Mrs. Malory and A Time To Die (10 page)

“You went to the hospital on Monday,” I said.

“That’s not
out
. I mean, just being a little bit back to normal.”

“Do you feel like some tea?” I asked. “I seem to remember there’s a nice place quite near here, if it’s still open this late in the season.”

“I meant to ask you the other day,” Marjorie said as I buttered a scone and cut it up for her, “why your friend Jo gave up the stage like that.”

“Well, she met Charlie. . . .”

“
Such
a pity! I remember seeing her at Stratford, years ago, when I used to take the English sixth to see their set plays when they were doing them there. What always struck me was how
different
she was.”

“Different?”

“Well, you know how some actresses—and actors too—are always the same, always themselves, if you know what I mean. But she was always different in every part she took. When you saw her in
Twelfth Night
and then in
Hamlet
—well, they might not have been the same actress.”

“Yes, I do know what you mean. I suppose it’s just that she was a brilliant actress.”

“I’ll always remember her and James Carlyle in
Hamlet
. Now, he was a
marvelous
actor. But it was a most peculiar production; they made Hamlet absolutely selfish and self-obsessed, not sympathetic at all. She was wonderful as Ophelia. She did the mad scene so beautifully, but the bit I remember most was the nunnery scene with Hamlet. I’ve never seen anything so cruel and unpleasant as his rejection of her! I suppose it was all part of the production, and it was certainly very memorable—well, look how it’s stayed in my mind all these years!”

“I never saw that production and I don’t think I’d like an unsympathetic Hamlet.”

“It certainly got my sixth form talking!”

“I did see James Carlyle’s
Macbeth
,” I said. “That was with his wife, Jane Neville. He was better than she was, very charismatic, but she wasn’t really up to it. Splendid in light comedy, but she wasn’t really a Shakespearean actress.”

“Those husband and wife things don’t always work when one is better than the other. Is there any more tea in the pot? I think I could manage another cup.”

The weather was amazingly kind and we made other trips—to Thirlmere and Buttermere, Derwentwater and Ullswater—all full of happy memories for me. It was late in the season and there weren’t too many people about (one always wishes that places like the Lake District could be conveniently emptied for the duration of one’s visit), just the red and blue anoraks of the ramblers dotting the landscape in the distance or cramming onto the ferries at Windermere.

On my last day we went to Rydal Water and then on to Grasmere so that I could have another look at Dove Cottage.

“It’s a good thing to have visitors,” Marjorie said. “Somehow, left to yourself, you never go to places like this, on your own doorstep.”

By a fortunate chance we had the cottage to ourselves, so I was able to wander round at will and picture not William but Dorothy Wordsworth walking many miles about the countryside in all winds and weathers with William, copying out William’s poems by inadequate lamplight, keeping house for William in this uncomfortable, inconvenient cottage, with the added burden of frequent visits from Coleridge, not the easiest of guests. No wonder her diary often recorded, “Laid down with a headache.”

“I suppose if you’re very fond of someone,” Marjorie said when I spoke of this, “you don’t mind what you do or where you are as long as you’re with them.”

Bridget came home at last (“Yes, it was a boy, eight pounds and red hair! Jenny’s fine. It was wonderful to see her and Greg and Andrew— that’s what they’re calling him. You’ve been an absolute angel, Sheila, and I can’t thank you enough.”), and I was able to go home.

I must say I did feel better for the break.

“A change of scene,” I said to Rosemary, “that’s what they say, and I really feel as if I’ve had a holiday, though it was quite hard work with poor Marjorie. That awful metal contraption meant she couldn’t do anything much. But she was very good about it all and it was nice to see her again, better on her own, really. I’m very fond of her and of Bridget, but somehow, not together. And, although Marjorie’s house is very comfortable, there’s nothing like your own bed, is there? So what’s the news? Have I missed anything important?”

“Not really,” Rosemary said, pouring us both another cup of coffee. “Mother’s ignored my advice and is having her sitting room decorated after all. So she’s living in the dining room and making life hell for poor Elsie and, of course, for poor little Mr. Burge who’s
doing
the decorating—keeps changing her mind, all the usual things. She did hint that it would be more convenient if she came to stay with us while it was all happening, but I
totally
ignored that. Jack would have divorced me if I’d said yes! I think she knew that and didn’t press it.”

