Complete Works of Nevil Shute

by Nevil Shute

  When she got back the old lady was reading the front page of The Times. Jennifer packed the hot-water-bottles around her and got her to take the best part of the cup of the milk drink, and to eat about half of one biscuit. While she was coaxing her to eat the rest there was a knock at the front door; she went downstairs, and it was the postman with a heavy parcel.

  She took it from him, and carried it up to show to her grandmother, with an instinct that anything that would stimulate and arouse her interest was good. “Look what the post’s brought,” she said. “Myer’s Emporium. What have you been buying?”

  The old lady said, “Oh, that’s dear Jane. How sweet of her. It’s a parcel from Australia, Jenny. She sends one every month.”

  “It’s got an English postmark, Granny,” the girl said.

  “I know, my dear. She puts the order in Australia and the food comes from England somehow or other. So funny.”

  “Shall I open it?”

  “Please. I must write and thank her.” The parcel contained six cartons of dried fruit and a tin of lard; Jennifer now knew where the cartons she had seen in the larder came from. She asked, “Granny, who is Aunt Jane? She isn’t Mother’s sister, is she?”

  “No, my dear. Your mother never had a sister. She’s my niece, my brother Tom’s daughter.”

  “She’s the one who quarrelled with the family because she married an Australian?”

  “Yes, dear. Tom and Margaret were very much upset, but it’s turned out very well. I liked him, but Tom found him drinking white port with Jeffries, the butler, in the middle of the morning, and he used to swear dreadfully, and never saluted anybody. So different to our Army.”

  Jennifer smiled. “What was Aunt Jane like?”

  “Such a sweet girl — but very stubborn. Once she decided to do a thing there was no arguing with her; she had to see it through. I sometimes think that you’re a little like her, Jenny.”

  Time was slipping by; if she were to get money that day she could not linger. “I’m going over to Blackheath now,” she said. “I’ll get a few things for the night, and I’ll get some money and some bits of things we need. I’ll be back about tea-time, but I’ll leave a note explaining everything to the nurse. Will you be all right, do you think?”

  “I’ll be quite all right, my dear. Don’t hurry; I shall get a little sleep, I expect.”

  Jennifer went downstairs and left a note on the hall table for the nurse, and travelled across London to her rooms at Blackheath. She got there about midday, packed a bag, went to the bank, and rang up her office to say that she would have to take the rest of the week off to look after her grandmother. Then she snatched a quick meal in a café, and travelled back to Ealing.

  She was lucky in that when she reached the house the doctor and the nurse were both there, with her grandmother. She waited in the hall till they came down from the bedroom; a few letters had arrived, two that seemed to be bills and one air-mailed from Australia. That would be Jane Dorman, Jennifer thought, who had married the Australian who drank port with the butler and never saluted anybody, and who still sent parcels of dried fruit to her aunt after thirty years. They must have been very close at one time for affection to have endured so long.

  She looked round for the candle, but she could not find it; perhaps the doctor and the nurse had it upstairs with them. She stood in the dusk of the hall, waiting.

  Presently they came out of the room upstairs, and the staircase was suddenly flooded with light as the nurse turned the switch. Jennifer went forward to meet them. “The electricity’s come on!” she exclaimed.

  “Of course. Didn’t you go and see them?”

  “They said they wouldn’t turn it on until I paid the bill.”

  “The man came and turned it on this afternoon.” They left that for the moment, and the nurse said, “This is Dr. Thompson.”

  He was a fairly young man, not more than about thirty; he looked tired and overworked. He said, “You’re Miss Morton? Let’s go into one of these rooms.”

  They went into the drawing-room; it was as cold as a tomb, but anyway the light was on. Surrounded by the Burmese relics the girl asked, “How is she, Doctor?”

  The young man glanced at her, summing her up. “She’s very ill,” he said. “Very ill indeed. You know what’s the matter with her, of course?”

  Jennifer said, “She’s got no money.”

