by Nevil Shute
“What did he say?”
The nurse glanced at her. “When did you see her last?”
“About a month ago.”
“How was she then?”
“Very much as usual. She doesn’t do much, but she’s seventy-nine, I think.”
“Was she eating normally?”
“She gave me a very good meal, roast duck and mince pie.”
“She ate that, did she?”
“Of course. Why?”
“She doesn’t look as if she’s eaten anything since,” the nurse said shortly. “She’s very emaciated, and there’s not a scrap of food here in the house except some dried fruits. She vomited at the hospital, and what came up was raisins and sultanas. She couldn’t be expected to digest those, at her age.”
Jennifer said, “I simply can’t understand it. She’s got plenty of money.”
The nurse glanced at her. “You’re sure of that?”
“Well — I think so.”
“I rang up the electricity,” the nurse said, “and told them that the power had failed and they must send a man to put it right because I’d got a patient in the house. They said they’d disconnected the supply because the bill hadn’t been paid. You’d better see about that in the morning if you’re going to keep her here.”
“I’ll go round there first thing.”
“I had to go and get a candle of my own,” the nurse said. “I brought another one round with me now.” She took it from her pocket. “I looked for coal to light a fire, but there’s not a scrap. I got a tin of Benger’s Food and some milk, and I got the people next door to let me boil up some hot milk for her, and fill the hot-water-bottles. I’ll take them round there and fill them again before I go.” She glanced at Jennifer. “You’re staying here tonight?”
“I wasn’t going to, but I’d better. Will you be here?”
The nurse laughed shortly. “Me? I’ve got a baby case tonight, but she’s got an hour or two to go so I slipped round here to see if anyone had come. I’ll have to get some sleep after that. I’ll look round here about midday to see how you’re getting on. I said I’d give the doctor a ring after that.”
Jennifer nodded. “I’ll see you then. Is she in any danger, do you think?”
“I don’t think she’ll go tonight,” the nurse said. “Whether she’ll pull round or not depends a lot on her digestion. I couldn’t say. When she wakes, give her another cup of the Benger’s. She can have as much of that as she’ll take — I’ll show you how to make it. But don’t let her have anything else till the doctor’s seen her. And keep the bottles nice and warm — not hot enough to scorch, you know, just nice and warm.”
Practical, hard-headed, and efficient, she whisked through her duties, showing Jennifer what to do, and was out of the house in a quarter of an hour. The girl was left alone with all the Indian and Burmese relics, with one candle and no fire and nowhere much to sleep.
She gave up the idea of going out in the rain at ten o’clock at night to find a public telephone to ring up her mother; that would have to wait till morning. She went up to her grandmother’s bedroom and took off her wet shoes and stockings and rubbed her feet with a towel; then she found a pair of her grandmother’s woollen stockings and put them on, and her grandmother’s bedroom slippers, and her grandmother’s overcoat. She found a travelling rug and wrapped it around her and settled down to spend the night in an arm-chair by her grandmother’s bedside, chilled and uncomfortable, dozing off now and then and waking again with the cold. In the middle of the night she ate her breakfast rolls.
In the grey dawn she woke from one of these uneasy dozes, stiff and chilled to the bone. She looked at the bed and saw that her grandmother was awake; she was lying in exactly the same position, but her eyes were open. Jennifer got up and went to the bedside. The old lady turned her head upon the pillow and said in a thin voice, “Jenny, my dear. Whatever are you doing here?”
The girl said, “I’ve come to look after you, Granny. They telephoned and told us that you weren’t so well.”
“I know, my dear. I fell down in the street — such a stupid thing to do. Is the nurse here still?”
“She’ll be back later on this morning, Granny. Is there anything you want?”
She told her, and Jennifer entered on the duties of a sick-room for the first time in her life. Presently she took the hot-water-bottles and the remains of the milk and went to the house next door, where a harassed mother was getting breakfast for a husband and three little children. As she warmed the milk and filled the water-bottles the woman asked her, “How is the old lady this morning?”