“Poor you! How about Jo? How is she managing?” I asked.

“Seems to be fine. Simon was up there quite a bit, but he’s at home more just now because they’re worried about Gordon.”

“Worried?”

“Well, you know he’s had a heart condition for years, and it seems to have got worse lately. But you know what men are like. Esther’s been at him to go and see Dr. Macdonald and he kept putting it off. When he did finally go, Dr. Macdonald said he wanted him to see a specialist and have some more tests, but—it makes me so cross—Gordon says he’s too busy at the moment and he’ll think about it! So selfish when he
knows
how worried Esther is.”

“We’ve always known he’s selfish, but I’d have thought he’d want to have it seen to for his own sake.”

“Oh, you know how they are—keep on saying that they’re fine and get irritated when you try to persuade them to be sensible. Jack’s just the same; he’ll never do anything about his bad back. I’ve offered to make an appointment for him with that wonderful chiropractor Jilly found when my neck was so bad, but he tells me not to fuss, and then goes on moaning and groaning about it. I think he enjoys being a martyr.”

“It can’t be easy for Esther; I should think Gordon’s difficult enough when he’s well. I’m glad she has some support from Simon.”

“I really think he’s trying to do too much. He looked absolutely exhausted when I saw him last week. Poor boy, he does his best, but Gordon’s disagreeable and Esther would drive anyone mad—and then there’s his job. I think the time he spends up at the stables, however hard he may work there, is the only relaxation he gets!”

“Yes, it can’t be easy. It all falls on him now that Vicky’s in London.”

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Rosemary said. “I thought I’d better warn you—Anthea’s got this new idea for raising money for the kitchen at Brunswick Lodge.”

“For heaven’s sake,” I exclaimed. “We had that new sink and they replaced the entire work-top only last year!”

“I know, but Anthea says we ought to have a dishwasher and a microwave.”

“I agree about the microwave,” I said, “and that would cost virtually nothing, but why do we need a dishwasher when we’ve got so many helpers? Anyway, it’s mainly cups and saucers and glasses.”

“Ah,” said Rosemary, “
that’s
Anthea’s idea.”

“What do you mean?” I asked warily.

“She wants us to do light lunches, so, of course, there’d be lots more washing up.”

“At Brunswick Lodge?”

“Yes.”

“She must be mad! Who on earth is going to cook them?”

“She says that people will cook things like shepherd’s pie and lasagna—things that can be heated up in the microwave—at home, and then do salads and so forth at the lodge.”

“Leaving aside the complete impossibility of organizing something like that,
who
,” I demanded, “is going to be there every day to serve these lunches? For heaven’s sake, it’s difficult enough to find stewards and people to do the weekly coffee mornings!”

“I thought you wouldn’t be keen,” Rosemary said, laughing. “Anyway, don’t be cross with me; I’m merely the unwilling messenger. As I said, I’m just warning you so that she doesn’t take you by surprise!”

 

It’s amazing, really, how much there is to do when you’ve been away. Little things like restarting the milk and the papers, and finding that you’re out of basics like flour and marmalade, things you meant to get before you left and never did. And then there were the animals, of course. Although I knew from Thea that Foss had had a marvelous time with them, being thoroughly spoiled, sleeping on Alice’s bed (“Poor, darling Foss, he’s
lonely
”), bossing around Smoke and enjoying a feud with the large black cat next door, nevertheless, when I brought him home, he treated me as a monster who had cast him into exile. He remained aloof for several days, only approaching to pick disdainfully at the choicest foods I cooked for him by way of expiation. He wasn’t much better with Tris, clouting him over the nose when his erstwhile playmate went to greet him and pointedly ignoring him for the rest of the day. Poor Tris, who, compared with a wily Siamese, is a simple soul, couldn’t understand what he’d done wrong and cast anxious glances in my direction, asking for reassurance. But things got back to normal eventually.

I spent quite a lot of time vacuuming and polishing. It’s amazing how dismal the house looks when you’ve been away—not dirty exactly, just a bit musty and generally neglected. I flung open all the windows (which Foss adored, coming and going as the fancy took him and startling me by suddenly appearing on unexpected windowsills) to let in the fresh air, which, now that summer was over, had a hint of autumn. For a few days I was too busy to do any real shopping but, when I was reduced to defrosting an undated package from the freezer that was labeled only CASSEROLE for my supper, I thought I really ought to go and stock up.