  “Yes. Malnutrition. Starvation, if you like.” He glanced around the drawing-room, taking in the worn Indian carpet of fine quality, the old-fashioned, comfortable furniture, the sampler as a fire-screen, the multitude of ornaments and bric-a-brac. “She wouldn’t sell any of this stuff, I suppose.”

  “She’s very set in her ways,” the girl said. “She likes to have her own things round her.”

  “I know.” He glanced at her. “Are you going to keep her here?”

  “Could we get her into a hospital?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think there’s a chance. I don’t think any hospital would take her. You see, the beds are all needed for urgent cases; she might be bedridden for years if she gets over the immediate trouble.”

  “She must have paid a lot of money into hospitals in her time,” said Jennifer. “She was always subscribing to things.”

  “I’m afraid that doesn’t count for much in the Health Service. Things are different now, you know.”

  “My father’s coming down from Leicester tomorrow,” the girl said. “He’s a doctor. I think he’ll have to decide what to do. I’ll stay with her tonight in any case.”

  “You’ll be alone here, will you?”

  “Yes.” She hesitated, and then she said, “Do you think she’ll die?”

  “I hope not. Would you be very frightened if she did die, and you were alone with her?”

  “I’ve never seen anybody die,” the girl said evenly. “I hope that I’d be able to do what was best for her.”

  “You’ll be all right....” He bit his lip. “I don’t think she’ll die tonight,” he said. “She’s definitely weaker than when I saw her yesterday, I’m afraid.... Nurse here has to get some sleep tonight. I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll look in again myself about eleven, just before I go to bed. In the meantime, this is what she’s got to have.”

  He gave her her instructions, and went off with the nurse; Jennifer went up to her grandmother’s bedroom. It was warm with an electric radiator burning; the old lady lay in bed, but turned her eyes to the girl.

  “I see you’ve got a radiator going, Granny,” she said. “That’s much better.”

  “It was that nice man,” she said weakly. “I heard somebody moving around downstairs, and I thought it was you, Jenny. And then somebody knocked at my door, and it was him. He said he hoped he wasn’t intruding but he thought I’d like the radiator, and he came in and turned it on and saw that it was burning properly. And then he said he hoped I’d soon be better.”

  “How nice of him,” the girl said.

  She made her grandmother comfortable and went out quickly to get to the shops before they shut. She bought the things that the doctor had told her to buy and a little food for her own supper. On her way back to the house she passed the Electricity Department, and saw a light still burning in the office window, though the door was locked. She stopped, and rang the bell; the manager himself came to the door of the shop.

  He peered at her in the half light, his eyes dazzled by the strong light at his desk. “It’s after hours,” he said. “The office is closed now. You’ll have to come back in the morning.”

  “It’s me — Jennifer Morton,” she said. “I just looked in to thank you for turning on the electricity.”

  He recognised her then. “Oh, that’s all right,” he said. “I rang up head office, and they gave permission.” In fact, he had sat for an hour staring blankly at the calendar, unable to work, and with the girl’s words searing in his mind. Then he had rung up his supervisor and had repeated to him what Jennifer had said. He had added a few word
s of his own, saying that he had checked with the district nurse, and he was going to re-connect the supply. He had said quietly that they could take whatever action seemed best to them; if the job required behaviour of that sort from him, he didn’t want the job. He was now waiting for the storm to break, uncertain of his own future, unsettled and reluctant to go home and tell his wife.

  “I’ve got my cheque-book here,” she said. “I can pay the bill now, if you like.”

  It might soothe the supervisor if the cheque were dated on the same day as his own revolt. He showed her into the office and she sat down and wrote out the cheque; in turn he wrote out the receipt, stamped it, and gave it to her. “How is your grandmother tonight?” he asked.

  “Not too good,” she replied. “She’s got a better chance now that we can get some warmth into the house. I’m sorry I said that to you this morning. One gets a bit strung up.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” he said. “Can’t you get her into the hospital?”

