by Robin Jarvis
A magnificent four-poster bed took up most of the room and was covered in a fine canopy of creamy muslin. At its foot, from a silver incense burner, streamed a steady thread of green smoke, it was this that was responsible for the overpowering smell.
"Confounded contraption," Miss Boston chirped, blinking and wiping her eyes, "never did like the wretched things."
"You'll get used to it," assured Judith. "Come right in and close the door after you—I won't allow draughts of any kind."
Miss Boston obeyed then walked up to the bed. Through the fine muslin mist, she saw amid the great expanse of the covers a small figure lying on its side, its head turned from view. "Patricia?" Miss Boston began. "Is that you?"
Very slowly, and with the greatest of care, the figure moved. Patricia Gunning was a frail woman of eighty-three years. Her face was shrunken like an apple that had been kept too long and her limbs were brittle sticks. With difficulty she lifted her head and the long, silver hair which had been painstakingly arranged over the pillows floated about her shoulders. It had the same quality to it that is found in old mirrors, being a faded, tarnished glow and was more gossamer-like than the muslin which surrounded her.
"Alice!" came her sweet, tinkling voice. "Oh Alice, I'm so pleased to see you!" She reached out her thin arms in greeting and Miss Boston drew the material aside to hold her.
Judith Deacon watched icily as the two friends hugged one another and folded her arms.
"Dear Patricia!" exclaimed Miss Boston. "It really is good to see you again."
Her friend sank back on to the pillows and smiled. Her eyes were still the clearest and loveliest blue that Miss Boston had ever seen. "I was not sure if you would come," she sighed. "How is your enchanting Whitby? Do you still climb the abbey steps before breakfast? You look marvellous—a real tonic to me."
"Well it looks as though you could do with one," observed Miss Boston truthfully. "I think we could start by opening a window or two—the atmosphere really is thick in here, enough to make anyone feel poorly. I don't know how you can breathe."
Judith Deacon moved in front of the nearest window, barring it with her amazonian body. "No draughts!" she reiterated. "The temperature must be kept at a constant and the incense is vital to the regime I have instigated solely for Mrs Gunning's benefit."
Miss Boston raised her eyebrows, "Well I shall just have to take matters in hand now—won't I Patricia dear? Fresh air cures everything—there's nothing wrong with you a nice walk around the park wouldn't chase away."
The woman on the bed closed her eyes, "Oh Alice," she breathed, "please don't try to jolly me along. I know how ill I am—I'm dying, there's no escaping that fact. I haven't got much time left on this earth."
Miss Boston frowned. "Now that's enough of that talk," she said firmly. "Is this the same Patricia Gunning who climbed over the roof of the ladies' college for an illicit rendezvous with her future husband?"
Patricia gave a feeble laugh. "Oh what a night that was," she chuckled. "What a surprise my darling Walter had when he saw me shinny down the drain-pipe. 'Not the behaviour of a young lady' he said—oh he was so gloriously pompous in those days." She propped herself up on one elbow and gave Miss Boston's hand a slight squeeze. "How you've cheered me," she told her, "a good friend you've been to me, Alice—thank you for that."
"Keep your gratitude," replied her guest, "I don't want it yet. There'll be plenty of time still, you'll see."
Patricia said nothing, she lowered her eyes and let go of her hand.
At once, the ever-watchful Judith came forward. "Time for your medication, Mrs Gunning," she said taking a large glass bottle from the bedside table.
Miss Boston watched in silence as the nurse poured a small quantity of thick, brown liquid on to a spoon. "Surely that isn't one of your own brews, Patricia?" she asked in amazement.
"Mrs Gunning's potions are better than anything from the chemist," the nurse answered for her.
Miss Boston couldn't believe it. "But don't you think you ought to try conventional medicine?" she asked. "The old recipes are fine for headaches and rheumatism, but to rely on them now—isn't that being rather foolish? I always envied you your powers, Patricia, but this is madness."
