Blue Bedroom and Other Stories

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  Ian said that no, he had never been to Budleigh Salterton.

  “Pretty place. Good golf course. Of course, Edgar was never much of a man for golf. Tennis when we were younger, and then he took up bowls. Ever played bowls, Ian?”

  Ian said that no, he had never played bowls.

  “No,” said Edwin. “You wouldn’t have. Cricket’s yer game, isn’t it?”

  “When I can get the chance.”

  “Yer probably pretty busy.”

  “Yes, pretty busy.”

  “Play at weekends, I expect.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I watched the Test Match on my television set.” He took another cautious sip at his Tio Pepe, his lips puckered. “Didn’t think much of the Pakistanis.”

  Jill, discreetly, got to her feet and went downstairs to the kitchen. When she called to them that dinner was ready, Edwin was still talking about cricket, recalling some match in 1956 that he had particularly enjoyed. The drone of this long story was stilled by her interruption. Presently the two men came down the stairs. Jill was at the table, lighting the candles.

  “Never been in a house like this,” observed Edwin, sitting down and unfolding his napkin. “How much did yer pay for it?”

  Ian, after a tiny hesitation, told him.

  “When did yer buy it?”

  “When we were married. Three years ago.”

  “Yer didn’t do too badly.”

  “It was in rotten shape. It’s still not great shakes, but we’ll get it straight in time.”

  Jill found Edwin’s disconcerting stare directed at herself. “Yer mother-in-law tells me yer having another baby.”

  “Oh. Well … yes, I am.”

  “Not meant to be a secret, is it?”

  “No. No, of course not.” She picked up the cassoulet in oven-gloved hands and pushed it at him. “It’s chicken.”

  “Always fond of chicken. We used to have chicken in India during the war…” He was off again. “Funny thing, how good the Indians were at cooking chicken. Suppose they had a lot of practice. Yer weren’t allowed to eat the cows. Sacred, you see…”

  Ian opened the wine, and after that things got a little easier. Edwin refused the fruit salad, but ate most of the Brie. And all the time he talked, seeming to need no sort of response, merely a nod of the head or an attentive smile. He talked about India, about a friend he had made in Bombay; about a tennis match he had once played in Camberley; about Gladys’s aunt, who had taken up loomweaving and had won a prize at the County Show.

  The long, hot evening wore on. The sun slid out of the hazed city sky, and left it stained with pink. Edwin was now complaining of his daily help’s inability to fry eggs properly, and all at once Ian excused himself, got to his feet, and took himself off to the kitchen to make coffee.

  Edwin, interrupted in his free flow, watched him go. “That yer kitchen?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s have a look at it.” And before she could stop him, he had hauled himself to his feet and was headed after Ian. She followed him, but he would not be diverted upstairs.

  “Not much room, have you?”

  “It’s all right,” said Ian. Edwin went to the French windows and peered out through the grimy glass.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s…” Jill joined him, gazing in an agonised fashion at the familiar horror below. “It’s the garden. Only we don’t use it because it’s rather nasty. The cats come and make messes. And anyway, we can’t get to it. As you can see,” she finished tamely.

  “What about the basement?”

  “The basement’s let. To a friend. Called Delphine.”

  “Doesn’t she mind living cheek-by-jowl with a tip like that?”

  “She’s—she’s not here very often. She’s usually in the country.”

  “Hmm.” There was a long, disconcerting silence. Edwin looked at the tree, his eyes travelling from its grubby roots to the topmost branches. His nose was like a pointer and all the sinews in his neck stood out like ropes.

  “Why don’t yer cut the tree down?”

  Jill sent an agonised glance in Ian’s direction. Behind Edwin’s back, he threw his eyes to heaven, but he said, reasonably enough, “It would be rather difficult. As you can see, it’s very large.”

  “Horrible, having a tree like that in yer garden.”

  “Yes,” agreed Jill. “It’s not very convenient.”

  “Why don’t yer do something about it?”

  Ian said quickly, “Coffee’s ready. Let’s go upstairs.”

