Blue Bedroom and Other Stories

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  “I’m afraid I’m still not very interesting.”

  “I think everybody’s interesting. And do you know what my mother said when she first saw you? She said you had a beautiful face and that she would like to draw you. So how’s that for a compliment?”

  Miss Cameron flushed with pleasure. “Well, that’s very gratifying…”

  “So tell me about you. Why did you buy this little house? Why did you come here?”

  And so Miss Cameron, normally so reserved and silent, began painfully to talk. She told Bryony about that first holiday in Kilmoran, before the war, when the world was young and innocent and you could buy an ice cream cone for a penny. She told Bryony about her parents, her childhood, the old, tall house in Edinburgh. She told her about University, and how she had met her friend Dorothy, and all at once this unaccustomed flood of reminiscence was no longer an ordeal, but a kind of relief. It was pleasant to remember the old-fashioned school where she had taught for so many years, and she was able to speak dispassionately about those last bleak times before her father finally died.

  Bryony listened avidly, with as much interest as if Miss Cameron were telling her of some amazing personal adventure. And when she got to the bit about old Mr. Cameron’s will, and being left so comfortably off, Bryony could not contain herself.

  “Oh, how marvellous. It’s just like a fairy story. It’s just such a terrible pity there isn’t a good-looking, white-haired prince to turn up and claim your hand in marriage.”

  Miss Cameron laughed. “I’m a little old for that kind of thing.”

  “What a pity you didn’t marry. You’d have been a marvellous sort of mother. Or even if you’d had sisters and brothers and then you could have been the marvellous sort of aunt!” She looked around the little sitting room with satisfaction. “It’s just exactly right for you, isn’t it? This house must have been waiting for you, knowing that you were going to come and live here.”

  “That’s a fatalistic sort of attitude.”

  “Yes, but a positive one. I’m terribly fatalistic about everything.”

  “You mustn’t be too fatalistic. God helps those who help themselves.”

  “Yes,” said Bryony. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  They fell silent. A log broke and collapsed into the fire, and as Miss Cameron leaned forward to replace it, the clock on the mantelpiece chimed half-past seven. They were both astonished to realise that it was so late, and Bryony at once remembered her mother.

  “I wonder what’s happening?”

  “Your father will ring the moment he has anything to tell us. And meantime, I think we should wash up these tea things and decide what we’re going to have for supper. What would you like?”

  “My most favourite would be tinned tomato soup and bacon and eggs.”

  “That would be my most favourite, too. Let’s go and get it.”

  * * *

  The telephone call did not come through until half-past nine. Mrs. Ashley was in labour. There was no saying how long it would be, but Mr. Ashley intended staying at the hospital.

  “I’ll keep Bryony here for the night,” said Miss Cameron firmly. “She can sleep in my spare bedroom. And I have a telephone by my bed, so don’t hesitate to ring me the moment you have any news.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Do you want to speak to Bryony?”

  “Just to say goodnight.”

  Miss Cameron shut herself in the kitchen while father and daughter talked together. When she heard the ring of the receiver being replaced, she did not go out into the hall, but busied herself at the sink, filling hot-water bottles and wiping down the already immaculate draining board. She half-expected tears when Bryony joined her, but Bryony was composed and dry-eyed as ever.

  “He says we just have to wait. Do you mind if I stay the night with you? I can go next door and get my toothbrush and things.”

  “I want you to stay. You can sleep in my spare room.”

  Bryony finally went to bed, with a hot-water bottle and a tumbler of warm milk. Miss Cameron went to say goodnight, but she was too shy to stoop and kiss her. Bryony’s flame of hair was spread like red silk on Miss Cameron’s best linen pillowcase, and she had brought an aged teddy along with the toothbrush. The teddy had a threadbare nose and only one eye. Half an hour later, when she herself went to bed, she looked in and saw that Bryony was fast asleep.

  Miss Cameron lay between the sheets, but sleep did not come easily. Her brain seemed to be wound up with memories, people and places that she had not thought about in years.

