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‘Oh yes,’ said Tuppence, ‘there must be places like that. And there are people who are terribly unhappy, who can’t help being unhappy. But what else is one to do, Tommy?’
‘What can anyone do except be as careful as possible. Be very careful what you choose, find out all about it and make sure she’s got a nice doctor looking after her.’
‘Nobody could be nicer than Dr Murray, you must admit that.’
‘Yes,’ said Tommy, the worried look receding from his face. ‘Murray’s a first-class chap. Kind, patient. If anything was going wrong he’d let us know.’
‘So I don’t think you need worry about it,’ said Tuppence. ‘How old is she by now?’
‘Eighty-two,’ said Tommy. ‘No—no. I think it’s eighty-three,’ he added. ‘It must be rather awful when you’ve outlived everybody.’
‘That’s only what we feel,’ said Tuppence. ‘They don’t feel it.’
‘You can’t really tell.’
‘Well, your Aunt Ada doesn’t. Don’t you remember the glee with which she told us the number of her old friends that she’d already outlived? She finished up by saying “and as for Amy Morgan, I’ve heard she won’t last more than another six months. She always used to say I was so delicate and now it’s practically a certainty that I shall outlive her. Outlive her by a good many years too.” Triumphant, that’s what she was at the prospect.’
‘All the same—’ said Tommy.
‘I know,’ said Tuppence, ‘I know. All the same you feel it’s your duty and so you’ve got to go.’
‘Don’t you think I’m right?’
‘Unfortunately,’ said Tuppence, ‘I do think you’re right. Absolutely right. And I’ll come too,’ she added, with a slight note of heroism in her voice.
‘No,’ said Tommy. ‘Why should you? She’s not your aunt. No, I’ll go.’
‘Not at all,’ said Mrs Beresford. ‘I like to suffer too. We’ll suffer together. You won’t enjoy it and I shan’t enjoy it and I don’t think for one moment that Aunt Ada will enjoy it. But I quite see it is one of those things that has got to be done.’
‘No, I don’t want you to go. After all, the last time, remember how frightfully rude she was to you?’
‘Oh, I didn’t mind that,’ said Tuppence. ‘It’s probably the only bit of the visit that the poor old girl enjoyed. I don’t grudge it to her, not for a moment.’
‘You’ve always been nice to her,’ said Tommy, ‘even though you don’t like her very much.’
‘Nobody could like Aunt Ada,’ said Tuppence. ‘If you ask me I don’t think anyone ever has.’
‘One can’t help feeling sorry for people when they get old,’ said Tommy.
‘I can,’ said Tuppence. ‘I haven’t got as nice a nature as you have.’
‘Being a woman you’re more ruthless,’ said Tommy.
‘I suppose that might be it. After all, women haven’t really got time to be anything but realistic over things. I mean I’m very sorry for people if they’re old or sick or anything, if they’re nice people. But if they’re not nice people, well, it’s different, you must admit. If you’re pretty nasty when you’re twenty and just as nasty when you’re forty and nastier still when you’re sixty, and a perfect devil by the time you’re eighty—well, really, I don’t see why one should be particularly sorry for people, just because they’re old. You can’t change yourself really. I know some absolute ducks who are seventy and eighty. Old Mrs Beauchamp, and Mary Carr and the baker’s grandmother, dear old Mrs Poplett, who used to come in and clean for us. They were all dears and sweet and I’d do anything I could for them.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Tommy, ‘be realistic. But if you really want to be noble and come with me—’
‘I want to come with you,’ said Tuppence. ‘After all, I married you for better or for worse and Aunt Ada is decidedly the worse. So I shall go with you hand in hand. And we’ll take her a bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates with soft centres and perhaps a magazine or two. You might write to Miss What’s-her-name and say we’re coming.’
‘One day next week? I could manage Tuesday,’ said Tommy, ‘if that’s all right for you.’
‘Tuesday it is,’ said Tuppence. ‘What’s the name of the woman? I can’t remember—the matron or the superintendent or whoever she is. Begins with a P.’
‘Miss Packard.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Perhaps it’ll be different this time,’ said Tommy.
‘Different? In what way?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Something interesting might happen.’
‘We might be in a railway accident on the way there,’ said Tuppence, brightening up a little.
‘Why on earth do you want to be in a railway accident?’
‘Well I don’t really, of course. It was just—’
‘Just what?’
‘Well, it would be an adventure of some kind, wouldn’t it? Perhaps we could save lives or do something useful. Useful and at the same time exciting.’
‘What a hope!’ said Mr Beresford.
‘I know,’ agreed Tuppence. ‘It’s just that these sort of ideas come to one sometimes.’
