At Monk’s Thatch, the For Sale sign was gone. Ellen opened the gate and went up the brick path. The house was long and low, very old, half-timbered with a thatched roof that hung over the small windows like beetling eyebrows. The door was painted blue, with a brass knocker, and, with some trepidation, she gave this a rap, but then, as she stood there waiting, became aware of the sound of sawing.
Nobody answered the door, so after a little, she followed this sound, and in a yard at the side of the house came upon a figure hard at work. A woman, and instantly recognisable from her appearances on Ellen’s television screen.
Raising her voice, she said, “Hello.”
Thus interrupted, Ruth Sanderford stopped sawing and looked up. For an astonished instant, she stayed as she was, bent over the sawhorse, then straightened up, leaving the saw, which stayed where it was, stuck halfway through an old tree branch. Dusting her hands on the seat of her trousers, she came forward.
“Hello.”
She was a person of great distinction. Tall, slim, strong as a man. Grey hair was drawn back into a knot at the back of her head, and her face was tanned, dark-eyed, cleanly featured. She wore, with her stained trousers, a navy guernsey and a spotted handkerchief knotted around her neck. “Who are you?”
She did not sound rude, but as though she really wanted to know.
“I … I’m Ellen Parry. A friend of Cynthia’s. She told me to come and see you.”
Ruth Sanderford smiled. It was a beautiful smile, warm and friendly. Ellen instantly stopped feeling nervous. “Of course. She told me about you.”
“I only came to say hello. I won’t disturb you if you’re busy.”
“You’re not disturbing me. I’ve just about finished.” She went back to the saw horse, stooped, and gathered up into her capable arms a bundle of newly sawn logs. “I don’t need to do this—I’ve got a store of firewood up to the ceiling—but I’ve been writing for two days, and I find a bit of physical work good therapy. Besides, it’s such a magic morning, it’s amost a crime to stay indoors. Come on in, I’ll give you a cup of coffee.”
She led the way back down the path, freed a hand to turn the latch of the door, and pushed it open with her foot. She was so tall that she had to duck her head in order not to hit it on the lintel, but Ellen, who was a good deal smaller, did not have to duck, and, filled with a sort of amazed relief that the initial introduction was safely over, followed Ruth Sanderford into the house, closing the door behind them.
They had descended two steps straight into a living room, which was so long and spacious that it must surely take up most of the ground floor of the little house. At one end was an open fireplace, at the other a great cherry-wood table. On this stood an open typewriter, boxes of paper, reference books, a mug of sharpened pencils, and a Victorian ewer filled with dried flowers and grasses.
Ellen said, “What a lovely room.”
Her hostess piled the logs into an already brimming basket and turned to face Ellen.
“Sorry about the mess. Like I said, I’ve been working.”
“I don’t think it’s a mess.” Shabby, perhaps, and a bit untidy, but so welcoming, with its book-lined walls and worn old sofas, drawn up either side of the fireplace. As well, there were a great many photographs standing about, and odd pieces of beautiful china. “It’s just the way a room should look. Lived in and warm.” She put her basket on the table. “I brought you something. Marmalade and mincemeat. Not very exciting.”
“Oh, how kind.” She laughed. “A before-Christmas present. And I’ve run out of marmalade. Let’s take it into the kitchen and I’ll put the kettle on.”
Ellen shed her sheepskin coat and followed Ruth through a latched door at the back of the room, into a small and humble kitchen which might once have been a wash-house. Ruth filled the kettle and put it to boil on the gas cooker. She rummaged in a cupboard for coffee and took two mugs from a shelf. She then produced a tin tray with Carlsberg Lager written on it, but had something of a hunt before she found the sugar. Despite the fact that she had brought up four children, she was obviously not the domestic type.
“How long have you been living here?” Ellen asked.
“Oh, a couple of months now. It’s heaven. So peaceful.”
“You’re writing a new novel?”
Ruth grinned wryly. “That’s about it.”
“At the risk of sounding banal, I’ve read all your books and revelled in them. And watched you on television.”
“Oh, dear.”
“You were good.”
“I was asked to do a programme the other day, but somehow, without Cosmo, there didn’t seem much point. We were very much a team. On television, I mean. But actually, now we’re divorced, I think we’re both much happier. And our children are, too. The last time I lunched with him, he told me he was thinking of marrying again. A girl who’s been working for him for the past two years. She’s so nice. She’ll make him a marvellous wife.”
It was a little disconcerting to be so instantly on the receiving end of another woman’s confidences, but she spoke so naturally and warmly that it made what was happening seem perfectly normal, even desirable.
Ruth went on, spooning instant coffee into the mugs, “Do you know, this is the first time in my life I’ve ever lived on my own? I was one of a big family, married at eighteen and started a baby right away. After that, there was never a dull moment. People seem to multiply in the most extraordinary way. I had friends, and Cosmo had friends, and then the children started bringing their friends home, and the friends had friends, and so it went on. I never knew how many people I was expected to produce food for. As I’m not a particularly expert cook, it was usually bowls of spaghetti.” The kettle boiled and she filled the mugs, and picked up the tray. “Come along, let’s go back to the fire.”