  I think everybody’s interesting, Bryony had said and Miss Cameron’s heart lifted in hope for the state of the world. Nothing could be too bad if there were still young people who thought that way.

  She said you had a beautiful face. Perhaps, she thought, I don’t do enough. I have allowed myself to become too self-contained. It is selfish not to think more about other people. I must do more. I must try to travel. I shall get in touch with Dorothy after the New Year and see if she would like to come with me.

  Madeira. They could go to Madeira. There would be blue skies and bougainvillia. And jacaranda trees …

  * * *

  She awoke with a terrible start in the middle of the night. It was pitch dark, it was bitterly cold. The telephone was ringing. She put out a hand and turned on the bedside light. She looked at her clock and saw that it was not the middle of the night, but six o’clock in the morning. Christmas morning. She picked up the telephone.

  “Yes?”

  “Miss Cameron. Ambrose Ashley here…” He sounded exhausted.

  “Oh.” She felt quite faint. “Tell me.”

  “A little boy. Born half an hour ago. A lovely little boy.”

  “And your wife?”

  “She’s asleep. She’s going to be fine.”

  After a little, “I’ll tell Bryony,” said Miss Cameron.

  “I’ll get back to Kilmoran some time this morning—around midday, I should think. I’ll ring the hotel and take you both there for lunch. That is, if you’d like to come?”

  “How kind,” said Miss Cameron. “How very kind.”

  “You’re the kind one,” said Mr. Ashley.

  * * *

  A new baby. A new baby on Christmas morning. She wondered if they would call it Noel. She got up and went to the open window. The morning was black and cold, the tide high, the inky waves lapping at the sea wall. The icy air smelt of the sea. Miss Cameron took a deep breath of it, and felt, all at once, enormously excited and filled with boundless energy. A little boy. She revelled in a great sense of accomplishment, which was ridiculous because in fact she had accomplished nothing.

  Dressed, she went downstairs to put a kettle on to boil. She laid a tea tray for Bryony and put two cups and saucers upon it.

  I should have a present, she told herself. It’s Christmas and I have nothing to give her. But she knew that with the tea tray she was taking Bryony the best present she had ever had.

  Now, it was nearly seven. She went upstairs and into Bryony’s room, set the tray down on the bedside table and turned on the lamp. She went to draw the curtains. In the bed, Bryony stirred. Miss Cameron went to sit by her, to take her hand. The teddy was visible, its ears beneath Bryony’s chin. Bryony’s eyes were opened. She saw Miss Cameron sitting there, and at once they were wide and filled with apprehension.

  Miss Cameron smiled. “Happy Christmas.”

  “Has my father rung?”

  “You’ve got a baby brother, and your mother’s safe and sound.”

  “Oh…” It was too much. Relief opened the floodgates, and all Bryony’s anxieties were released in a torrent of tears. “Oh…” Her mouth went square as a bawling child’s, and Miss Cameron could not bear it. She could not remember when she had last had physical, loving contact with another human being, but now she opened her arms and gathered the weeping girl up into them. Bryony’s arms came round her neck and Miss Cameron was held so closely and so tightly that she th
ought she would choke. She felt the thin shoulders beneath her hands; the wet cheek, streaming with tears, was pressed against her own.

  “I thought … I thought something awful was going to happen. I thought she was going to die.”

  “I know,” said Miss Cameron. “I know.”

  * * *

  It took a little time for them both to recover. But at last it was over, the tears mopped up, the pillows plumped, the tea poured, and they could talk about the baby.

  “I’m certain,” said Bryony, “that it is terribly special to be born on Christmas Day. When shall I see them?”

  “I don’t know. Your father will tell you.”

  “When’s he coming?”

  “He’ll be here in time for lunch. We’re all going out to the hotel to eat roast turkey.”

  “Oh, good. I’m glad you’re coming too. What shall we do till he comes? It’s only half-past seven.”

  “There’s lots to do,” said Miss Cameron. “We’ve got to have a great big breakfast, and light a great big Christmas fire. And if you’d like to, we could go to church.”