  The girl shook her head. “She’s too old,” she said a little bitterly. “They don’t want people in there who are just dying of old age. She’s lost her pension because we’ve left India and the fund’s run dry. She can’t get an old age pension under the new scheme because she hasn’t contributed to it for fifteen years, or something. She’s spent all her capital in trying to live, and sold most of her furniture, and the bank won’t give her any more upon the house. There’s no place for old ladies in the brave new world.”

  He tightened his lips, conscious of his own dark fears. “I know,” he said. “It’s getting worse each year. Sometimes one feels the only thing to do is to break out and get away while you’re still young enough. Try it again in Canada, perhaps, or in South Africa.”

  She looked at him, startled. “Is that what you’re thinking of?”

  “If I was alone I’d go, I think,” he said. “But it’s the children — that’s what makes it difficult. They’ve got to have a home....”

  She had no time to stay and talk to him; she cut it short and hurried back to the house. There was a telegram there now from her father saying that he was coming down next day without her mother, who was not so well, and enclosing a telegraphed money order for ten pounds. She put that in her bag and glanced at the two bills, one for groceries and one for milk, each with a politely-worded note at the bottom that was a threat of action. No good worrying her grandmother with those. She took off her coat and hat, and went upstairs with the letter from Australia in her hand.

  In the bedroom the old lady was still lying in much the same position. She was awake and she knew Jennifer, but she was breathing now in an irregular manner, with three or four deep breaths and then a pause. There was nothing that Jennifer could do about it; the only thing was to carry on and do what the doctor had told her. It was time for another drink of warm milk, this time with brandy in it.

  She gave the air-mail letter to her grandmother. “There’s an air-mail letter for you,” she said brightly. “Like me to get your glasses?”

  “Please, dear. Did you see where it was from?”

  “It’s from Australia.”

  The old lady took the spectacle case with trembling hands, fumbled a little and put the glasses on, and looked at the letter. “Yes, that’s from dear Jane. So sweet of her to keep on writing, and sending me such lovely parcels. We must make a cake, Jenny. Such lovely things....”

  Jennifer went downstairs and warmed the milk up in a saucepan on the stove and made herself a cup of tea at the same time; she mixed the Benger’s Food and added the brandy, and carried both cups up to the bedroom. She found her grandmother staring bewildered at a slip of paper in her hand, the envelope and the letter lying on the counter-pane that covered her.

  “Jenny,” she said weakly. “Jenny, come here a minute. What is this?”

  The girl took it from her. It clearly had to do with banking; it was like a cheque and yet it was not quite an ordinary cheque. The words were clear enough, however. “It’s a sort of cheque, Granny,” she said. “It’s made payable to you, for five hundred pounds sterling. I’m not quite sure what sterling means. It seems to be signed by the Commonwealth Bank of Australia. It’s as if the bank was giving you five hundred pounds.”

  The old lady said, “It’s from Jane. She says so in the letter. Oh, my dear — we’ll have to send it back. Such a sweet child, but she can’t possibly afford it. She ought not to have done such a thing.”

  “If she’s sent it to you, perhaps she can afford it,” the girl said.

  “Oh, my dear, she’s only a farmer’s wife, living in quite a poor way, I’m afraid, and with all those children. Wherever would she get five hundred pounds?”

  Jennifer said, “May I see her letter, Granny?”

  “Of course, my dear.”

  It was written in the round schoolgirl hand that Jane Dorman had never lost. The first four pages dealt with news of the older children, news of Angela at Melbourne University, news of Jack’s rheumatism, and news of the spring weather. It went on,

  “Jack and I have been a little worried by the part of your letter where you said you hadn’t bought a new vest, and we have been wondering if rising prices are making things difficult for you. Out here everything is going up in price, too, but we station people are all making so much money that we hardly notice it. Jack’s wool cheque this year was for twenty-two thousand pounds, and though most of that will go in tax of course it means that we shall still have about seven thousand for ourselves after paying all the expenses of the property.