CHAPTER 2 (#udb4cef93-17d4-59a0-9d65-dd81fe5d7410)
Was It Your Poor Child? (#udb4cef93-17d4-59a0-9d65-dd81fe5d7410)
How Sunny Ridge had come by its name would be difficult to say. There was nothing prominently ridge-like about it. The grounds were flat, which was eminently more suitable for the elderly occupants. It had an ample, though rather undistinguished garden. It was a fairly large Victorian mansion kept in a good state of repair. There were some pleasant shady trees, a Virginia creeper running up the side of the house, and two monkey puzzles gave an exotic air to the scene. There were several benches in advantageous places to catch the sun, one or two garden chairs and a sheltered veranda on which the old ladies could sit sheltered from the east winds.
Tommy rang the front door bell and he and Tuppence were duly admitted by a rather harassed-looking young woman in a nylon overall. She showed them into a small sitting-room saying rather breathlessly, ‘I’ll tell Miss Packard. She’s expecting you and she’ll be down in a minute. You won’t mind waiting just a little, will you, but it’s old Mrs Carraway. She’s been and swallowed her thimble again, you see.’
‘How on earth did she do a thing like that?’ asked Tuppence, surprised.
‘Does it for fun,’ explained the household help briefly. ‘Always doing it.’
She departed and Tuppence sat down and said thoughtfully, ‘I don’t think I should like to swallow a thimble. It’d be awfully bobbly as it went down. Don’t you think so?’
They had not very long to wait however before the door opened and Miss Packard came in, apologizing as she did so. She was a big, sandy-haired woman of about fifty with the air of calm competence about her which Tommy had always admired.
‘I’m sorry if I have kept you waiting, Mr Beresford,’ she said. ‘How do you do, Mrs Beresford, I’m so glad you’ve come too.’
‘Somebody swallowed something, I hear,’ said Tommy.
‘Oh, so Marlene told you that? Yes, it was old Mrs Carraway. She’s always swallowing things. Very difficult, you know, because one can’t watch them all the time. Of course one knows children do it, but it seems a funny thing to be a hobby of an elderly woman, doesn’t it? It’s grown upon her, you know. She gets worse every year. It doesn’t seem to do her any harm, that’s the cheeriest thing about it.’
‘Perhaps her father was a sword swallower,’ suggested Tuppence.
‘Now that’s a very interesting idea, Mrs Beresford. Perhaps it would explain things.’ She went on, ‘I’ve told Miss Fanshawe that you were coming, Mr Beresford. I don’t know really whether she quite took it in. She doesn’t always, you know.’
‘How has she been lately?’
‘Well, she’s failing rather rapidly now, I’m afraid,’ said Miss Packard in a comfortable voice. ‘One never really knows how much she takes in and how much she doesn’t. I told her last night and she said she was sure I must be mistaken because it was term time. She seemed to think that you were still at school. Poor old things, they get very muddled up sometimes, especially over time. However, this morning when I reminded her about your visit, she just said it was quite impossible because you were dead. Oh well,’ Miss Packard went on cheerfully, ‘I expect she’ll recognize you when she sees you.’
‘How is she in health? Much the same?’
‘Well, perhaps as well as can be expected. Frankly, you know, I don’t think she’ll be with us very much longer. She doesn’t suffer in any way but her heart condition’s no better than it was. In fact, it’s rather worse. So I think I’d like you to know that it’s just as well to be prepared, so that if she did go suddenly it wouldn’t be any shock to you.’
‘We brought her some flowers,’ said Tuppence.
‘And a box of chocolates,’ said Tommy.
‘Oh, that’s very kind of you I’m sure. She’ll be very pleased. Would you like to come up now?’
Tommy and Tuppence rose and followed Miss Packard from the room. She led them up the broad staircase. As they passed one of the rooms in the passage upstairs, it opened suddenly and a little woman about five foot high trotted out, calling in a loud shrill voice, ‘I want my cocoa. I want my cocoa. Where’s Nurse Jane? I want my cocoa.’
A woman in a nurse’s uniform popped out of the next door and said, ‘There, there, dear, it’s all right. You’ve had your cocoa. You had it twenty minutes ago.’
‘No I didn’t, Nurse. It’s not true. I haven’t had my cocoa. I’m thirsty.’
‘Well, you shall have another cup if you like.’
‘I can’t have another when I haven’t had one.’
They passed on and Miss Packard, after giving a brief rap on a door at the end of the passage, opened it and passed in.
‘Here you are, Miss Fanshawe,’ she said brightly. ‘Here’s your nephew come to see you. Isn’t that nice?’
In a bed near the window an elderly lady sat up abruptly on her raised pillows. She had iron-grey hair, a thin wrinkled face with a large, high-bridged nose and a general air of disapprobation. Tommy advanced.
‘Hullo, Aunt Ada,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
Aunt Ada paid no attention to him, but addressed Miss Packard angrily.