  “Oh, let’s. And sing carols. I don’t mind thinking about Christmas now. I didn’t want to think about it last night.” She said, “I suppose I couldn’t have a simply boiling hot bath, could I?”

  “You can do anything you like.” She stood up and picked up the tea tray and carried it to the door. But as she opened the door, Bryony said, “Miss Cameron,” and she turned back.

  “You were so sweet to me last night. Thank you so much. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there.”

  “I liked having you,” said Miss Cameron truthfully. “I liked talking.” She hesitated. An idea had just occurred to her. “Bryony, after all we’ve been through together, I don’t really think you should go on calling me Miss Cameron. It sounds so very formal, and after all, we’re past that now, aren’t we?”

  Bryony looked a little surprised, but not in the least put out.

  “All right. If you say so. But what shall I call you?”

  “My name,” said Miss Cameron, and found herself smiling, because, really, it was a very pretty name, “is Isobel.”

  Tea With the Professor

  They had arrived at the station far too early, but this was the way that James liked it, because he had a horror of missing the train. They had parked the car, bought his ticket, and now walked slowly up the ramp together, Veronica carrying his bag and James with his rugger ball tucked under one arm and his raincoat trailing over the other.

  The platform was deserted. Out of the wind it was still warm, and they found a seat in a sheltered corner and sat together in a blaze of gold September sunshine. James kicked at the gravel with the toe of his shoe. Above them the dry and dusty leaves of a palm tree rattled in the breeze. A car passed on the road, and a porter appeared from a little shed with a trolley, which he proceeded to haul the length of the platform. They watched his progress in silence. James looked up at the face of the clock.

  “Nigel’s late,” he said with satisfaction.

  “There’s five minutes yet.”

  He kicked the gravel again. She observed his profile, cool and detached, the lashes of his lowered eyelids brushing the still-baby curves of his cheek. He was ten years old, her only son, returning to boarding school. They had said goodbye at home, in a passionate hug that made her feel as though she was being torn apart. Now, with this over, it was as though he had already gone. She blessed him for his composure.

  A car raced up the hill, changed down, swung into the station yard. There was a screech of brakes and a rattle of loose stone.

  James squirmed round on the seat to peer out through the slats of the wooden railing.

  “It’s Nigel.”

  “I thought they wouldn’t be long.”

  They sat waiting. A moment later Nigel and his mother came up the ramp, she all breathless and blonde, he chubby and sleek as a mole. Nigel was the same age as James and the boys had started school together, but James had no affection for him. Their only common bond was this journey to and from school, when they shared a carriage and comics and, one imagined, a little stilted conversation. Veronica sometimes felt guilty about James’s lack of enthusiasm for Nigel. “Why don’t we ask him over in the holidays? It would be someone for you to play with.”

  “I’ve got Sally.”

  “But she’s a girl, and she’s your sister. And she’s older than you are. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a boy your own age?”

  “Not Nigel.”

  “Oh, James, he’s not as bad as all that.”

  “He opened all the windows in my Advent calendar. He found it in my desk and he opened them all. Even Christmas Eve.”

  He would never forgive this. Never forgive. Veronica stopped trying, but it was embarrassing when she came face to face with Nigel’s mother. Nigel’s mother, however, was not in the least embarrassed. She thinks, decided Veronica, that I am much too dull to bother about. She probably thinks that James is dull, too.

  “Heavens, we thought we were going to be late, didn’t we, Nigel? Hello, James, how are you? We went to Portugal, but Nigel got a beastly tummy and had to stay in bed for a week. Much better if we’d stayed home, really…”

  She chattered on, feeling in her bag for a cigarette, lighting it up with her gold lighter. She wore a pale blue jumpsuit with a zip up the front, gold ballet slippers, and a fluffy sweater knotted round her shoulders. Veronica, watching her, wondered how she found the time to put on all that make-up every day. The reflection was full of admiration and without rancour, but Veronica wore an old pleated skirt and sneakers and felt that her face was naked.

