Aunt Dimity Down Under (2 page)

The costumes were ready, the stage was set, and the cast was assembling. In less than a week, I told myself, staring dreamily at the cluster of hearts I’d drawn on the kitchen calendar, Kit Smith would finally—
finally!
—marry Nell Harris. My eyes welled with happy tears.

Sighing rapturously, I dried my eyes and turned off the oven. I was about to call my menfolk in to wash up before dinner when the telephone rang. I quickly wiped my hands on my apron and answered it, hoping that another delicious tidbit of gossip would soon be in my keeping.

“Lori? ” said Emma Harris.

“Emma!” I replied cheerfully. “How’s it going? Have you and Derek finished scrubbing the rhododendrons and vacuuming the lawn? I’ve been keeping an eagle eye on the weather forecast for Saturday and it looks as though a shower of rose petals will be falling—”

“Lori,” Emma interrupted, and it occurred to me that she sounded a bit strained.

“You poor thing,” I commiserated. “You must be exhausted. If you need help with anything, and I do mean
anything,
I can be over in two shakes of a pony’s tail. Just say the word and I’ll—”

“Lori! ” Emma exclaimed. “Will you please
shut up
?”

I stared at the telephone in amazement. Emma was a cool, calm, and collected sort of woman. She had never before raised her voice to me and I’d never heard her tell anyone to shut up. The pressure of planning the wedding of the century had clearly gotten to her.

“No problem,” I said meekly. “What’s up? ”

“I don’t know how to break it to you gently, so I’ll just go ahead and say it,” Emma replied tersely. “The wedding’s off.”

“Good one,” I said, chuckling. “You almost sound convincing. Now stop joking around and—”

“I’m not joking,” she said heavily. “The wedding has been called off. Nell and Kit have postponed it indefinitely.”

“They’ve . . . they’ve
what
?” I hunched over the phone, unable to believe my ears. “Are you
serious
? Why in heaven’s name would they postpone the wedding? ”

“It’s Ruth and Louise Pym.” Emma took a shaky breath. “They’re dying.”

A shadow seemed to pass over the sun.

I
felt as though I’d been kicked in the chest. I stumbled across the room and sank, weak-kneed, onto a chair at the kitchen table. Emma’s heart-wrenching news shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me, but it had shaken me to the core.

Ruth and Louise Pym were the utterly identical twin daughters of a man who had for many years been the parson at St. George’s Church in Finch. The sisters had never married and had spent all of their industrious lives together in their father’s thatched, redbrick house on the outskirts of the village. No one knew how old they were, but they were by far the oldest members of our community—most guesses placed them well over the century mark. Although the sisters appeared to be as frail as lace, their energy had always been boundless, their work ethic, awe inspiring. They routinely accomplished more in one day than most women half their age could accomplish in a week.

When Bill and I had moved into the cottage, the Pym sisters had been among the first to welcome us. They’d attended our wedding, embroidered our sons’ christening gowns, invited us to countless tea parties, and shared with us their vast store of local lore. Ruth and Louise were keen gardeners, skilled needlewomen, superb cooks, faithful churchgoers, the best of good neighbors, and the only other pair of identical twins Will and Rob had ever met. They were, in short, irreplaceable.

“Ruth and Louise are dying?” I said, half-hoping I’d misunderstood Emma’s words. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” said Emma.

“How did you find out? ” I asked.

“Ruth called me around two o’clock this afternoon to let me know that she and Louise had finished making Nell’s veil,” Emma said. “The veil was their wedding gift to Nell. They’ve always been very fond of her.” Emma’s voice seemed to catch in her throat, but after a short pause she carried on. “To save them the trouble of dropping it off, I drove over to their house to pick it up. When they didn’t answer the door, I let myself in.”

I nodded. Locked doors were a rarity in Finch. My neighbors considered it perfectly acceptable to enter a house uninvited to do a favor for an absent friend.

“I found the finished veil neatly folded in a cardboard box on the dining room table,” Emma went on, “but Ruth and Louise were upstairs in bed. They told me they’d had a funny turn and insisted that there was no need to make a fuss, but I didn’t like their color or the way they were breathing, so I telephoned Dr. Finisterre. He came as quickly as he could and it didn’t take him long to make a diagnosis. Apparently he’s known about their condition for some time.”