  Edwin turned on him. “I said, why don’t yer do something about it?”

  “I will,” said Ian. “One day.”

  “No good waiting for one day. One day yer’ll be as old as me and the tree will still be there.”

  “Coffee?” said Ian.

  “And the cats are unhealthy. Unhealthy when children are about the place.”

  “I don’t let Robbie out in the garden,” Jill told him. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to, because there is no way we can get to it. I think there used to be a balcony and steps down to the garden, but they’d gone before we bought the house, and somehow … well, we’ve never got around to doing anything about replacing them.” She was determined that she would not make it sound as though she and Ian were penniless and pathetic. “I mean, there’s been so much else to do.”

  Edwin said “Hmm” again. He stood, his hands in his pockets, gazing through the window, and after a bit Jill wondered if he was drifting off into some sort of a coma. But then he became brisk, took his hands out of his pockets, turned to Ian and said, testily, “I thought you were making us coffee, Ian. How long do we have to wait for it?”

  He stayed for another hour, and his endless flow of deadly anecdote never ceased. At last the clock from a neighbouring church began to chime eleven o’clock, and Edwin set down his coffee cup, glanced at his own watch, and announced that it was time for Ian to drive him back to his hotel. They all went downstairs. Ian found his car keys and opened the door. Jill gave Edwin his stick.

  “Been a pleasant evening. Liked seeing yer house.”

  She kissed him again. He went out and down the steps and crossed the pavement. Ian, trying not to look too eager, stood with the door of the car open. The old man cautiously got in, stowed his legs and his stick. Ian shut the door and went around to the driving seat. Jill, smiling still, waved them off. When the car disappeared around the corner at the end of the street, and not before, she let the smile drop, and went inside, exhausted, to start in on the washing up.

  * * *

  In bed that night, “He wasn’t too bad,” said Jill.

  “I suppose not. But he takes everything so for granted, as though we all owed him something. He could at least have brought you a single red rose, or a bar of chocolate.”

  “He’s just not that sort of a person.”

  “And his stories! Poor old Edwin, I think he was born a bore. He’s so terribly good at it. He probably Bored for his school, and went onto Bore for England. Probably captained the team.”

  “At least we didn’t have to think of things to say.”

  “It was a delicious dinner, and you were sweet to him.” He yawned enormously and heaved himself over, longing for sleep. “Anyway, we did it. That’s the last of it.”

  * * *

  But in that Ian was wrong. That was not the last of it, although two weeks passed by before anything happened. A Friday again, and as usual Jill was in the kitchen, getting supper ready, when Ian returned home from the office.

  “Hello, darling.”

  He shut the door, dumped his briefcase, came to kiss her. He pulled out a chair and sat down, and they faced each other across the table. He said, “The most extraordinary thing has happened.”

  Jill was instantly apprehensive. “Nice extraordinary or horrid extraordinary?”

  He grinned, put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a letter. He tossed it across to her. “Read that.�
��

  Mystified, Jill picked it up and unfolded it. It was a long letter and typewritten. If was from Edwin.

  My dear Ian

  This is to thank you for a pleasant evening with you both, and the excellent dinner, and to say how much I appreciated your motoring me to and fro. I must say that it goes against the grain, being forced to pay exorbitant taxi fares. I much enjoyed meeting your child and seeing your house. You have, however, an obvious problem with your garden, and I have given the matter some thought.

  Your first priority is obviously to get rid of the tree. On no account must you tackle it yourself. There are a number of professional firms in London who are qualified to deal with such work and I have taken the liberty of instructing three of them to call on you, at your convenience, and give you estimates. Once the tree has gone, you will have more idea of the possibilities of your plot, but in the meantime I would suggest the following:

  The letter continued, by now reading like a builder’s specification. Existing walls made good, re-pointed, and painted white. A trellis fence, for privacy, erected along the top of these walls. The ground cleared and levelled, and laid with flags—a drain to be discreetly incorporated in one corner for easy cleaning. Outside the kitchen window a wooden deck—preferably teak—to be erected, supported by steel joists, and with an open wooden staircase giving access to the garden below.

