The Embroidered Sunset

by Joan Aiken

  “I don’t like it,” Lucy said again. “I’d feel sneaky.”

  “For Pete’s sake! Who’s getting done? Nobody. Tell you what—I’ll pay you a commission on every picture you collect—might come to enough to pay your fees with whosis if you’re still hellbent on this piano business.”

  That did make Lucy pause. She pushed salad about her plate in silence.

  “I must say, Princess,” Uncle Wilbie said in an injured tone, “I do think you might show a little bit more sense of obligation to your aunt and me, considering all we’ve done for you. After all, we took you in and gave you a home all these years since your mother and Paul and Minnie died—gave you education, social background, the whole works—”

  “You expect gratitude from Lucy?” Corale said. “What a hope! She hates our guts, every last one of us, don’t you, Luce?”

  Trapped, Lucy looked up in time to catch her aunt’s expression of hopeless resignation to a situation beyond her control.

  Chivalry was a very minor element in Lucy’s tough, wary heart, but her aunt sometimes called it out; Rose’s situation was so infinitely worse than any possible future one could imagine.

  “Oh, all right,” Lucy said at last, crossly. “If everyone’s going to make such an issue of it, I’ll try and locate the old girl.”

  II

  Waking in the morning. Cold and dark. Bed’s lumpy, must get Dill help me turn mattress, refill with new Ladies’ Bedstraw blossom. New bag of bean flower to put under pillow. No, wrong time of year for bean flower, must be winter, so cold and dark. Seat feels cold in bed. Waking up a little more, would rather not wake, would rather go back to sleep. Happy dream, now I remember. Outside the cottage, High Beck, picking valerian off the front wall. Dill weeding the stone troughs, all blue with lobelia. Bees humming, old Taffypuss sunning himself on the doorstep. Taffy! He’s purring. Dill picks bunch of sweetbriar—can smell it. Now she’s climbed down the dene to get watercress. Careful, Dill! Birds are singing too loud, have to wake up. No birds really. Dream goes peeling, shredding away like burnt paper, oh, come back, come back! No, gone. Oh, Dill, oh, Taffypuss, I do miss you so. When will I ever stop?

  Waking up. Cold seat. Must ask That One about good brushed nylon knickers. She said, sent to laundry, but gone for weeks. Queer sort of laundry. Can’t trust anyone around here. Cold even in bed now. Mustn’t get up, though. That One furious if people get up before breakfast. Not at her best in morning. Can’t make breakfast, she says, if people downstairs underfoot. Well, I don’t mind breakfast in bed. Would rather be up though, putting on own kettle, going to hen-house, collecting eggs, push hand under warm, feathery, grumbling hen, egg each for me and Dill . . . No use thinking that way. Anyhow, breakfast here not bad. Porridge, toast, tea quite hot sometimes. Warms you up in cold bed. Breakfast is best part of life here. Not saying much.

  Here comes That One upstairs now. Can hear her with clanking tray. How she doesn’t fall and break her neck! Stairs so cluttered with that Venus statue at top, suitcases, boxes, and then the Hoover cord running from top to bottom; downright dangerous if you ask me with all these old people, mostly half blind. Have to grope your way like in a mine; I never let go of banisters. Funny, really, when you think. They say High Beck was dangerous for me and Dill, with the dene down below, said fall was to be expected. But if they could see this place! Far worse. And if there was to be a fire . . . trapped in tiny bedrooms full of furniture. But don’t let’s think of that. Here comes That One with tray.

  Good morning, Mrs. . . .

  Good morning, ladies. Lovely hot porridge.

  Three in bedroom is wickedly overcrowded, specially such small rooms. Beds all jammed together, hardly room to open drawers. Only one wardrobe between three. Have to put trays on commodes, not very nice. No privacy at all. Just have to ignore others. One of them wants window open, one wants it shut. If shut, can’t hear birds. But can’t mention that. Because. So much to remember all the time. No curlews here anyway, no nightingales; only sparrows. Better half a sparrow than no bird. Dill would laugh, she always laughs at my jokes. Honestly, Daff, one day you’ll be the death of me. But I wasn’t. He was. That other one. Why did God have to let him do it? Dill was so good. Never harmed a fly all her life long. If she found a cockroach in the larder I was the one who had to get rid of it. All those birds with hurt wings, squirrel with broken leg. People’s pets. She looked after them, every one so carefully. No one looked after her. There she lay, all night long, half in beck. Doctor said, must have called and called for help. No one heard, not even God. Maybe God did hear at last.

