The Empty House

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  She found her alone, tidying away the children’s supper things and straightening the room before she settled to her nightly session with the television.

  Not that the room needed straightening, but Nanny could not relax until every cushion was plump and straight on the sofa, every toy put away, and the children’s dirty clothes discarded, and clean ones set out for the following morning. She had always been like this, revelling in the orderly pattern of her own rigid routine. And she had always looked the same, a neat spare woman, over sixty now, but with scarcely a trace of grey in her dark hair which she wore drawn back and fastened in a bun. She appeared to be ageless, the type that would continue, unchanging, until she was an old woman when she would suddenly become senile and die.

  She looked up as Virginia came into the room, and then hastily away again.

  “Hallo, Nanny.”

  “Good evening.”

  Her manner was frigid. Virginia shut the door and went to sit on the arm of the sofa. There was only one way to deal with Nanny in a mood and that was to jump right in off the deep end. “I’m sorry about this, Nanny.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, I’m sure.”

  “I mean about my taking the children away. We’re going back to Cornwall tomorrow morning. I’ve got seats on the train.” Nanny folded the checked tablecloth, corner to corner into perfect squares. “Lady Keile said she’d spoken to you.”

  “She certainly mentioned something about some hare-brained scheme … but it was hard to believe that my ears weren’t playing me tricks.”

  “Are you cross because I’m taking them, or because you’re not coming too?”

  “Who’s cross? Nobody’s cross, I’m sure…”

  “Then you think it’s a good idea?”

  “No, that I do not. But what I think doesn’t seem to matter any more, one way or the other.”

  She opened a drawer in the table and laid the cloth away, and shut the drawer with a little slam which instantly betrayed her scarcely-banked rage. But her face remained cool, her mouth primly set.

  “You know that what you think matters. You’ve done so much for the children. You mustn’t think I’m not grateful. But they’re not babies any longer.”

  “And what is that meant to convey, if I might ask?”

  “Just that I can look after them now.”

  Nanny turned from the table. For the first time, her eyes met Virginia’s. And as they watched each other, Virginia saw the slow, angry flush spread up Nanny’s neck, up her face, up to her hair line.

  She said, “Are you giving me my notice?”

  “No, that’s not what I intended at all. But perhaps, now we’ve started to discuss it, it would be the best thing. For your sake as much as anyone else’s. Perhaps it would be better for you.”

  “And why would it be better for me? All my life I’ve given to this family, why, I had Anthony to look after from the beginning, and there was no reason why I should come up to Scotland and take care of your babies, I never wanted to go, to leave London, but Lady Keile asked me, and because it was the family, I went, a real sacrifice I made, and this is all the thanks I get…”

  “Nanny…” Virginia interrupted gently when Nanny paused for a breath “… It would be better for you because of this. For that very reason. Wouldn’t it be better to make a clean break, and maybe have a new baby to take care of, a new little family? You know how you always said a nursery wasn’t a nursery without a little baby, and Nicholas is six now…”

  “I never thought I’d live to see the day…”

  “And if you don’t want to do that, then why not speak to Lady Keile? You could maybe make some arrangement with her. You get on so well together, and you like being in London, with all your friends…”

  “I don’t need you to give me any suggestions, thank you very much … given up the best years of my life … bringing up your children … never expected any thanks … never would have happened if poor Anthony … if Anthony had been alive…”

  It went on and on, and Virginia sat and listened, letting the invective pour over her. She told herself that this was the least she could do. It was over, it was done, and she was free. Nothing else mattered. To wait, politely, for Nanny to finish was no more than a salute of respect, a tribute paid by the victor to the vanquished after a bloodthirsty but honourable battle.

  Afterwards, she went to say good night to the children. Nicholas was already asleep, but Cara was still deep in her book. When her mother came into the room, she looked up slowly, dragging her eyes away from the printed page. Virginia sat on the edge of her bed.

  “What are you reading now?”

  Cara showed her. “It’s The Treasure Seekers.”

  “Oh, I remember that. Where did you find it?”

  “In the nursery bookcase.”

  Carefully, she marked the place in her book with a cross-stitched marker she had made herself, closed it and put it down on her bedside table. “Have you been talking to Nanny?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s been funny all day.”

  “Has she, Cara?”

  “Is something wrong?”

  It was hard to be so perceptive, so sensitive to atmosphere when you were only eight years old. Especially when you were shy and not very pretty and had to wear round steel spectacles that made you look like a little owl.

  “No, nothing’s wrong. Just different. And new.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’m going back to Cornwall tomorrow morning in the train, and I’m going to take you and Nicholas with me. Will you like that?”

  “You mean…” Cara’s face lit up. “We’re going to stay with Aunt Alice?”

  “No, we’re going to stay in a house on our own. A funny little house called Bosithick. And we’re going to have to do all the housekeeping ourselves and the cooking…”

  “Isn’t Nanny coming?”

  “No. Nanny’s staying here.”

  There was a long silence. Virginia said, “Do … you mind?”

  “No, I don’t mind. But I expect she will. That’s why she’s been so funny.”