  I think [Edwin continued] this more or less covers the structural necessities. You may want to construct a raised flower bed along one of the walls, or make a small rockery around the stump of the removed tree, but this is obviously up to yourselves.

  Which leave us with the problem of the cats. Again, I have made some enquiries and discovered that there is an excellent repellant which is safe to use where there are children about. A squirt or two of this should do the trick, and once the soil and grass have been covered by flags, I see no reason why the cats should return for any function, natural or otherwise.

  This is obviously going to cost quite a lot of money. I realise that, with inflation and the rising cost of living, it is not always easy for a young couple, however hard they work, to make ends meet. And I should like to help. I have, in fact, made provision for you in my Will, but it occurs to me that it would be much more in keeping to hand the money over to you now. Then you will be able to deal with your garden, and I shall have the pleasure of seeing it completed, hopefully before I, too, follow my good friend Edgar, and pass on.

  Finally, your mother indicated to me that you had given up a pleasurable weekend in order to cheer me up on the evening of Edgar’s funeral. Your kindness equals her own, and I am fortunate to be in a financial position when I am able, at last, to repay my debts.

  With best wishes,

  Yours

  Edwin

  Edwin. She could hardly see his spiky signature because her eyes were full of tears. She imagined him, sitting in his dark little house in Woking, absorbed in their problems, working them all out; taking time to look up suitable firms, probably making endless telephone calls, doing little sums, forgetting no tiny detail, taking trouble …

  “Well?” said Ian, gently.

  The tears had started to slide down her cheeks. She put up a hand and tried to wipe them away.

  “I never thought. I never thought he’d do anything like this. Oh, Ian, and we’ve been so horrible about him.”

  “You were never horrible. You wouldn’t know how to be horrible about anybody.”

  “I … I never imagined he had any money at all.”

  “I don’t think any of us did. Not that sort of money.”

  “How can we ever thank him?”

  “By doing what he says. By doing just exactly what he’s told us to do, and then asking him around to the garden-warming. We’ll throw a little party.” He grinned. “It’ll make a nice change.”

  She looked out of the window, through the grimy glass. A paper bag had found its way into the garden from some neighbouring dustbin, and the nastiest of the torn cats, the one with the torn ear, was sitting on top of the wall, eyeing her.

  She met his cold green stare with equanimity. She said, “I’ll be able to hang out my washing. I shall get some tubs, and plant bulbs for the spring, and pink ivy-leafed geranium in the summer. And Robbie can play there and we’ll have a sandpit. And if the deck is big enough, I can even put the baby out there, in the pram. Oh, Ian, isn’t it going to be wonderful? I won’t ever have to go to the park again. Just think.”

  “You know what I think?” said Ian. “I think it would be a good idea to go and give old Edwin a ring.”

  So they went together to the telephone and dialled Edwin’s number, and stood very close, with their arms around each other, waiting for the old gentleman to answer their call.

  The House on the Hill

  The village was miniature. Oliver had never, in all the ten years of his life, seen such a tiny place. Six grey granite houses, a pub, an ancient church, a vicarage, and a little shop. Outside this was parked a rackety-looking truck, and somewhere a dog was barking, but apart from that, there did not seem to be anybody about.

  Carrying the basket and Sarah’s shopping list, he opened the door of the shop, over which was written JAMES THOMAS, PURVEYOR, TOBACCONIST, and went in, down two steps, and the two men who stood on either side of the counter turned their heads to look at him.

  He shut the door behind him. “Won’t keep you a moment,” said the shopkeeper, presumably James Thomas, a small, bald gentleman in a brown cardigan. Quite an ordinary sort of person. The other man, who had purchased and was now paying for an enormous amount of groceries, was, however, not ordinary in the very least, but so tall that, standing, he had to stoop slightly in order not to brain himself on the overhead beams. He wore a leather jacket and patched jeans and huge workman’s boots, and his hair was red and so was his beard. Oliver, knowing that it was rude to stare, stared, and the man stared back from a pair of bright, pale blue eyes, unblinking and flinty. It was unnerving. Oliver tried a feeble smile, but this roused no response, and the bearded man said nothing. After a moment, he turned to the counter, feeling in his back pocket for a wad of notes. Mr. Thomas rang up his account and handed it over.