"We know what we're doing!" rapped the nurse. "Now, open wide Mrs Gunning."
For an instant Miss Boston thought she caught a peculiar, almost frightened look on her friend's face as she opened her mouth.
"There's a good girl," said Miss Deacon inspecting the spoon, "all gone now."
"Thank you," muttered Patricia slowly.
The nurse screwed the top back on the bottle and replaced it on the table. Miss Boston was bewildered. "What sort of silliness is this?" she cried abruptly. "Patricia you must see a proper doctor—you're seriously ill!"
"The doctor has been to see Mrs Gunning," the nurse informed her. "Unfortunately he said there was nothing he could do. This at least gives her a certain amount of relief."
Miss Boston was appalled. "Nonsense!" she declared. "What kind of a nurse are you?"
"A caring one," came the reply.
"Alice," Patricia broke in, "tell me all your news. Did you really adopt those children you wrote to me about? I hope my influence helped. Did you have a good Hallowe'en? Did the children bob for apples and hollow out turnips—were there pomegranates and chestnuts? Are you still practising the craft or is it too much for you now? I haven't woven so much as a charm for warts in months." She spoke hurriedly, as if trying to defuse the situation and Miss Boston allowed herself to be drawn into the small talk for her friend's sake.
They exchanged a few, brief sentences then Miss Deacon checked her watch and announced that it was time for her patient's nap. "Now, you know the routine," she said in a no-nonsense voice best suited to a nursery, "four o'clock till six we have our rest." Reaching down she swiped the pillow from under the woman's head and tucked the bedclothes tightly round her.
Miss Boston's chins wobbled in surprise. "But I've only just arrived," she protested, "surely a few more minutes won't matter?"
The nurse threw her a vicious look and turned to her patient with her arms folded. "Mrs Gunning," she began crossly, "I cannot and will not have your routine disrupted in this manner. You employed me to look after you to the best of my abilities. Would you kindly tell your friend not to interfere in matters she is patently ignorant of? If she questions my authority once more I shall pack up and leave—is that what you want?"
"No!" Patricia cried, her whole body trembling. "Please Judith, I'm sure Alice meant no harm." She placed her shaking hand on Miss Boston's arm. "If you love me, do as she says," she implored, "do this for me I beg you."
Miss Boston patted the tiny hand, disturbed by the influence the nurse had over her friend. "Anything you say Patricia, dear," she said, not wishing to distress her any further.
"Promise, Alice," Mrs Gunning insisted, "that while you're here you'll follow Judith's instructions regarding me, however—unorthodox you might think them."
"I promise," Miss Boston relented. "I suppose you know what you're doing. I'm just happy to see you again."
Patricia smiled and glanced up at the nurse before sinking back in relief.
"Time to go," Miss Deacon told the visitor. "She needs to rest now."
Miss Boston rose from the bed where she had been sitting and Judith drew back the canopy. "When can I see her again?" she inquired.
The nurse ushered her to the door. "I will permit one more visit this evening," she told her. "Now, perhaps you would care to go to your room."
"Yes, I suppose I could unpack," said Miss Boston thoughtfully.
"If you really think that will be necessary. Your dinner will be in the dining-room at seven o' clock sharp."
Before the door was closed on her, Miss Boston took one final look at her friend. The figure on the bed seemed to be only a shadow and the muslin which enveloped her the first manifestation of that other, grimmer veil, which would soon fall between them.
/> The guest-room which had been made ready on the second floor was as comfortable a bedchamber as she could wish. The walls were a pale shade of lemon and the prints on the walls were pretty views of Italy. Fresh flowers had been arranged in a crystal vase and Miss Boston was grateful for their fragrance after the choking fumes of the sickroom. Her case lay on the bed where Rook had left it but on consideration she decided not to touch it just yet. Instead, she opened the window and let the last weak rays of sunlight shine on her face.