“What condition?” I asked.

“It’s their hearts,” said Emma. “They’re . . . worn out.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, clutching the telephone with both hands. “They took a train trip to the seaside a couple of weeks ago. How could they make a journey like that if their hearts were weak? ”

“Dr. Finisterre advised them not to go,” Emma informed me, “but they were convinced that the sea air would do them good, so they went anyway. The doctor believes that the stress of travel brought on the current crisis.”

“I would have driven them, if they’d asked,” I said softly.

“We all would have,” said Emma, “but they didn’t ask. They have their pride, I suppose. They’re accustomed to looking after themselves.”

“It’s hard to break the habits of a lifetime,” I acknowledged, “especially such a long lifetime. Has the doctor taken them to the hospital? ”

“No, they’re still at home,” Emma said. “They wouldn’t let me or Dr. Finisterre call an ambulance for them. They refuse to go to the hospital and I can’t say that I blame them. I certainly don’t want to end my days hooked up to feeding tubes and monitors.”

“Nor do I,” I agreed, “but if something can be done to help them . . .”

“Nothing can be done,” Emma said with an air of finality. “Dr. Finisterre can make them comfortable, but apart from that . . . It’s only a matter of time.”

I groaned softly and put a hand to my forehead. “How much longer does Dr. Finisterre think they have?”

“He can’t say for certain,” Emma answered. “They could last for another six months or they could be gone tomorrow. I broke the news to Nell and Kit as soon as I got back to the manor—about a half hour ago. They immediately decided to put the wedding on hold.”

“Naturally,” I murmured.

“They’re at the Pyms’ house now,” Emma continued. “I imagine Dr. Finisterre is putting them in the picture as we speak. I’ve asked him to keep me in the loop. I’ll let you know if there are any . . . developments.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Emma cleared her throat. “I know that we have a lot to talk about, Lori, but it’ll have to wait. Now that the wedding’s been postponed, I have a long list of telephone calls to make. The guests, the caterers, the string quartet—”

“I’ll make the local calls for you,” I offered. “I know every number in Finch by heart.”

“Thanks, but I think it would be better if I spoke with everyone personally,” said Emma. “I’m the stepmother of the bride. The guests will expect to hear the bad news from me.”

“Of course they will,” I said. “If I you need help with anything else, or if you just need a break, don’t hesitate to call.”

“I won’t.” Emma stopped speaking for a moment. Then she said quietly, “I knew they wouldn’t live forever—no one can—but it seemed as though . . .” Her words trailed off.

“I know,” I said consolingly. “I can’t believe it, either. I guess it’ll take a while to sink in.”

“I guess so,” said Emma. “Well. I’d better start making those phone calls.”

“I’m here if you need me,” I reiterated. “Any time, night or day.”

“I’ll be in touch,” she said, and hung up.

I laid the phone on the table and stared blankly at the kitchen wall, trying to conceive of a world without the Pym sisters in it. It was like trying to imagine a garden without flowers. I might have sat motionless until nightfall if I hadn’t been roused from my reflections by the sound of my husband’s voice.

“The ham smells delicious,” said Bill, bending to look into the oven. “Do you want me to mash the potatoes? ”

I swung around in the chair to look at him and his smile faded abruptly.

“What’s wrong, Lori?” he asked, glancing at the abandoned telephone. “Has someone died?”

“Not yet,” I said, peering anxiously through the back door. “Where are the boys?”

“In the garden. Father is reading the county cricket scores to them.” Bill sat in the chair next to mine and leaned toward me, his elbows on his knees. “What is it, Lori? What’s happened?”

“Oh, Bill . . . ,” I began, and the whole tragic tale came pouring out. When I’d finished recounting everything Emma had told me, I looked at him helplessly. “How are we going to tell the boys? They
adore
Ruth and Louise. What are we going to say to them?”

“We’ll keep it simple,” said Bill, “and we’ll answer their questions as best we can. They’re bound to ask questions. They always do.”

“Do you think we should tell them right away?” I asked.