  Clinking spoons. People eating porridge. Must sit up and have breakfast while it’s hot. Ah! Rheumatism.

  Queer, you lie in bed, thinking, remembering. You might be any age. Body feels light, relaxed. You don’t feel old. But once you move—ah! pain in elbows, knees, back. Old age grips like a trap with teeth. Funny, they used to say High Beck bad for rheumatism, with the dene just below, but never any rheumatism there. Kept too active, probably. Hens, garden, milking Betsy, going to Cronkley Wood for herbs. Never had a twinge. But here! No chance of exercise, that’s why. Sitting about in dark little poky parlour all day long. They call it lounge, but I say parlour. Old-fashioned is best. Daren’t go out in street for fear of meeting That Other One.

  Sitting up now. Get bed jacket from under blanket where keeping warm. Put round shoulders. Ah! Twinge. Carefully put sugar on porridge. Not too much, jar has to last week. Porridge, lumpy, like bed. But hot. Not real porridge though, only instant stuff. Never cream, only milk and skim at that. Do you remember, Dill, Betsy’s cream in the enamel pan, so thick you could crumple it like paper? Shouldn’t talk to Dill, she’s not here. Spread toast, butter tastes like marge, probably is marge. One of the others says she thinks it is marge. Beg your pardon, what did you say? I haven’t put my hearing aid in yet. Sorry, can’t put hearing aid in till ears washed. Drink tea. It’s hot, that’s all you can say. I just wish I could have a drink of camomile or melilot. Peppermint, growing in the stream. “I’ll make us some peppermint tea,” she used to say. Or lime-blossom. Raspberry leaf, wood betony. Hot and fragrant, like meadow on summer’s day. This is like floor sweepings in hot water. “Tea begrudged, water bewitched,” Dill would say.

  Out of bed then. Put feet on icy-cold floor. Queer to see feet, so old and thin and bony. Never get used to that. Quick, put on brown slippers, coat. No room for coat and dressing-gown, That One says. So coat. Somebody in bathroom, have to wait. Should have more than one bathroom with so many. But That One says, lucky to have bathroom at all. No bathroom at High Beck, outside W. and kitchen sink, but clean and sweet. Only me and Dill. Can’t say the same for here. Ah, she’s out. Time, too.

  Water’s hot because washday. That One will be furious if use too much, but must have good wash. Good wash best pleasure now. Still have three tablets of lettuce soap, what will I do when it’s finished? No use worrying yet, ought to last few weeks still. Someone banging on door, hurry up whoever’s in there, going to stay all day? Pretend not to notice. Ready to leave, got everything? Soap, flannel, powdered elm bark. Out into passage. Oh, so sorry, been waiting long? Apologies, but can’t help it, can I, if only one bathroom among so many. Careful not to trip in dark passage. Trunks with metal corners. Hurt ankle bones. Wardrobe. She ought to find somewhere else to put them. Hoover leaning against wall. Don’t grip it, would fall over. That was how old man with black patch over eye broke hip; ambulance took him to hospital. Now in geriatric ward, That One said. Please God don’t let that happen to me. I know about those geriatric wards; they take away your spectacles. Say you’re incapable of managing your own affairs. This place is paradise compared to them. Maybe the old man didn’t go there. Maybe his relations came for him; took him to home with garden, terrace to sit in sun, own big room, grandchildren to chat and run little errands.

  Now, getting dressed. Washday, so clean vest. Take off dirty vest.
Take clean one from under pillow where warming. Keep coat over shoulders, turn back to others. Ah! twinge. Coat keeps sliding. If only I had room to myself. If only I was ever alone.

  No good thinking that way.

  Struggle. Struggle.

  Well, almost done. Vest on, liberty bodice on, stockings on, two pairs of knickers on (must ask about good brushed nylon ones again). Tiring. Must sit down and rest, but first change over little cloth bag. Unpin from inside of dirty vest, pin to inside of clean vest. Safety pins are stiff. Fingers getting weak. Suppose they get too weak to manage safety pins? What will I do then? If I could get some powdered seaweed to soak hands in. Or celery tea. No use asking That One. Little bag feels scratchy on chest. Pin not properly fastened. That’s better. Only safe place to keep the wealth.