"Well, Alice," she told herself, "what are you going to do now?" The old lady drummed her fingers on the window-sill, her thoughts smouldering on the formidable nurse. She reminded her of several notorious landladies that she knew in Whitby—but her aggressive manner far exceeded anything they had been rumoured to display to their guests. "Judith Deacon is rather a mystery," she mused, "I wonder what possessed Patricia to employ her in the first place?"
When she eventually unpacked and placed all her things neatly in drawers or on hangers, she decided that it was time to explore the rest of the house. "After all," she told herself, "I can't be expected to sit here and do nothing until dinner surely?"
Patricia and her late husband had only bought the house eight years ago, so it was all new to Miss Boston. The last time she had visited they had a place in Knightsbridge. Mrs Gunning had certainly married well for Walter had been extremely wealthy.
The old lady left her room and descended to the first floor landing once again. At the top of the staircase she saw a telephone tucked into a niche which she had not noticed earlier. "Perhaps I should call Edith," she thought. "No, the post office will have closed long ago. You really must get a telephone installed at the cottage, Alice! I won't be able to get in touch until Monday morning now—botheration!"
As she passed the door of the sickroom Miss Boston was tempted to press an ear to it, but she resisted the urge and trotted down to the hall.
"I suppose there must be a library in here," she mumbled, "Walter was a prolific reader." For nearly an hour Miss Boston familiarised herself with the layout of the ground floor. There was an impressive dining-room that contained a long oak table which stretched from one end to the other and could easily seat at least twenty guests. Beyond that there were five other rooms but everything inside them was covered by dust sheets and this fact alone gave Miss Boston dreadful misgivings—it was as though her friend were already dead. There was something extremely wrong about the entire business and that frightening nurse was at the centre of it all.
Aimlessly, Miss Boston went from room to room but never wearied of peeping beneath the dust covers to see what was hidden beneath.
Patricia had exquisite taste and had furnished the house with her own individual style. Miss Boston often wondered what Walter had thought about "Patricia's little hobby" as she always used to call it. Did he mind the paintings of the moon and stars that covered the walls of the sitting-room? And what about the special carving Patricia had commissioned from one of Britain's finest sculptors? It was a lighthearted tribute to her particular interest and hung above the fireplace; wooden cats, toads and mice swirled about in a semi-circle that also contained other objects associated with the craft. There were cauldrons, pointed hats, magic wands, charmed plants, corn dollies, amulets and even a broomstick.
Miss Boston grinned wryly and draped the sheet back over the carving. "What a gaudy display," she muttered, "quite ostentatious—dear oh dear."
Eventually she found her way to the library, it was a lovely room, books of all shapes and sizes obscured the walls and the old lady spent some time poring over a few of them. When she glanced up at the small clock on the table it was half-past six and she slid the volume she had been reading back on to the shelf.
"Soon be time for dinner," she observed, "I must go and freshen up. What must I look like? A brisk wipe over with a flannel should invigorate me and chase the journey's grime away." And with that she returned to her room.
At seven o'clock Miss Boston was seated at the long dining table while the butler served her dinner. It was one of the most disheartening meals she had ever eaten. Sitting alone in the middle of that immense table was bad enough but the food itself was drab and barely palatable. First of all, Rook brought in the soup which was a watery thin liquid straight from a tin and had not even been heated properly. Miss Boston was at a loss to tell what flavour it was supposed to be, but she forced it down and gave the butler a gratified smile.
"I take it Miss Deacon will not be joining me?" she said.
"No," came the pert reply, "she always dines with the mistress in her bedchamber."
"Such devotion," the old lady commented, tentatively sipping the lukewarm soup. "And do you cook the meals for them as well?"
"Miss Deacon sees to both the mistress's and her own requirements, madam," he said. "I am left to fend for myself. We have had no outside company for many months now—not since Cook was dismissed."
"Don't you think that rather odd? I mean, what is your opinion of this private nurse? Isn't she too efficient?"
His mouth twitched into what looked like a sneer but it was difficult to tell with him. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, madam," he replied. "The mistress knows what she is doing—but I haven't seen her for God knows how long. What concern is it to me? I am here merely to serve—I know my place. She tells the nurse and the nurse tells me."