  “It’s not easy for Nanny. You and Nicholas have been her babies ever since you were born. But somehow I think you’re growing out of Nanny now, like you grow out of coats and dresses … You’re both old enough to look after yourselves.”

  “You mean, Nanny’s not going to live with us any more?”

  “No, she’s not.”

  “Where will she live?”

  “She’ll maybe go and find another little new baby to take care of. Or she may stay here with Granny.”

  “She likes being in London,” said Cara. “She told me so. She likes it much better than Scotland.”

  “Well, there you are!”

  Cara considered this for a moment. Then she said, “When are we going to Cornwall?”

  “I told you. Tomorrow on the train.”

  “When will we leave?” She liked everything cut and dried.

  “About half past nine. We’ll get a taxi to the station.”

  “And when are we going back to Kirkton?”

  “I expect when the holidays are over. When you have to go back to school.” Cara remained silent. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking. Virginia said, “It’s time to go to sleep now … we’ve got a long day tomorrow,” and she leaned forward and gently unhooked Cara’s spectacles and kissed her good night.

  But as she went towards the door, Cara spoke again.

  “Mummy.”

  Virginia turned. “Yes.”

  “You came.”

  Virginia frowned, not understanding.

  “You came,” said Cara again. “I said to write to me, but you came instead.”

  Virginia remembered the letter from Cara, the catalyst that had started everything off. She smiled. “Yes,” she said. “I came. It seemed better.” And she went out of the room, and downstairs to endure the ordeal of a silent dinner in the company of Lady Keile.
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  5

  Virginia awoke slowly, to a quite unaccustomed mood of achievement. She felt purposeful and strong, two such alien sensations that it was worth lying for a little, quietly, to savour them. Pillowed in Lady Keile’s incomparably comfortable spare bed, lapped in hemstitched linen and cloudy blankets, she watched the early sunshine of another perfect summer morning seep in long strands of gold through the leafy branches of the chestnut tree. The bad things were over, the dreaded hurdles somehow cleared, and in a couple of hours she and the children would be on their way. She told herself that after last night she would never be afraid to tackle anything, no problem was insurmountable, no problem too knotty. She let her imagination move cautiously forward to the weeks ahead, to the pitfalls of coping with Cara and Nicholas single-handed, the discomfort and inconvenience of the little house she had so recklessly rented for them, and still her good spirits remained undismayed. She had turned a corner. From now on everything was going to be different.

  It was half past seven. She got up, revelling in the fine weather, the sound of bird-song, the pleasant, distant hum of traffic. She bathed and dressed and packed and stripped her bed and went downstairs.

  Nanny and the children always had breakfast in the nursery and Lady Keile hers on a tray in her bedroom, but this was a perfectly ordered household and Virginia found that coffee had been set out for her on the dining-room hotplate, and a single place laid at the head of the polished table.

  She drank two cups of scalding black coffee and ate toast and marmalade. Then she took the key from the table to the hall and let herself out of the front door into the quiet morning streets and walked down to the small old-fashioned gro cer’s patronized by Lady Keile. There she laid in sufficient provisions to start them off when they eventually got back to Bosithick. Bread and butter and bacon and eggs and coffee and cocoa, and baked beans (which she knew Nicholas adored, but Nanny had never approved of) and tomato soup and chocolate biscuits. Milk and vegetables they would have to find when they got down there, meat and fish could come later. She paid for all this, and the grocer packed it for her in a stout cardboard carton and she walked back to Melton Gardens with her weighty load carried before her in both arms.

  She found the children and Lady Keile downstairs; no sign of Nanny. But the small suitcases, doubtless perfectly packed, were lined up in the hall, and Virginia dumped the carton of groceries down beside them.

  “Hallo, Mummy!”

  “Hallo.” She kissed them both. They were clean and tidy, ready for their journey, Cara in a blue cotton dress and Nicholas in shorts and a striped shirt, his dark hair lately flattened by a hairbrush. “What have you been doing?” he wanted to know.

  “I’ve been buying some groceries. We probably won’t have time to go shopping when we get to Penzance; it would be terrible if we didn’t have anything to eat.”

  “I didn’t know till this morning when Cara told me. I didn’t know till I woke up that we were going in the train.”

  “I’m sorry. You were asleep last night when I came in to tell you and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “I wish you had. I didn’t know until breakfast.” He was very resentful.

  Smiling at him, Virginia looked up at her mother-in-law. Lady Keile was drawn and pale. Otherwise she looked, as always, perfectly groomed, quite in charge of the situation. Virginia wondered if she had slept at all.

  “You should telephone for a taxi,” said Lady Keile. “You don’t want to risk missing the train. It’s always best to be on the early side. There’s a number by the telephone.”

  Wishing that she had thought of this herself Virginia went to do as she was told. The clock in the hall struck a quarter past nine. In ten minutes’ time the taxi was there and they were ready to leave.

  “But we have to say goodbye to Nanny!” said Cara.

  Virginia said, “Yes, of course. Where is Nanny?”

  “She’s in the nursery.” Cara started for the stairs, but Virginia said, “No.”

  Cara turned and stared, shocked by the unaccustomed tone of her mother’s voice.