  “Seven pounds fifty, Ben.”

  His customer paid the money, then piled one laden grocery carton onto the other, lifted the pair of them with ease, and turned towards the door. Oliver went to open it for him. As he went through the door, the bearded man glanced down. “Thanks.” His voice was deep as a gong. Ben. You could imagine him growling orders from the poop deck of some pirate ship, or rallying a murderous band of wreckers. Oliver watched as he loaded his cartons over the tail-gate of the truck, then climbed into the driving seat and started up the engine. With a roar of exhaust and a spatter of chippings, the scarred vehicle took off. Oliver closed the door and turned back into the shop.

  “What can I do for you, young man?”

  Oliver handed him the list. “It’s for Mrs. Rudd.”

  Mr. Thomas looked at him, smiling. “You must be Sarah’s young brother. She told me you were coming to stay. When did you arrive?”

  “Last night, I came on the train. I had my appendix out, so I’ve come to stay with Sarah for two weeks till I go back to school.”

  “Live in London, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Putney.”

  “You’ll soon get strong down here. First time you’ve been, isn’t it? How’d you like the valley?”

  “It’s beautiful. I walked down from the farmhouse.”

  “See any badgers?”

  “Badgers?” He did not know if Mr. Thomas was teasing him or not. “No.”

  “Walk down the valley at half-light and you’ll see badgers. And you go down the cliffs and you can watch the seals. How’s Sarah keeping?”

  “She’s all right.” At least, he supposed that she was all right. She was due to have her first baby in a couple of weeks, and it had been something of a shock to find his slender, pretty sister swollen to whale
like proportions. Not that she didn’t still look pretty, just enormous.

  “You’ll be helping Will on the farm.”

  “I was up early to watch him milking.”

  “We’ll make a farmer of you yet. Now, let’s see … pound of flour, jar of instant coffee, three pounds of granulated sugar…” He packed the basket. “Not too heavy for you?”

  “No, I’ll manage.” He paid, from Sarah’s purse, and was given a bar of milk chocolate as a present. “Thank you very much.”

  “Keep you going that walk up the hill to the farm. Take care, now.”

  * * *

  Carrying the basket, Oliver left the village, crossed the main road, and started up the narrow lane that wound up the valley back to Will Rudd’s farm. It was a pleasant walk, because a small stream kept the road company, sometimes changing sides, so that every now and then there was a little stone bridge, good for leaning over and looking for fish and frogs. It was open, moorland country, patched with tawny bracken and gorse. The stout gorse stems were the fuel for Sarah’s fire—those, and scraps of driftwood which she collected on her walks by the sea. The driftwood spat and smelt of tar, but the furze burned cleanly, to a white-hot ash.

  Halfway up the valley, he reached the single lonely tree. An ancient oak, which had somehow dug its roots into the bank of the stream, defied the winds of centuries and grown, malformed and twisted, to venerable maturity. Bare-branched, its fallen leaves lay thick on the ground, and, coming down the hill, Oliver had kicked at these with the toes of his rubber boots. But now, coming upon them, he stopped dead in horrified revulsion, for in the middle of the leaves lay the carcass of a rabbit, newly killed, with fur torn and horrible red guts spilling from the wound in its belly.

  A fox, perhaps, disturbed in the middle of his snack. Perhaps, at this very minute, he was waiting, watching from the depths of the bracken with cold and hungry eyes. Oliver glanced about, warily, but nothing moved, only the wind, stirring the leaves. He felt fearful. Something impelled him to look up, and there, high in the pale November sky, he saw a hawk hovering, waiting to pounce. Beautiful and deadly. The country was cruel. Death, birth, survival were all about him. He watched the hawk for a little, and then, giving the dead rabbit a wide berth, hurried on up the hill.