by Nevil Shute
Jennifer asked, “How were they different, Granny? Drink it up.”
She took a little sip. “It was all so much easier, dear. My father, your great-grandfather, was in the Foreign Office, but he retired early, when I was about fifteen. Before that we lived in a big house on Putney Hill, near where Swinburne lived, but when he retired, in about 1886, we moved down into the country. My father bought Steep Manor near Petersfield with about thirty acres of land. I don’t think his pension and my mother’s investments together amounted to more than a thousand pounds a year, but they seemed to be able to do such a lot with it, such a great, great deal.”
“Drink a little more,” the girl suggested. “What sort of things did you do?”
“Everything that gentlefolk did do in those days, dear. My father kept three maid-servants in the house — everybody did then. And there was a gardener, and a gardener’s boy who helped in the stables, and a groom. That was before the days of motor-cars, of course. My mother had her carriage with a pair of matched greys, such a pretty pair. My father and Tom and I all had our hacks, or hunters as we liked to call them, because we followed the hunt every week all through the winter.”
She sat in silence for a time; the girl held her, motionless. “I had a chestnut mare called Dolly,” she said. “Such a sweet little horse. I used to groom her myself, and she always knew when I was coming because I always brought her a lump of sugar or an apple, and she would put her head round, and whinny. Tom rode her sometimes, and she could jump beautifully, but I never jumped her myself except over a ha-ha or a ditch, because I rode side-saddle of course, in a habit. We thought it was very fast when girls began to ride astride in breeches just like men. I think a habit looks much nicer.”
The girl held the cup to the old lips again. “Wasn’t it dull, just living in the country?” she asked.
“Oh, my dear, it wasn’t dull. There was always such a lot to do, with the servants and the gardens and the green-houses and the horses. We kept pigs and we used to cure all our own hams and bacon. And then we used to give a dance every year and all our friends did the same, and the Hunt Ball, and people coming to stay. And then there were all the people in the village to look after; everybody knew everybody else, and everybody helped each other. There was never a minute to spare, and never a dull moment.”
She took a sip of the milk that Jennifer pressed on her. “We always had a week in London, every year,” she said. “We used to stay at Brown’s Hotel in Dover Street, generally in May or June. It was theatres and dances every night. I was presented at Court in 1892, to the Prince of Wales, and the old Queen came in for a moment and we all curtsied to her, all together. The lights, and all the men in their scarlet and blue dress uniforms, and the women in Court dress, with trains — I don’t think I ever saw anything so splendid, except perhaps at the Durbar in nineteen hundred and eleven.” She paused. “You haven’t been presented, have you, Jenny?”
The girl said, “No, Granny. I don’t think it happens so much now.”
“Oh, my dear, how much, how very much you young girls have to miss. We had so much, much more than you when we were young.”
Jennifer tried to get her to drink a little more, but the old lady refused it. “Garden parties all through the summer,” she murmured, “with tea out on the lawn under the cedar tree. There was tennis on the lawn for those who felt like it, but archery was what everybody went in for. We had a special strip of lawn by the herbaceous border that we kept for archery, and the targets upon metal stands, stuffed with straw, with white and red and blue and gold circles. Such a pretty sport upon a sunny afternoon, dear, with the sun and the scent of mignonette, between the cedar and the monkey-puzzle tree....”
The old eyes closed; it was no good trying to get her to take any more of the Benger’s Food. The girl withdrew the cup and put it on the side table, and gently relaxed her arm to lay the old head down upon the pillow. Her grandmother seemed to sleep where she was put; the girl stood for a moment looking down at her as she lay with eyes closed. It didn’t look so good, but there was nothing more that she could do for the time being, except to change the hot-water-bottles.
