyebrows when Ivy had gone.

‘Oh, I see. And how is Michael? I hadn’t realised
that he was living in London.’

‘He’s at the College of Law,’ I said.

‘Oh, so he’s going to be a solicitor is he, like his
father? There’s a lot of money in the law nowadays. I know for a
fact that some of the City solicitors – tax experts and so forth –
are making six-figure salaries.’