  Dress, cardigan. Brush hair. Arms are stiff. Damp lumpy bed, what can you expect? Tired, breathing not good. Sit on bed for minute. Tray on commode. Put in hearing aid. First clip battery case on cardigan. Clip very stiff, fingers very weak. Fiddle. Fiddle. Shall I help you, Miss Culpepper? That One’s come back, has she? Wants to make bed, I suppose, that’s what’s behind helpful offer. Grabs it from me, clips on wrong side. Dreadful breath, like drains from a brewery. Can you wonder? Never mind wrong side. Change it downstairs when she’s not looking.

  Right. Now cord round back of neck, under bun, poke plug into ear. Difficult. Very difficult. Fiddle. Fiddle. That One standing watching, impatient. Fiddle. Poke it in anyhow for now, wait till downstairs, or she’ll offer to do that. Right, Miss C.? Got your carrier bag? Off you go downstairs then. The lounge is nice and warm.

  That’s as maybe.

  Handkerchief, comfrey tablets. What you want to take all those tablets for, can’t do you any good. Mustn’t let her see me taking them, she gets offended. Isn’t the food you get here good enough then? Frankly, no, it isn’t. Couldn’t say so to her face though.

  Down the stairs, hold on to banister all the way. Watch out for Hoover and cord. Watch out for statue of Venus. Indecent thing, all bare, towel falling off stomach. Having no arms doesn’t make it any better. Dill would laugh at me and say it was famous art, but I say inconsiderate. Who wants naked female smirking at top of stairs every time they go past to bathroom? Top-heavy too. Dangerous. Might easily fall on someone. Who wants Venus falling on them? Who’s that at foot of stairs? Dreadfully dark in front entry, stained-glass window panes in door, grandfather clock, umbrella stand, That One’s bicycle right where can’t help falling over it.

  That you, Miss Culpepper? Can I help you down last few steps?

  It’s the old man, Mr. Thing, always very polite. Never could fancy a beard and his all dirty, yellow with tobacco, disgusting. Won’t do not to be polite back though. Thank you, Mr. Thing, the eyes are very dim today, can hardly see at all. Could you kindly pass white stick out of hall stand? (That One won’t have white sticks upstairs in bedrooms, says people might trip over them at night. As if there weren’t plenty else to trip over.)

  Into parlour. Six people there already, sitting. Nobody speaking.

  Nice and warm, she said. Humph.

  Is it a fine day, Mr. Thing? somebody says after five minutes. Mr. Thing goes down to paper shop for papers, that’s his little job.

  Grey, says Mr. Thing. Cold. Not raining. That’s about all you can say for it.

  Would be a good day for collecting lichen. Or willow bark along the river bank. No use thinking that way. If only I dared go out though. Just to pick a few dandelion leaves. Maybe in public gardens? No, too far. Would not dare. Must ask Mr. Thing when he will next be going to chemist.

  Is anybody looking? Don’t think so. Fix hearing-aid plug in safer with bit of tissue. Better. Now sit. Ear very sore.

  What time is it, Mr. Thing?

  Half-past ten, Miss Er.

  Cup of tea in half an hour. Lunch in two hours. Tea in six hours. Supper (not supper really, just Bovaltine) in eight hours. Bed in twelve hours.

  Another dreadful day begun.

  III

  Max Benovek sat in his balcony looking down at the view below. He sat there resentfully, because he was too tired for any other occupation, and he looked down with a sort of angry apathetic compulsion, as somebody might who, having waited forever in a dentist’s anteroom and seeing another eternity in prospect, cannot in the end resist picking up the one magazine on the table, however crucifyingly dull its pages.

  The Queen Alexandra Sanatorium was vast. Sheer size alone would have suggested its institutional nature, but the dreariness of its architecture made this a certainty. The beholder’s first idea was that it must be a prison or workhouse, but the design did not seem quite right for either: built fifty years earlier, in a period when fresh air was considered essential for chest illnesses, it carried the maximum number of balconies and consequently looked like a huge yellow brick waffle standing on edge amid the Surrey pines. All the ironwork of balconies and fire escapes was painted a durable red; the waffle appeared to have been smeared with jam.