‘I don’t know what you mean by showing gentlemen into a lady’s bedroom,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t have been thought proper at all in my young days! Telling me he’s my nephew indeed! Who is he? A plumber or the electrician?’
‘Now, now, that’s not very nice,’ said Miss Packard mildly.
‘I’m your nephew, Thomas Beresford,’ said Tommy. He advanced the box of chocolates. ‘I’ve brought you a box of chocolates.’
‘You can’t get round me that way,’ said Aunt Ada. ‘I know your kind. Say anything, you will. Who’s this woman?’ She eyed Mrs Beresford with an air of distaste.
‘I’m Prudence,’ said Mrs Beresford. ‘Your niece, Prudence.’
‘What a ridiculous name,’ said Aunt Ada. ‘Sounds like a parlourmaid. My Great-uncle Mathew had a parlourmaid called Comfort and the housemaid was called Rejoice-in-the-Lord. Methodist she was. But my Great-aunt Fanny soon put a stop to that. Told her she was going to be called Rebecca as long as she was in her house.’
‘I brought you a few roses,’ said Tuppence.
‘I don’t care for flowers in a sick-room. Use up all the oxygen.’
‘I’ll put them in a vase for you,’ said Miss Packard.
‘You won’t do anything of the kind. You ought to have learnt by now that I know my own mind.’
‘You seem in fine form, Aunt Ada,’ said Mr Beresford. ‘Fighting fit, I should say.’
‘I can take your measure all right. What d’you mean by saying that you’re my nephew? What did you say your name was? Thomas?’
‘Yes. Thomas or Tommy.’
‘Never heard of you,’ said Aunt Ada. ‘I only had one nephew and he was called William. Killed in the last war. Good thing, too. He’d have gone to the bad if he’d lived. I’m tired,’ said Aunt Ada, leaning back on her pillows and turning her head towards Miss Packard. ‘Take ’em away. You shouldn’t let strangers in to see me.’
‘I thought a nice little visit might cheer you up,’ said Miss Packard unperturbed.
Aunt Ada uttered a deep bass sound of ribald mirth.
‘All right,’ said Tuppence cheerfully. ‘We’ll go away again. I’ll leave the roses. You might change your mind about them. Come on, Tommy,’ said Tuppence. She turned towards the door.
‘Well, goodbye, Aunt Ada. I’m sorry you don’t remember me.’
Aunt Ada was silent until Tuppence had gone out of the door with Miss Packard and Tommy following her.
‘Come back, you,’ said Aunt Ada, raising her voice. ‘I know you perfectly. You’re Thomas. Red-haired you used to be. Carrots, that’s the colour your hair was. Come back. I’ll talk to you. I don’t want the woman. No good her pretending she’s your wife. I know better. Shouldn’t bring that type of woman in here. Come and sit down here in this chair and tell me about your dear mother. You go away,’ added Aunt Ada as a kind of postscript, waving her hand towards Tuppence who was hesitating in the doorway.
Tuppence retired immediately.
‘Quite in one of her moods today,’ said Miss Packard, unruffled, as they went down the stairs. ‘Sometimes, you know,’ she added, ‘she can be quite pleasant. You would hardly believe it.’
Tommy sat down in the chair indicated to him by Aunt Ada and remarked mildly that he couldn’t tell her much about his mother as she had been dead now for nearly forty years. Aunt Ada was unperturbed by this statement.
‘Fancy,’ she said, ‘is it as long as that? Well, time does pass quickly.’ She looked him over in a considering manner. ‘Why don’t you get married?’ she said. ‘Get some nice capable woman to look after you. You’re getting on, you know. Save you taking up with all these loose women and bringing them round and speaking as though they were your wife.’
‘I can see,’ said Tommy, ‘that I shall have to get Tuppence to bring her marriage lines along next time we come to see you.’
‘Made an honest woman of her, have you?’ said Aunt Ada.
‘We’ve been married over thirty years,’ said Tommy, ‘and we’ve got a son and a daughter, and they’re both married too.’
‘The trouble is,’ said Aunt Ada, shifting her ground with dexterity, ‘that nobody tells me anything. If you’d kept me properly up to date—’
Tommy did not argue the point. Tuppence had once laid upon him a serious injunction. ‘If anybody over the age of sixty-five finds fault with you,’ she said, ‘never argue. Never try to say you’re right. Apologize at once and say it was all your fault and you’re very sorry and you’ll never do it again.’
It occurred to Tommy at this moment with some force that that would certainly be the line to take with Aunt Ada, and indeed always had been.
‘I’m very sorry, Aunt Ada,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid, you know, one does tend to get forgetful as time goes on. It’s not everyone,’ he continued unblushingly, ‘who has your wonderful memory for the past.’