“She’s staying in bed, of course,” said Jennifer, “but she’s not too bad. I think she’s going to be all right.”
“I am so sorry,” the woman said. “I wish we’d been able to do more for her, but everything’s so difficult these days. I’d no idea that she was ill. She’s been going out as usual every morning. It was a terrible surprise when she came back in an ambulance yesterday.”
Jennifer was interested. “She goes out every morning, does she?”
“That’s right. Every morning about ten o’clock. She goes down to the Public Library in the Park to read The Times. She told me that one day.”
Jennifer thanked her for her help, and went back with the hot milk to make a cup of Benger’s, and took it up to the bedroom with the hot-water-bottles. She propped her grandmother up in bed with the pillows and helped her while she drank, but she could not get her to take more than half the cup. “I don’t want any more, my dear,” she said. “I think I’m better without anything.”
The hot drink had stimulated her a little. “Jenny,” she said, “I’ve been thinking. Haven’t you got to go to work?”
The girl said, “That’s all right, Granny. I’m going out presently to ring up Mummy to tell her how you are, and I’ll ring up the office then. I’ll stay with you for a few days until you’re better.”
“Oh, my dear, that isn’t necessary at all.”
“I’d like to, Granny. It’ll be a bit of a holiday for me.”
“But Jenny, dear, you can’t stay here. There isn’t anywhere for you to sleep. Where did you sleep last night?”
“I’ll be all right here, Granny,” the girl said. “I’ll fix up something in the course of the day.”
“But there isn’t any electricity. You can’t stay here.” A facile, senile tear escaped and trickled down the old, lined cheek. “Oh, things are so troublesome.”
“That’s all right, Granny,” the girl said. “I’ll go and see about the electricity this morning, and get them to turn it on.
“But it’s seventeen pounds, Jenny — they came and turned it off. Such a nice man, but he had to do his job. I’ve been getting on quite well without it.”
“Well, you’re not going to get along without it any longer, Granny,” Jennifer said firmly. “You can’t when you’re in bed.” She thought quickly; she had about thirty pounds in her bank, but her cheque-book was at Blackheath on the other side of London. “I’ll get them to turn it on again,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Oh, my dear, I don’t know what to do....”
The girl wiped the old cheeks gently with her handkerchief. “Cheer up, Granny,” she said. “It’ll be all right. Tell me — isn’t there any money?”
The old lady said, “None at all. You see, I’ve lived too long.”
“Don’t you believe it,” Jennifer said. “You’ve got a good many more years yet. But what about the pension? That goes on until you die, doesn’t it?”
“That’s what Geoffrey thought, and so did I. But it was an Indian pension, dear, and when the Socialists scuttled out of India there weren’t any civil servants left in India to pay into the fund. Only us widows were left drawing out of it, and now the money is all gone.”
“But wasn’t it a Government pension?”
“Not for widows, dear. Geoffrey’s pension was a Government pension, but that stopped when he died.
This was a private fund, that we civil servants in India all paid in to. They had to halve the pensions a few years ago, and then last year they stopped it altogether and wound up the fund.”
The girl said, “Oh, Granny! And you gave me such a lovely dinner when I came here last!”
“Of course, my dear. A young girl like you must have proper meals. Although it’s all so difficult, with all this rationing. Jenny, have you had your breakfast yet?”
“Not yet. I’m going out in a few minutes, and I’ll get some then.”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing in the house, Jenny. I am so sorry.”
“Don’t think about it, Granny. I’ll get a few things when I’m out and bring them in.”
“Yes, do that, dear.” She paused. “Will you bring me the little red morocco case that’s on the dressing-table?”
“This one?”
“Yes, that’s it. Bring it to me here.”