  “But we have to say goodbye.”

  “Of course. Nanny will come down and see you off. I’ll go up now and tell her we’re just on our way. You get everything together.”

  She found Nanny determinedly occupied in some entirely unnecessary task.

  “Nanny, we’re just going.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “The children want to say goodbye.”

  Silence.

  Last night Virginia had been sorry for her, had, in a funny way, respected her. But now all she wanted to do was take Nanny by her shoulders and shake her till her stupid head fell off. “Nanny, this is ridiculous. You can’t let it end this way. Come downstairs and say goodbye to them.”

  It was the first direct order she had ever given to Nanny. The first, she thought, and the last. Like Cara, Nanny was obviously shaken. For a moment she stalled, her mouth worked, she seemed to be trying to think up some excuse. Virginia caught her eye and held it. Nanny tried to stare her out, but was defeated, her eyes slid away. It was the final triumph.

  “Very well, madam,” said Nanny and followed Virginia back down to the hall, where the children rushed at her in the most gratifying way, hugged her and kissed her as though she were the only person in the world they loved, and then, with this demonstration of affection safely over, ran down the steps and across the pavement and into the waiting taxi.

  “Goodbye,” said Virginia to her mother-in-law. There was nothing more to be said. They kissed once more, leaning cheeks, kissing the air. “And goodbye, Nanny.” But Nanny was already on her way up to the nursery again, fumbling for her handkerchief and blowing her nose. Only her legs were visible, treading upstairs, and the next moment she had reached the turn of the landing and disappeared.

  She need have had no fear about her children’s behaviour. The novelty of the train journey did not excite, but silenced them. They had not often been taken on holiday, and never to the seaside, and when they travelled to London to stay with their grandmother had been bundled into the night train already dressed in their pyjamas and had slept the journey away.

  Now, they stared from the window at the racing countryside as though they had neither of them ever seen fields or farms or cows or towns before. After a little, when the charm of this wore off, Nicholas opened the present Virginia had bought for him at Paddington and smiled with satisfaction when he saw the little red tractor.

  He said, “It’s like the Kirkton one. Mr. McGregor had a Massey Fergusson just like this.” He spun the wheels and made tractor noises in the back of his throat, running the toy up and down the prickly British Railway upholstery.

  But Cara did not even open her comic. It lay folded on her lap, and she continued to stare out of the window, her bulging forehead leaning against the glass, her eyes intent behind her spectacles, missing nothing.

  At half past twelve they went for lunch and this was another adventure, lurching down the corridor, rushing through the scary connections before the carriages came apart. The dining-car they found enthralling, the tables and the little lights, the indulgent waiter and the grown-upness of being handed a menu.

  “And what would madam like?” the waiter asked, and Cara went pink with embarrassed giggles when she realized that he was speaking to her, and had to be helped to order tomato soup and fried fish, and to decide the world-shaking problem of whether she would eat a white ice-cream or a pink.

  Watching their faces Virginia thought: Because it’s new and exciting to them, it’s new and exciting for me. The most trivial, ordinary occurrences will become special because I shall see them through Cara’s eyes. And if Nicholas asks me questions that I can’t answer, I shall have to go and look them up and I shall become informed and knowledgeable and a brilliant conversationalist.

  The idea was funny. She laughed suddenly, and Cara stared and then laughed back, not knowing what the joke was, but delighted to be sharing it w
ith her mother.

  * * *

  “When did you first come on this train down to Cornwall?” Cara asked.

  “When I was seventeen. Ten years ago.”

  “Didn’t you come when you were a little girl my age?”

  “No, I didn’t. I used to go to an aunt in Sussex.”

  Now, it was afternoon and they had the compartment to themselves. Nicholas, charmed by the adventure of the corridor, had elected to stay out there, and could be seen straddle-legged, trying to adjust his small weight to the rocking of the train.

  “Tell me.”

  “What? About Sussex?”

  “No. About coming to Cornwall.”

  “Well, we just came. My mother and I, to stay with Alice and Tom Lingard. I’d just left school, and Alice wrote to invite us, and my mother thought it would be nice to have a holiday.”

  “Was it a summer holiday?”

  “No. It was Easter. Spring time. All the daffodils were out and the railway cuttings were thick with primroses.”

  “Was it hot?”

  “Not really. But sunny, and much warmer than Scotland. In Scotland we never really have a proper spring, do we? One day it’s winter and the next day all the leaves are out on the trees and it’s summer time. At least that’s the way it’s always seemed to me. In Cornwall the spring is quite a long season … that’s why they’re able to grow all the lovely flowers and send them to Covent Garden to be sold.”

  “Did you swim?”

  “No. The sea would have been icy.”

  “But in Aunt Alice’s pool?”

  “She didn’t have a pool in those days.”

  “Will we swim in Aunt Alice’s pool?”

  “Sure to.”

  “Will we swim in the sea?”

  “Yes, we’ll find a lovely beach and swim there.”

  “I … I’m not very good at swimming.”

  “It’s easier in the sea than in ordinary water. The salt helps you to float.”

  “But don’t the waves splash into your face?”