When she had done that, she went downstairs again. In spite of the bad night that she had had the night before she was not sleepy; there was a sense of urgency upon her that banished fatigue. She considered for a moment where she was to sleep, and put it out of her mind; the only possible place for sleep was the sofa in the drawing-room and that was much too far from the old lady’s bedroom. It was warm up in the bedroom, and she could shade the light; she would spend the night up there in the arm-chair again, within reach of her grandmother.
The doctor came at about eleven o’clock as he had promised; Jennifer was making another cup of the milk drink when he arrived, and she came out of the kitchen to meet him in the hall.
“Good evening,” he said. “How is she now?”
“Much the same,” the girl replied. “If anything, I think she’s a bit weaker.”
“Has she taken anything?”
“She takes about half a cup each time. I can’t get her to take more than that.”
“I’ll just go up and see her. You’d better come up, too.”
She was with him in the bedroom while he made his examination; the old lady knew him, but said very little. He made it short, bade her good-night cheerfully, and went downstairs again with Jennifer.
In the drawing-room he said, “I’m very sorry that there isn’t a nurse with you.”
She looked at him. “You mean, she’s going?”
“She’s not making any progress,” he replied. “She’s weaker every time I see her. I’m afraid there’s only one end to that, Miss Morton.”
“Do you think she’ll die tonight?” the girl asked.
“I can’t say. She might, quite easily. Or she might rally and go on for days or even weeks. But her heart’s getting very bad. I’m afraid you’ll have to be prepared for it to happen any time.”
He spoke to her about the practical side of death, and he spoke to her about the continued effort to feed the old body. And then he said, “I rang up the relieving officer about her today. I think he’ll be coming round to see you tomorrow.”
She said, “That’s somebody who doles out money, isn’t it?”
“In a way,” he replied. “He has power to give monetary relief to cases of hardship that aren’t covered under any of the existing Acts. He’s a municipal officer.” He paused. “I wish I’d known about this patient earlier. I could have asked him to come round and see her months ago, but I had no idea.”
Jennifer said, “I don’t believe my grandmother would have seen him.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “She’d have looked on it as charity money. All her life she’s been more accustomed to giving to charities than taking from them.”
“He’s very tactful, I believe.”
“He’d have to be,” she said. “My grandmother’s a lady — the old-fashioned sort.”
There was a pause. “In any case,” she said, “that won’t be necessary now. Granny got a cheque today for five hundred pounds, from a relation in Australia who was worried about her. There’s enough money now to pay for anything she ought to have.”
“Five hundred pounds!” he said. “That’s a lot of money. Pity it didn’t come three months ago.”
“I know,” she said. “It’s just one of those things.”
He thought for a moment. “Would you like me to see if I can get a nurse for her tomorrow?”
“My father will be here tomorrow,” she said. “He’s a doctor. He’ll be here about midday. Could we talk it over with you then? I should think a nurse would be a good thing.”
He nodded. “I’ll see if I can get one for tomorrow night. You’ll need some relief by then.”
They went out into the hall, and he put on his coat. He paused then, hat in hand. “She’s got relations in Australia, has she? Do you know where they live?”
“They keep a sheep farm,” the girl said. “Somewhere in Victoria, I think.” He nodded slowly. “I still can’t quite understand it,” she said. “Granny thought they were quite poor, but then this money arrived for her today. They must be very well off to send a sum like that.”
“The graziers are doing very well,” he said. “Everybody in that country seems to be doing very well.” He hesitated. “I’m going to try it out there for a bit, myself.”
She looked at him, surprised. “You are? Are you leaving England?”
“Just for a bit,” he said. “I think it does one good to move around, and there’s not much future in the Health Service. I think it’ll be better for the children, too, and it’s not like going abroad. I’ve got a passage booked on the Orion, sailing on April the eighteenth. It’s a bit of a gamble, but I’ve had it here.”
“Where are you going to?” she asked. “What part of Australia?”
“Brisbane,” he said. “I was there for a bit in 1944, when I was in the Navy. I liked it all right. I believe you could have a lot of fun in Queensland.” He hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Don’t talk about this, please, Miss Morton. It’s not generally known yet that I’m going.”