  Nigel’s mother was asking after Sally.

  “She went back to school last week.”

  “She’ll be leaving soon, I expect.”

  “She’s only fourteen.”

  “Only fourteen! Goodness, you can hardly believe it.”

  “The train’s coming,” said James, and they turned to face the train as though it were an enemy approaching. It thundered out of the cutting, slowed down as it reached the curve of the track, then drew in alongside the platform, shutting out the sunlight, filling the little station with noise. Doors opened and people got out. Nigel’s mother was off like a shot, seeking a non-smoker, and Veronica and the two boys meekly followed.

  “Here we are, and empty too … in you get.”

  They clambered up the step, found their seats, came back for their coats and their bags.

  “Goodbye, my darling,” said Nigel’s mother. She embraced her child, kissing him soundly on both cheeks, leaving traces of lipstick which, later on, he would remove with his handkerchief. Over their heads James and his mother watched each other. The guard came down the platform to pack them in and shut the door, for the train was an express and only stopped for a few minutes at this small junction. Penned in, imprisoned, the boys let down the window and hung out, Nigel in front and James easing himself into a corner so that he could still see his mother’s face. The guard waved the green flag, the train began to move.

  I love you, she thought and hoped that he heard. “Have a good journey!” He nodded. “Send me a postcard as soon as you arrive.” He nodded again. The train gathered speed. Nigel leaned out, waving, taking up all the space in the window. But James had already disappeared. He did not believe in prolonging misery. He had gone to his seat, Veronica knew, would already be settled, unfolding his comic, making the best he could of an intolerable situation.

  The two mothers walked together out of the station and over to where the white Jaguar and the old green station wagon stood side by side.

  “Oh, well,” said Nigel’s mother. “That’s that. Now we’ll have a bit of peace, I suppose. Roger and I thought we’d go away for a bit. I don’t know, the house feels empty without them, doesn’t it?” She seemed to realise she had said the wrong thing, for she knew that Veronica’s house, except for Toby the dog, was entirely empty. “You must come over,” sh
e said quickly, for she was a kind-hearted girl, “for a meal or something. I’ll phone.”

  “Yes, do that. I’d love it. Goodbye.”

  * * *

  The white Jaguar went ahead, up the steep lane to the road, turning left and away towards the town. Veronica took the station wagon more slowly. It stalled at the top, and she had to start the engine again, and then wait while a lorry thundered by. It didn’t matter. She was in no hurry. The rest of the day and tomorrow and tomorrow stretched emptily ahead, the inevitable vacuum of aimless hours, which had to be endured before she could bring herself to change gear, to pick up occupations that had nothing to do with her children. To paint the kitchen and plant some roses; to organise a charity coffee morning, start thinking about Christmas.

  Christmas. The idea was ridiculous on a day that appeared to be suspended in midsummer. Trees were still full of leaves and, beyond them, the sky blue and cloudless. She turned down the narrow road that led to the village and it was spattered with shade and sunshine which filtered through the tall elms. She came to a crossroads and stopped again. A man drove a herd of cows to be milked. Waiting for them to pass, Veronica glanced into her driving mirror to see if there was another car behind and caught sight of her own reflection. You look like a girl, she told herself angrily. An elderly girl. Suntanned and with no make-up and your hair as untidy as your daughter’s. She remembered Nigel’s mother with her darkly coated lashes and the blue on her eyelids. She thought, At least I’ll have time to get my hair done. And my eyebrows tidied up. And perhaps a facial. A facial was good for the morale. She would have a facial and her morale would soar.

  The cows went by. The man driving them waved to her with his stick. Veronica waved back, started up her engine, and drove on, up the hill and around a corner and so into the main street of the village. At the War Memorial she turned down the lane that led to the sea, and the trees fell away and the fields dipped to the creaming coast, the sea green and blue and streaked with purple, flecked with white horses. She came to a tall hedge of fuchsia, changed down, turned sharply and went in through the white gate. The house was grey, square, and thoroughly old-fashioned. She was home.