“I don’t see how we can avoid it,” he replied. “They’ll know something’s wrong as soon as they see your face. But we don’t have to tell them that the Pyms are on their deathbeds. We’ll say that they’re seriously ill. There’s no need for us to cross the final bridge until we come to it.” He took me by the hand and got to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”

 

 

Will and Rob received the news of the Pyms’ illness in thoughtful silence. The questions Bill had predicted didn’t start to flow until we were halfway through an unusually solemn dinner.

“Are Miss Ruth and Miss Louise as old as Toby?” Will asked, spearing a green bean with his fork.

Toby was a sweet-natured pony who’d taught dozens of Anscombe Riding Center pupils the rudiments of horsemanship before being put out to pasture at the ripe old age of twenty.

“Miss Ruth and Miss Louise are much older than Toby,” Bill replied.

Will nodded and dipped his green bean into his mashed potatoes.

“Toby was sick once,” Rob observed, “but he got better. Will Miss Ruth and Miss Louise get better? ”

“They might,” said Bill.

“What if they don’t get better? ” asked Rob. “Will they die like Misty’s foal? ”

A forkful of juicy ham turned to sawdust in my mouth. Misty’s foal had died of pneumonia the previous spring. It had been the boys’ first direct encounter with death and it had made a big impression on them.

“Yes,” Bill said gently. “I’m sorry to say it, sons, but if Miss Ruth and Miss Louise don’t get better, they will die.”

“I would miss them if they died,” said Rob, digging into his applesauce.

“So would I,” said Bill, “and so would your mother and your grandfather. We would all miss them very much.”

“We should go and see Miss Ruth and Miss Louise before they die,” Will decided.

“We will,” said Bill, “but not tonight. They need to rest tonight. If Dr. Finisterre says it’s all right, we’ll go to their house after school tomorrow. Okay?”

“Okay,” the boys chorused.

It wasn’t until I was tucking the twins into bed that they asked about the wedding. When I informed them that it had been postponed because of the Pym sisters’ illness, they gazed reflectively at the ceiling.

“Maybe Nell can make Miss Ruth and Miss Louise better,” said Will.

“She made Storm better when he had his cough,” Rob reminded me.

Storm, Rob’s much-loved gray pony, had come down with a mild case of colic a week ago, from which he had since recovered.

“Nell gave Storm medicine,” Rob went on, “and she walked him around and around his stall.”

“And he got better,” said Will.

“I’m sure that Nell will do everything she can for Miss Ruth and Miss Louise,” I said. “But sometimes people die even when you do everything you can for them.”

“Like Misty’s foal,” said Will.

“Like Misty’s foal,” I confirmed.

“Read us a story, Mummy,” Rob said.

I didn’t waste time asking for a “please.” I simply reached for our copy of
Winnie-the-Pooh
and read it aloud to my little boys, hoping they would drift off to sleep thinking of Tigger and Piglet and Roo rather than Misty’s foal.

Bill and Willis, Sr., were in the living room when I came downstairs. No one, it seemed, was ready to go to bed. Bill sat in his favorite armchair with Stanley, our black cat, curled blissfully in his lap. Willis, Sr., stood peering into the darkness beyond the bay window with his back to the room. I sank into a corner of the chintz sofa and gazed into the fire Bill had lit in the hearth after dinner.

“Did they have more questions?” Bill asked.

“They’re hoping for a miracle cure from Nell,” I replied.

“Aren’t we all? ” said Bill, stroking Stanley’s glossy fur.

Willis, Sr., turned away from the window and crossed to hold his well-manicured hands out to the fire. While Bill and I were clad in blue jeans and wool sweaters, my father-in-law was attired in a three-piece gray suit, a white shirt, and a silk tie. Willis, Sr., hadn’t yet gotten the hang of retirement.

“You spoke the simple truth at the dinner table,” he said to Bill. “I will miss the dear ladies most sincerely when they’re gone. I’ve never met anyone else quite like them.”

A mischievous memory flitted through my mind and I surprised myself by grinning at my father-in-law. “Do you remember the first time you tried their raspberry cordial?”

“I do indeed.” Willis, Sr., smiled ruefully and left the fire to sit in the armchair opposite Bill’s. “It sounded like an innocent, wholesome refreshment, but—”

“—it had a kick like an Army mule,” Bill put in. “Delectable, but deadly.”