  On the first floor, directly over one of the main entrances, Benovek had his large private room. It had originally been intended as a matron’s office; even the most expensive private patients’ rooms were less than half the size, but the name of Benovek and the fact that his piano would not fit anywhere else except in the operating theatre had decided the matter. He found the situation distractingly noisy and almost daily declared that he could not stand it and must be transferred somewhere, anywhere else, but the impossibility of resiting the piano always, when it came to the point, constituted an insuperable difficulty. When he lay awake at night one of his principle pastimes, or tortures, depending on his physical state, consisted of trying to find somewhere else to put the piano.

  The view commanded by his balcony was in fact quite a pleasant one: across the large, institutional, but well-kept garden, across a valley filled with beechwoods, to the north downs. Benovek, however, impatiently ignored the distant prospect, and looked at the closer one only when he could not avoid doing so; dozens of times every day a horrified fascination drew his unwilling eyes to it.

  As now.

  A young father with two small children had come to see his wife who was dying of emphysema. Children were not allowed inside the hospital, therefore it had been arranged that the mother should be taken outside in a wheel chair for a couple of hours; the husband had wheeled her to and fro along the gravel paths while she held the younger child in her lap, and the elder one, who was probably no more than three or four, trotted alongside. Every five minutes or so, in the course of the afternoon, Benovek’s eye had been reluctantly drawn back to the group as they went up and down the paths, encased in their little capsule of solitude. He did not think the parents spoke to one another at all; occasionally the walking child asked a question, which they appeared to have difficulty in answering. Now it was time for the visitors to leave: a nurse had emerged to wheel the patient inside, and the father had taken the baby from its mother’s arms. But the older child, hitherto quiet and docile enough, at the prospect of leaving his mother yet again was suddenly transformed into a desperate creature. He screamed, he sobbed, he clung to her, he kicked out at the nurse and at his father when they tried to detach him from the woman in the wheel chair. The father, handicapped by the baby he held, was unable to take any effective action; the nurse, who was young and inexperienced, seemed totally at a loss. The group was now directly below Benovek’s balcony and the child’s reiterated, sobbing, frantic plea— “Let me stay with Mummy. Please let me stay with Mummy,” rang in his ears and on his nerves and could not be shut out.

  “Dee,” he called restlessly. “Are you there? Help me inside, would you?”

  But there was no answer; Dee Lawrence, who came every day to write his letters and do other secretarial jobs, had left the room to collect his tea tray. Max grasped the arms of his chair, summoning all his will to move. At this moment, however, t
he scene taking place below was deflected by an additional character; a girl had been walking up the long approach to the sanatorium and was now close enough to take a hand.

  Benovek heard the young father, his voice ragged with strain, call out, “I say, could you hold the baby a moment while I get my son into the car?”

  The girl, evidently grasping the situation, seemed unperturbed at having her help thus enlisted by a stranger.

  “Is that your car over there?” she said. “Why don’t you strap the baby in first while I hold the little boy.”

  “I doubt if you’ll be able to—Barney! You must let go of Mummy. She’s ill—you’ll make her worse!”

  It was unlikely that this argument would have had any effect on the distraught Barney, but the girl, with one calm forceful movement, detached his grip.

  “Now you make a quick getaway,” she muttered to the nurse, who took her advice and rapidly whisked the wheel chair indoors.

  While the father slotted the baby into its car seat, the girl squatted down beside Barney in the middle of the gravel sweep; her grip on him, and her entirely concentrated attention, appeared to carry comfort as well as authority, for his exhausted hysterical sobs died slowly down to an occasional hiccup of “Mummy—Mummy”; Benovek could hear the girl talking to him in a soothing incantatory murmur.

  “Yes, I know. Yes, I know. It’s bloody unfair. But that’s the way life is, Barney. They just hand you out the tough stuff, and you might as well get used to it. Yes, I know you want to stay with her. It’s just a rotten deal, poor old Barney, and we can’t do a thing about it. Not a single thing. That’s what’s so tough—just having to put up with it. It’s a bloody awful shame, I know. But you’ll feel a bit better by and by, I promise. Yes, you really will. I know. There’ll be tea, and sand castles, and your birthday, and Christmas. It’s just as bad as can be now, I know; that’s why things have got to get a bit better. See? For instance we can blow your nose, that’ll help. Right?—blow, then. That’s the boy. Again—grand. Okay, and now, look, your Dad’s waiting for you. Want to get in the car?”