“I shan’t talk,” she said. “I don’t know anyone in Ealing.”
He went away, and she went back into the kitchen and stood thoughtful over the electric stove as she warmed up the milk again. The house was dead silent but for the low noise of wind and a little trickling noise of water from some gutter. She poured the milk into the cup and added the brandy, and took it up to her grandmother.
“How are you feeling now, Granny?” she asked.
The old lady did not answer, but her eyes were open and she was awake. Jennifer sat down on the bedside and lifted her with an arm around her shoulders, and held the cup to her lips. She drank a little, and the brandy may have strengthened her, because presently she said in a thin voice, “Jenny, I’m going to die.”
The girl said, “So am I, Granny, but not just yet. Nor are you. Drink a bit more of this.”
“Have you ever seen anybody die, Jenny?”
The girl shook her head.
“I wish there was somebody here with you.”
The girl held the cup up to the lips. It was stupid to feel frightened, and she must not show it. “Try a little more. It’s good for you.”
Too weak to argue, the old lady took a tiny sip or two. Then she said, “Jenny.” There was a long pause while she gathered strength, and then she said. “My cheque-book. In the small left-hand drawer of the bureau. And my pen.”
“Do you want to write a cheque, Granny?” The old eyes signified assent. “Leave it till the morning. Drink a little more of this, and then get some sleep.”
The old lady pushed the cup aside. “No. Now.”
The girl put the cup down and went downstairs. She knew that the doctor had been right and that her grandmother would die that night. She was not frightened now; her duty was to ease the passing of the old lady and do what she wanted in the last few hours. She was calm and competent and thoughtful as she brought the pen and cheque-book and a blotting-pad to the bedside.
“Are these what you want, Granny?”
The old lady nodded slightly, and the girl put them on the sheet before her, and arranged the pillows, and lifted the old body into a sitting position. She gave her another drink of the hot milk and brandy. Presently the old lady said, “Bring that thing.”
The girl was puzzled. “What thing is it?” And then she got up and fetched the draft from the dressing-table, and said, “This?”
Her grandmother nodded weakly and took it from her and looked round, questing, till Jennifer divined what it was that she wanted, and gave her her spectacles. She put them on, and then she said distinctly, “Such a funny sort of cheque. I never saw one like it.” And then she endorsed it on the back with a hand that trembled, with a signature that was barely legible.
Jennifer held the cup up to her lips, and she drank a little more. Then, with a sudden spurt of energy, she took the cheque-book and wrote quite a legible cheque for four hundred pounds, payable to Jennifer Morton.
The girl, looking on as she wrote, said, “Granny, you mustn’t do that. I don’t want it, and you’ll need the money when you get well.”
The old lady whispered, “I want you to do something for me, Jenny. Write letters now, send this to my bank and this to yours. Then go and post them.”
“I’ll do that in the morning, Granny. I can’t leave you alone tonight.”
The old lady gathered her ebbing strength, and said, “Go and write them now, my dear, and bring them up and show me. And then go out and post them.”
“All right.” She could not disobey so positive and direct a command. She thought as she wrote the letters at her grandmother’s bureau in the drawing-room that she could sort the matter out with her father next day and pay the money back; the thing now was to ease the old lady’s passing and not disobey her. She brought the letters and the envelopes up to the bedside and showed them; the old lady did not speak, but watched her as she put the letters and the cheques into the envelopes and sealed them down. The girl said, “There they are, Granny, all ready to post. May I post them in the morning?”
The head shook slightly, and the old lips said, “Now.”
“All right. I expect I’ll be away about ten minutes, Granny; I’ll have to go down to the Broadway. I’ll be back as quick as ever I can.”
The old head nodded slightly, and the girl went down and put her coat on, and ran most of the way to the post office, and most of the way back. She came back into the bedroom flushed and breathing quickly, but her grandmother’s eyes were closed, and she seemed to be asleep.