  “We don’t know what’s the right thing to do with so much money. We can’t expect it to go on, of course; wool will come down again next year and it’s quite right that it should. It could fall to a quarter of the present price and not hurt us; the bank was all paid off last year and we’ve never spent much on ourselves, and we’re too old now to do much gadding about. We’re going down to Melbourne for a week or ten days after Christmas to do some shopping and Jack still talks of a trip home, but I don’t suppose we’ll really get much further than the Windsor Hotel.

  “I’m sending with this letter a little bank draft for five hundred pounds, with our dear love. It doesn’t mean anything to us now, because we have more than we can ever spend. If you don’t need it, will you give it to some charity in England for us? But we’ve been really worried about you since reading that letter about your vest, and Jack and I owe so much to you for all you did to help us thirty years ago. So if this will make things easier for you, will you take it with our very dearest love?

  “Your affectionate niece,

  “Jane.”

  The girl laid the letter down. “It’s all right, Granny,” she said a little unsteadily. “She’s got all the money in the world. They’re making twenty-two thousand pounds a year — at least, I think that’s what she means.”

  “Nonsense, my dear,” the old lady said weakly. “She’s only a farmer’s wife. Stations, they call them in Australia, but it’s only a big farm and not very good land, I’m told. She’s made some mistake.”

  The girl wrinkled her brows, and glanced at the letter again. “I don’t think it’s a mistake — honestly. It’s what she says, and I was reading something about this in the paper the other day.” She laid the letter down. “Look, drink your milk before it gets cold.”

  She held the old lady upright with one arm, and raised the cup to her lips. She could not get her to drink much, and the effort seemed to tire her, because she lay back on the pillows with her eyes closed, disinclined to talk. Jennifer removed the letter and the envelope to a table at the bedside and put the bankers’ draft upon the dressing-table, carefully weighted with an embossed Indian silver hand-mirror.

  She went downstairs to get her own supper. Meat and eggs were out of the question, of course, but she had got herself a piece of cod and some potatoes and carrots. She put the cod on to boil because she would not encroach upon her grandmother’s fat ration or open the tin of lard, and she peeled some o
f the potatoes and carrots to boil those. This insipid meal was normal to her life and she thought nothing of it; she had bought a pot of jam and some buns and a piece of cheese to liven it up a bit. She started all this going on the stove, and slipped upstairs to see how her grandmother was getting on.

  The old lady had not moved, and she seemed to be asleep. Her breathing, if anything, was worse. To Jennifer as she stood motionless in the door, looking at her, she seemed smaller and more shrunken, further away. The room seemed suddenly a great deal colder; she shivered a little, and went in softly and turned on the second element of the electric stove.

  As she ate her supper at the kitchen table she wondered what could best be done for her grandmother in the new situation presented by this five hundred pounds. Her father was coming down next day and he would decide what was the best course; she was rather ignorant about the practical points of illness and of nursing, but she knew that this five hundred pounds would make a difference. Perhaps it would be possible to get the old lady into a nursing home, or clinic. She knew that her parents had no money to spare; it was only with difficulty that they could keep up her father’s considerable life insurance and endowment premiums; they had their own old age to think about. It had probably been a real difficulty for her father to send her ten pounds at a moment’s notice, as he had that day.

  She went up once or twice to look into the bedroom, but she did not speak; better to let her grandmother rest quietly till it was time for her next cup of milk food and brandy. She took that up after a lapse of two hours, and spoke to the old lady. “I’ve made you some more Benger’s, Granny,” she said quietly. “Are you awake?”

  The old eyes opened. “I’m awake, Jenny. I’ve been thinking about so many things.”

  The girl sat down beside her and raised her in the bed with an arm round the old shoulders, and held the cup for her to drink. “What have you been thinking about?” she asked.

  Her grandmother said, “About when I was a girl, my dear, and how different things were then.”