I was just on my way to see if I could find the tinned tomatoes when I saw Anthea at the other end of the aisle. I did a sharp U-turn to escape her and came face-to-face with Esther.

“Oh, you’re back then,” she greeted me. “Did you have a nice holiday?”

“Well, it wasn’t a holiday exactly. . . .”

“The Lake District—it was the Lake District, Rosemary said, wasn’t it?—is very nice, though I expect it was full of tourists. I believe it’s what some call a honey trap. Gordon and I went a couple of years ago. Well, he had a patient who moved up there and who invited us both for a few days when we were on our way to Edinburgh when Gordon had to go to that conference.”

“Really.”

“They were very kind—Gordon’s patients, that is—and took us around to see everything. Though to be honest, one lake is very like another, and when you’ve seen one you’ve seen the lot!”

“I was actually up there to look after my cousin who broke her arm rather badly. . . .”

“Oh, arms are so difficult, aren’t they? It’s easier with legs—I mean, with them you can’t move about very well, but at least you can brush your teeth and comb your hair!”

“I know. . . .”

“I remember when Gordon broke his wrist—that was when he had that car accident years ago—he was absolutely helpless for ages. Such a performance
that
was!”

“How is Gordon? Rosemary said he hadn’t been well.”

“No, his heart’s playing up again. He really ought to see a specialist—Dr. Macdonald was quite annoyed with him when he put it off—but he’s been very seedy off and on for several weeks now. You know, one day he’s fine, the next he’s feeling really bad. He says it’s all this medication he’s on, those beta-blockers. He’s always complaining about taking those—you get all these side effects. Anyway, I put my foot down and I made an appointment for him to see Dr. Macdonald next week to arrange things. It can’t be before then because
he’s
off on a conference; that’s all doctors seem to do these days. Gordon was cross with me for going behind his back like that, but I think, although he wouldn’t admit it, he was quite relieved.”

“I’m so glad. I’m sure you did the right thing.”

“Oh, you know what men are like—say they don’t want to make a fuss and then expect you to run around after them when it turns nasty. I know when Gordon had a bad cold last year he
would
go to a council meeting, even though it was a dreadful night, wind and rain and I don’t know what. Of course he wouldn’t listen to me, would he, and it turned into bronchitis and we had a terrible time of it.”

“I know; they can be maddening. . . .”

“Simon’s just as bad. He looks really off-color. I’m sure they’re working him too hard at work, but he does try to do what he can for Gordon, doing the accounts and so forth and, now that Gordon’s not too well, he’s been doing some letters for him and writing up council notes, that sort of thing. I don’t understand any of it, but I’m sure it must be a help.”

“Rosemary said she thought Simon looked a bit tired.”

“I keep telling him he’s doing too much, but of course he doesn’t take any notice of what I say.”

“Boys don’t really, do they?” I backed away and wheeled my trolley in the opposite direction. “I hope all goes well,” I said as I made my escape.

What with dodging Anthea and trying not to reencounter Esther, it took me some time to do my shopping. When I got outside it was pouring with rain and thoroughly dismal, so I abandoned any idea of doing more shopping in the town and went straight home. After I’d unpacked my shopping (a job I hate) and had a bit of lunch, I felt restless. There were certainly things I
ought
to do—two books to be reviewed mutely reproached me from my desk—but somehow I couldn’t settle to anything. I roamed about the house, annoying the animals (Tris had turned his back on the weather and was curled up in his basket; Foss was perched on the arm of the sofa, watching the snooker on television) and finally ended up in the kitchen.

On an impulse I decided to do some cooking—something detailed and fiddly that would occupy a lot of time. I put on the radio and got out the things to make a lemon meringue pie and began to measure out the flour to make the pastry. There is something satisfying about cooking something you don’t
have
to. Grating the lemon rind and slowly and carefully stirring the egg and lemon mixture in the double saucepan were a positive pleasure, though they were tasks I normally found irritating. I whisked up the egg whites for the meringue, while lending half an ear to two men earnestly discussing a possible interest rate rise, but, important though I’m sure that was, somehow it seemed less important just then than achieving exactly the right consistency of soft peaks by my whisking.