The girl went down to the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea, and ate a little meal of toast and jam. Then she went back to the bedroom and settled down in the chair before the electric stove.
At about half-past twelve the old lady opened her eyes and said, “Jenny, did you post the letters?”
“I posted them, Granny.”
“There’s a dear girl,” the voice from the bed said weakly. “I’ve been so worried for you, but you’ll be all right with Jane.”
The girl blinked in surprise, but there were more important things to be done than to ask for explanations. “Don’t try and talk,” she said. “Let me get some more hot water in these bottles.”
Her grandmother said, “No. Jenny ... Jenny ...”
The girl paused in the act of taking the bottles from the bed. “What is it, Granny?”
The old lady said something that the girl could not catch. And then she said, “It’s not as if we were extravagant, Geoffrey and I. It’s been a change that nobody could fight against, this going down and down. I’ve had such terrible thoughts for you, Jenny, that it would go on going down and down, and when you are as old as I am you would look back at your room at Blackheath and your office work, as I look back to my life at Steep Manor, and you’ll think how very rich you were when you were young.”
It did not make sense to the girl. She said, “I’m just going to take these bottles down and fill them, Granny. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Her grandmother said, “I always took a hot-water-bottle with me when we went out on shikar. Geoffrey’s bearer, dear old Moung Bah, used to boil up water over the wood fire and fill it for me, while Geoffrey cleaned his gun in front of the tent. Such lovely times we had out in the jungle, dear. Such lovely places ...” The old voice died away into silence.
The girl took the hot-water-bottles and went quickly downstairs to fill them. When she came back with them and put them in the bed around the old lady, her grandmother was lying with closed eyes; she seemed fairly comfortable, but the respiration was much worse. She was breathing in short gasps three or four times in succession; then would come a silence when for a long time she did not seem to breathe at all. It was fairly obvious to the girl that the end was coming. She wondered if sh
e ought to go and fetch the doctor from his bed, and then she thought that there was nothing he could do; better for other and more vital patients that he should be allowed to rest. She sat down by the bedside in the chair to wait, holding her grandmother’s hand, filled with deep sadness at the close of life.
The old lady spoke suddenly from the bed. Jennifer missed the first words again; she may have been half asleep. She heard, “ — on twenty-two thousand a year, better than we lived at Steep. Give her my very dearest love when you see her, Jenny. I’m so happy for you now. It was so sweet of her to send those lovely fruits. Be sure and tell her how much we enjoyed them.”
There was a long, long pause, and then she said, “So glad she sent the money for your fare. I’ve had so much, much more than you poor girls today.”
Jennifer was on her feet now; there was something here that had to be cleared up. She held her grandmother’s hand between her own young, warm ones. “What did you give me that money for, Granny? What do you want me to do with the four hundred pounds? Try and tell me.”
The old lips muttered, “Dear Jane. Such lovely fruits.”
The girl stood by the bedside, waiting. If she had understood the old lady at all she was making an incredible proposal, but, after all, the doctor was going.
She said, “Try and tell me what you want me to do with the four hundred pounds, Granny.”
There were a few faint, jumbled words that Jennifer missed, and then she heard, “ — a little horse for you, everything that I had at your age.”
There was very little time left now. The girl said, “Granny! Did you give me the four hundred pounds because you want me to go to Australia to visit Aunt Jane? Is that what you’re trying to say? Is that what you’d like me to do with the money?”
There was a faint, unmistakable nod. Then the old eyes closed again, as if in sleep. The girl laid the hand carefully beneath the bedclothes and sat down again to wait. There was a terrific mess here that her father must help her to clear up.
At about two o’clock her grandmother spoke again for the last time. Jennifer, bending by the old lips, heard her say, “The dear Queen’s statue in Moulmein ... white marble. So sweet of the Burmese ...”