The girl brought the jewel case over to the bed and gave it to her grandmother, who opened it with fingers that trembled so that they could barely serve their function. Inside there was a jumble of souvenirs, the relics of a long life. A gold locket on a gold chain, broken, with a wisp of a baby’s hair in it. A painted miniature portrait of a young boy in the clothes of 1880, a faded photograph of a bride and bride-groom dated 1903, a small gold sovereign purse to hang upon a watch-chain, three small gold and alabaster seals, a string of black jet beads. She rummaged among these things and many others with fingers that were almost useless and finally produced a gold ring set with five diamonds in a row, unfashionable in these days.
She gave this to Jennifer. “I want you to do a little job for me when you are out, Jenny,” she said. “In the New Broadway, two doors on the other side of Paul’s patisserie shop, you’ll find a jeweller’s shop called Evans. Go in and ask to see Mr. Evans himself, and give him this, and tell him that you come from me. He’s a very nice man, and he’ll understand. He’ll give you money for it, whatever it’s worth. I’m afraid it may not be enough to pay the electricity, but you can get a joint of beef and some vegetables, and we’ll cook a nice dinner for you. Take my ration book with you — it’s on the corner of the bureau in the drawing-room — and get some flour and dripping and sugar, and then we’ll make a cake; there’s plenty of dried fruit downstairs that dear Jane sends me from Australia. So kind of her, after all these years. And if there’s enough money, get a little bottle of claret. A young girl like you ought not to look so pale.”
“You mustn’t sell your ring,” the girl said gently. “Look, I’ve got plenty of money to carry on with — I’ve got over thirty pounds in the bank. I’ll use some of that, and I’ll be telephoning Mummy this morning and she’ll send us down some more. I expect Daddy will come down to see you tomorrow, when he hears that you’re in bed.”
Her grandmother shook her head. “Your mother hasn’t got any money to spare,” she said. “She might have had once, but now with this horrible Health Service and doctors getting less money than dentists ... Sell the ring, my dear. I can’t get it on my finger now, I’m so rheumatic, and I shan’t want it any more.”
“What is it, Granny?” the girl asked, turning it over in her fingers. “Who gave it to you?”
“Geoffrey,” the old lady said. “Geoffrey gave it to me, when we became engaged. We went to the Goldsmiths and Silversmiths in Regent Street together to buy it ... such a fine, sunny day. And then we went and had lunch at Gatti’s; it felt so funny on the fork, because I wasn’t used to wearing rings. And then we took a hansom for the afternoon and drove down to Roehampton to see the polo, because Geoffrey’s friend Captain Oliver was playing. But I didn’t see much of the polo, because I was looking at my new ring, and at Geoffrey. So silly....” The old voice faded off into silence.
“I can’t sell that,” the girl said gently. “I’m not going to sell your engagement ring.”
“My dear, there’s nothing else.”
“Yes, there is,” the girl said. “I’ve got thirty pounds. I’m going to spend that first. If you don’t like it, you can leave me that ring in your will.”
“I’ve done that already, Jenny, with a lot of other things that aren’t there now, because I had to sell them. I’m so very, very sorry. There was a little emerald and ruby brooch that Geoffrey got at Mandalay, and a pair of pearl ear-rings that came from Mergui. So pretty; I did want you to have those. But everything has been so troublesome....”
The girl put the ring back into the jewel box. “Leave it there for now,” she said. “I promise you I’ll come and tell you if we have to sell it. But we shan’t have to; we’ve got plenty of money between us.”
She made her grandmother comfortable and promised her that she would be back in an hour and a half; then she went out with a shopping basket. She got a good breakfast at Lyons’ of porridge and fish, and as she breakfasted she made her plans. She had only twelve and threepence in her purse, and her breakfast cost her three shillings of that. Before she could lay her hands on any more money she must go to Blackheath to get her cheque-book and cash a cheque, and the fare there would be about four and three. That left her about five shillings; she had to telephone her mother, but perhaps she could reverse the charges for the call to Leicester. She must keep a margin of about two shillings for contingencies; if she could reverse the charges for the call she would have about three shillings to spend on food for her grandmother.