They sat, each in a corner of a sagging sofa, and faced one another across the warmth of the blazing fire. Ruth took a mouthful of coffee and then set down the mug on the low table that stood between them. She said, “One of the good things about living alone is that I can cook when I want, and what I want. Work till two in the morning if it suits me, and sleep till ten.” She smiled. “Is Cynthia a friend of long standing?”
“Yes, we were at school together.”
“Where do you live?”
“In the next village.”
“Do you have a family?”
“A husband and a daughter, Vicky. That’s all.”
“Do you know, I’m going to be a grandmother soon. The very idea I find astonishing. It doesn’t seem a moment since my eldest child was born. Life rushes by, doesn’t it? There’s never time to do anything.”
It seemed to Ellen that Ruth had done just about everything, but she didn’t say this. She said instead, not meaning to sound wistful, “Do your children come and see you?”
“Oh, yes. They wouldn’t let me buy this house until they’d approved of it first.”
“Do they come and stay?”
“One of my sons came and helped me move in, but he’s gone off to South America, so I don’t suppose I’ll see him again for months.”
“What about Christmas?”
“Oh, I’ll be alone for Christmas. They’ve all grown up now, lead their own lives. They’ll maybe land themselves on their father if they’re short of a bed. I don’t know. I never know. I never did know.” She laughed, not at her children, but at herself, for being vague and foolish.
Ellen said, “I don’t think Vicky’s coming home for Christmas. I think she’s going to Switzerland to ski.”
If she expected sympathy and commiseration, she did not get it. “Oh, what fun. Christmas in Switzerland is perfect. We took the children once when they were little and Jonas broke his leg. What do you do with yourself when you’re not being a wife and mother?”
The blunt question was unexpected and a little disconcerting. “I … I really don’t do anything…” Ellen admitted.
“I’m sure you do. You look immensely capa
ble.”
This was encouraging. “Well … I garden. And I cook. And I’m on a committee or two. And I sew.”
“Goodness, you’re clever to sew. I can’t even thread a needle. You only have to look at my chair-covers to see that. They all need to be patched … no, they don’t, they’re beyond patching. I suppose I should buy more chintz and have new covers made. Do you make your own clothes?”
“No, not clothes. But curtains and things.” For a moment she hesitated, and then said, in a rush, “If you wanted, I could patch your covers. I’d like to do it for you.”
“What about making new ones? Could you do that?”
“Yes.”
“With piping, and everything?”
“Yes.”
“Then will you? Professionally, I mean. As a job. After Christmas, when things have quieted down and you aren’t so busy?”
“But…”
“Oh, say you will. I don’t mind what you charge me. And the next time I go to London I can go to Liberty’s and buy yards of the most beautiful Morris chintz.” Ellen could only gaze at her. Ruth looked a little deflated. “Oh, dear. Now I’ve offended you.” She tried again, coaxing. “You could always give the money to the church, and write it off as good works.”
“It isn’t that!”
“Then why are you looking dumbfounded?”
“Because I am. Because this is what I’ve been thinking I should do. Professionally, I mean. Making loose covers and curtains and things like that. Upholstery. Last year I went to evening classes and learned how. And now, with Vicky being in London, and James away all day … You see, I’ve got a lovely attic in my house, very light and warm. And I’ve got a sewing machine. All I’d have to buy would be a big table…”
“I saw one last week in a sale room. An old laundry table…”
“But the only thing is, that James—my husband—he doesn’t seem to think it was a very good idea.”
“Oh, husbands are notoriously bad at thinking anything is a good idea.”
“He said I’d never manage the business side of it. The income tax and the bills and the V.A.T. And he’s right,” Ellen finished sadly, “because he knows I can’t even add two and two.”
“Get an accountant.”
“An accountant?”
“Don’t say ‘An accountant’ like that, as though it were something shameful. You look as though I was telling you to acquire a lover. Of course, an accountant, to do your sums for you. No more buts. You’re onto a marvellous idea.”
“Supposing I didn’t get any work?”
“You’ll get more work than you can cope with.”
“That’s even worse.”
“Not at all. You’ll enroll some nice village ladies to help you. Give employment. Better and better. Before you know where you are, you’ll be running a real little business.”
A real little business. Doing something creative, that she enjoyed and was good at. Employing people. Perhaps, like Cynthia, making money. She thought about it. After a bit, she said, “I don’t know if I’ve got the nerve.”
“Of course you’ve got the nerve. And you’ve already got your first order. Mine.”
“It’s James. I … don’t suppose he’d mind?”
“Mind? He’ll be thrilled to bits. And as for your daughter, it would be the best thing you could do for her. It’s not easy for children to leave the nest, especially only children. If you’re busy and happy, she need be devilled by no stirrings of guilt. It’ll make all the difference to her, and your relationship with her. Come on! You’ve probably never had the chance to do something on your own, and now here it is. Grab it, Ellen, with both hands.”
Watching her, listening, Ellen suddenly began to laugh. Ruth wrinkled her brow. “Why do you laugh?”
“I realise now just why you were such a success on television.”