Miss Boston managed to finish the soup and laid her spoon down in relief. Unfortunately she could not stop herself grimacing as the last of the tepid substance slid slimily down her throat.
Rook eyed her suspiciously as he removed the bowl and went to fetch the main course. Miss Boston sniffed. Surely she detected a decidedly alcoholic smell? When the man returned she was even more certain of it.
After a full fifteen minutes, Rook came, staggering into the dining-room wheeling a trolley before him. His legs seemed unable to co-ordinate properly and he tripped more than once on the way.
The main course consisted of cold potted meat and a rather limp-looking salad. Rook dumped the plate unceremoniously before Miss Boston and hovered behind her while she picked through the sad lettuce leaves with her fork, thankful that there were no naked flames nearby—for Rook was definitely drunk! Walter Gunning always kept a good cellar and the butler, it seemed, was fond of sampling it—tonight he had settled on an excellent Napoleon brandy. The old lady wrinkled her nose—the atmosphere in the dining-room was becoming quite like Christmas.
Miss Boston ate as much as she could and leaned back in her chair. At once Rook snatched the plate away, muttering at what she had left, and sent the whole thing clattering back on the trolley. Lettuce leaves flew everywhere.
Swaying unsteadily, Rook glared at the carpet where they had fallen and bent down to retrieve them. After falling on his face he abandoned the attempt and stuck his long nose in the air.
"Would madam care for des...deshert?" he slurred, grabbing hold of the trolley for support.
Miss Boston blinked at him. "Er, no thank you," she answered.
Rook drew himself up and fixed her with one bleary eye. "And why not?" he demanded. "What'sh wrong with it I... I should like to know?"
"Nothing I'm sure," said the old lady feeling rather awkward, "but if you insist, I will have some please."
He nodded his head and rattled the trolley towards the door. "Comesh down 'ere without telling no one then turns her nose up at me des...des... at me pudding."
Miss Boston sighed and wondered what the next course would prove to be. "I dare say it is very dull for the poor man, stuck in here with very little to do all day but to help himself to the cellar—tut, tut. Does he make this a regular occurrence? The racks must be very empty by now if he does."
Another fifteen minutes dragged by. Rook was undoubtedly fortifying himself with another generous helping of brandy. When he returned he was practically riding on the trolley and brought it to a thunderous halt right beside the old lady's chair.
"'Ere it is," he
declared. "Get your false teeth round this madam."
On to the table he tossed a bowl of tinned peaches, seized a small jug and poured a quantity of cream carelessly over everywhere except where it was wanted. Miss Boston gritted her teeth as it splashed on to her skirt and blouse and her jowls quivered indignantly. That was too much! She jumped up and threw down her napkin.
"Strangely enough," she stormed, "I actually prefer the cream on the peaches—not on me. You can be sure I'll inform the mistress of the house about this atrocious behaviour. I have never seen such a disgraceful exhibition! You, sir, are drunk as a lord—I suggest you go and make yourself a strong cup of coffee forthwith! And I'll have you know that all my teeth are my own—goodnight!"
She raged out of the dining-room, leaving Rook gaping after her. "Good grashush," he burbled, smiling for the first time in weeks, "what a smashing temper the old crock has."
Miss Boston spent the next half-hour sponging her clothes and shaking her head. When a knock sounded at her door she almost missed it.
"Miss Boston!" came a gruff voice.
The old lady hurried to the door and opened it—Judith Deacon was standing there impatiently. "I trust you dined well," she said.
The old lady was about to tell the nurse what she thought of the butler but decided against it. Not even he deserved the kind of roasting this nightmare woman would dish out. Instead she asked, "May I see Patricia now?"
"Of course you can. She has asked to see you and is waiting. Follow me please."
Miss Boston was led once more to the sickroom, but as soon as she stepped inside she could see that her friend's condition had worsened in the space of only four hours.