The sense of crisis, and the breakfast, stimulated her; she could beat this thing. She went out and stood in a call-box and rang up her parents; she was early, and the hundred-mile call came through at once. She told her father what had happened.
“She’s got no money at all, Daddy,” she said. “She just hasn’t been eating — I think that’s really all that’s the matter with her. She’s very weak, and she’s in bed, of course.” She told him what the district nurse had said about her grandmother’s chances. She told him about the pension.
They extended the call. “Can you let me have some money, Daddy? I’ve only got a few shillings. I’m going back to Blackheath about midday and I’ll get my cheque-book then, but I’m not sure if I’ll be in time to cash a cheque. I may be too late. I’ll be back here in Ealing this afternoon, anyway, before dark.”
He said, “I’ll send you a telegraph money order at once for ten pounds. You should get that this afternoon. Either your mother or I will come down tomorrow and be with you some time tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll see what’s to be done then. It’s a bit of a shock, this.”
“Don’t let Mummy worry over it too much,” the girl said. “I think she’s probably going to be all right. I’m going now to see if I can talk them into turning on the electricity again. It’ll make a lot of difference if we can get a radiator going in her room.”
In a quarter of an hour she was talking to the manager in the office of the Electricity Commission, having got past his girl with some difficulty. He said, “I’m sorry, Miss Morton, but we have to work to rules laid down by our head office. Two years ago I might have been able to use my own discretion in a case like this, but — well, things aren’t the same as they were then. Nationalisation was bound to make some differences, you know. I’m afraid the account will have to be paid before the supply can be re-connected.”
She said, “I’m going over to Blackheath to get my cheque-book today. I can let you have the cheque first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Fine,” he said, with forced geniality. “Then we shall be able to re-connect the supply.”
“Can’t you do it today?”
“I’m afraid the account will have to be settled first.”
Jennifer said desperately, “She’s really terribly ill, and we can’t even warm up hot milk in the house, or get hot water for her water-bottles. We must have electricity tonight.”
He got to his feet; this was too unpleasant, and he had no power to act. “I’m sorry, Miss Morton,” he said. “It sounds as though she would be better in the hospital — have you
considered that? Perhaps the relieving officer would be the man for you to see. He’s at the Town Hall.”
The red-haired girl flared into sudden anger. “God blast you and the relieving officer,” she said. “I only hope this happens to you one day, that you’re old and dying of starvation, and you can’t get anyone to help you. And it will, too.”
She turned and left the office, white with anger. She shopped carefully with her three shillings, and bought two pints of milk, a few water biscuits, and a little sugar; that finished her money. She thought deeply; she could get some more food for her grandmother and for herself on her way back from Blackheath. It was urgent to get over there at once, before the bank shut, so that she could get her money. She turned and made for Ladysmith Avenue; on the way she stopped and spent fourpence on a copy of The Times, thinking that it would give the old lady an interest while she was absent, and give something for her morale to hang on to during the afternoon.
When she got into the house she took The Times up to her grandmother’s room. The old lady lay in bed exactly as Jennifer had left her; her eyes were shut, and though she was breathing steadily it seemed to the girl that the respiration was now fainter than it had been when she had been lying in the same way on the previous night. Jennifer spoke to her, but she did not answer; however, when she reached into the bed to get the hot-water-bottles the old lady opened her eyes.
“Just getting your hot-water-bottles, Granny,” the girl said. “I’ll make you another cup of Benger’s, too. I brought you The Times.”
“So sweet of you,” her grandmother said. “I had to give up The Times, but I always go down every morning to look at the Births, Deaths and Marriages. It’s so easy to miss things, and then you write to somebody and find they’re dead.”
The girl said, “I’m just going to get these water-bottles filled, and make you another hot drink. I’ll be back in about five minutes.”