“I tell you why, because I’ve gone into what my children call my tub-thumping act. Cosmo always called me a rampant feminist, and perhaps I am. Perhaps I always was. I only know that the most important person in the world is oneself. You are the person you have to live with. You are your own company, your own pride. Self-reliance has nothing to do with selfishness … it’s simply a well that doesn’t run dry until the day you die and you don’t need it any more.”
Ellen, oddly touched, could think of nothing to say to this. Ruth turned her head, looked into the firelight. Ellen saw the lines about her eyes, the generous curve of her mouth, the smooth grey hair. Not young, but beautiful; experienced, bruised, perhaps—probably sometimes exhausted—but never defeated. In middle age she had started a new life, in good heart, and without malice, on her own. Surely, with James behind her, it shouldn’t be too difficult to follow her example?
She said, “How soon do you want your loose covers made?”
* * *
It was time, at last, to go home. Ellen stood up, pulled on her sheepskin coat, and picked up the empty basket. Ruth opened the door and they went out together into the frosty garden.
Ellen said, “You’ve got a mulberry tree. That’ll give you shade when the summer comes.”
“I can’t imagine summer.”
“If … if you are alone at Christmas, would you like to come and spend the day with James and me? I’ve made him sound stuffy but he’s really very nice.”
“How very kind. I’d love it.”
“That’s settled then. Thank you for the coffee.”
“Thank you for my before-Christmas present.”
“You’ve given me a before-Christmas present, too.”
“I have?”
“Encouragement.”
Ruth smiled. “That,” she said, “is what friends are for.”
* * *
Ellen walked slowly home, swinging the empty basket, her head buzzing with plans. As she opened the door and went into the kitchen, the telephone started to ring, and she picked up the receiver in her still-gloved hand.
“Hello.”
“Mummy. It’s Vicky. I am sorry I haven’t been in touch, but I just rang to let you know that I am going to Switzerland. I do hope you don’t mind, but it’s such a lovely chance, and I’ve never been skiing and I thought perhaps I could come home for New Year. Do you mind dreadfully? Do you think I’m being dreadfully selfish?”
“Of course I don’t.” And it was true. She didn’t think Vicky was being selfish. She was doing what she should be doing, making her own decisions, having fun, meeting new friends. “It’s a wonderful opportunity and you must grab it with both hands.” (Grab it, Ellen, with both hands.)
“You are angelic. And you and Dad won’t be lonely on your own?”
“I’ve already asked someone to spend Christmas with us.”
“Oh, good. I imagined you both being gloomy and eating a chop and not having a Christmas tree.”
“Then you imagined wrong. I’ll post your presents this afternoon.”
“And I’ll post you mine. You are a darling to be so understanding.”
“Send up postcards.”
“I will. I promise. I will. And Mummy…”
“Yes, my darling?”
“Merry Christmas.”
* * *
Ellen replaced the receiver. Then, still wearing her coat, she went upstairs, past Vicky’s bedroom, and on up to the attic. There it was, the scent of wood and camphor. There they were, the spacious windows and the wide skylight. There, her table would stand; here, the ironing board, here her sewing machine. Here she would cut, tack, and stitch. In her mind’s eye stood images of bolts of linen and chintz, braiding for curtains, rolls of velvet. She would make a name for herself—Ellen Parry. A life for herself. A real little business.
She might have stood there all day, lost in plans, hugging herself with satisfaction, had not she suddenly caught sight of the box containing the Christmas tree decorations.
Christmas.
Less than two weeks away, and still so much to do. The mince pies, the cards, the presents to be posted, t
he tree to be ordered. She hadn’t, she remembered without guilt, even washed up the breakfast things. Jerked back from the future to the even more exciting present, she crossed the empty floor and picked the box up in her arms, and then, bearing the precious load with considerable care, she made her way downstairs.
The White Birds
From the garden, where she was engaged in cutting the last of the roses before the frost set in, Eve Douglas heard the telephone ringing inside the house. She did not instantly rush indoors, because it was a Monday, and Mrs. Abney was there, pushing the vacuum cleaner around like a mad thing and filling the house with the smell of furniture polish. Mrs. Abney loved to answer the telephone, and, sure enough, a moment later the sitting-room window was flung open to reveal Mrs. Abney, waving a yellow duster to attract Eve’s attention.
“Mrs. Douglas! Telephone.”
“Coming.”
Carrying the prickly bunch in one hand and her secateurs in the other, Eve made her way up the leaf-strewn grass, shucked off her muddy boots, and went indoors.
“I think it’s your son-in-law, from Scotland.”
Eve’s heart gave a faint lurch. She put the flowers and the secateurs down on the hall chest and went into the sitting room. The furniture was all over the place, the curtains draped over chairs to facilitate floor-polishing. The telephone stood on her desk. She picked up the receiver.
“David?”
“Eve.”
“Yes?”
“Eve … look … it’s Jane.”
“What’s happened?”
“Nothing’s happened. It’s just that we thought last night that the baby was coming … and then the pains sort of stopped. But this morning the doctor came, and her blood pressure was a bit high, so he’s taken her into hospital…”
The Blue Bedroom: & Other Stories Page 15
