(11/20) Farther Afield (5 page)

'It isn't as though they have children at the school,' went on Amy, musing to herself.

'Even Mrs Pringle,' she continued thoughtfully, 'called this evening to see how you were.'

She sighed, then jumped up to straighten the counterpane.

'Ah well! People are odd,' she said, dismissing the subject.

But by tins time, my irritation was waning, for Dr Martin's blue pill was wafting me once more into oblivion.

***

The sun was warm upon the bed when I awoke. It shone through the petals of the roses, and sent their fragrance through the room.

Amy was gazing at me anxiously.

'Thank God, you've woken up! I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever come to.'

'Why, what's the time?'

'Ten o'clock.'

'No! I must have had about sixteen hours' sleep.'

'How do you feel?'

'Marvellous, if I don't move.'

'Could you manage an egg?'

I sat up cautiously.

'I could manage an egg and toast and marmalade and butter and lashings of coffee and perhaps an apple.'

Amy laughed.

'You've recovered. Do you ever lose your appetite?'

'It improves in a crisis,' I assured her. 'When war broke out, I ate with enormous gusto. The more sensitive types on the staff of that school I was at then, couldn't touch a morsel – or so they said – but I had the feeling each meal might be my last, so I made the most of it.'

Amy laughed, and went to the kitchen.

I could hear her moving china and saucepans, and lay back feeling one part guilty and nine parts relieved. How pleasant it was to be waited on! I tried to remember the last time I had lain in bed while someone else cooked my breakfast, and found it beyond my powers.

Tibby came undulating into the room giving little chirrups of pleasure at having found me at last. She jumped elegantly on to the bed, missing my damaged ankle by a millimetre. I clasped my poor arm in trepidation. Tibby's affectionate attention was a mixed blessing this morning.

Before she could do much damage, Amy appeared with the tray.

'I've cut your toast into fingers, my dear, and I'll spread your marmalade when you want it.'

'I feel about three years old,' I told her, 'and backward at that.'

Eating a boiled egg left-handed is no easy task, and I should certainly have gone without butter and marmalade if Amy had not been there to help me. Suddenly, I realised how horribly helpless I was. It was frightening.

'Now, about plans,' said Amy, putting down the knife.

'With all these offers of help from kind neighbours, I should be fine,' I said.

She looked at me quizzically.

'You haven't tried walking yet, or washing, or doing your hair or dressing.'

'No,' I agreed sadly.

'And let's face it, you can't possibly negotiate the stairs even with that ankle strapped.'

I knew this was the plain truth.

'I've thought it all out. You're coming back to Bent with me. There's plenty of room. I shall be glad of your company, and it will do you good to have a change of scene. So say no more.'

'It's more than generous of you, Amy, but – '

'It's no use arguing. I know what you are going to say. Well, Tibby can come too, or Mrs Pringle has offered to come in to feed her, so that's that. We can shut up the house and give Mrs P. the key. Mr Willet says he'll keep an eye on the garden and mow the grass.'

'But Dr Martin...?'

'Dr Martin can be kept informed of your progress by telephone, and is welcome to visit you at my house.'

I looked at Amy with admiration.

'You've worked it all out to the last detail, I see.'

'I had plenty of time yesterday – and lots of offers from others, don't forget.'

I nodded in silence.

'Let's get you along to the bath.'

Bracing my arm stiffly, for I dreaded the pain when it was moved, I struggled to get my legs to the floor. Once they were there it was obvious that only the right one could bear any weight. Amy was quite right, I was helpless.

She was looking at me with some amusement.

'Well?'

'You win, you lovely girl. I'll come thankfully, bless you.'

One arm round her shoulders, I shimmied my way to the bathroom.

We were seen off that afternoon by a number of friends and well-wishers. I began to feel rather a fraud. After all, no one could say I was seriously ill.

Nevertheless, it was delightful to receive as much sympathy and attention.

'The vicar and I will visit you next week,' promised Mrs Partridge.

'I've taken the dirty clothes,' called Mrs Willet.

'And I'll give the place a proper bottoming, cupboards and all, before you're back,' said Mrs Pringle, in a tone which sounded more like a threat than a promise.

We moved off, waving like royalty, to the accompaniment of Tibby's yowling from a cat-basket borrowed from Mr Roberts.

It is only about half an hour's run to Bent but I was mightily glad to arrive at Amy's house and to be ensconced in the spare room. Some wise person in the past had made sure that the window sills in the bedroom were low enough for the bed-ridden to admire the view, for winch I was truly grateful.

Beyond Amy's immaculate garden, bright with lilies and roses, stretched rolling agricultural land. The crops were already ripening, and no doubt the combines would be out in the fields long before my beastly arm was fit to use. In the middle distance, a blue tractor trundled between the hedges on its way to the fields, and near at hand, on Amy's bird table, tits and starlings squabbled over food.

There would be plenty here to amuse me. How good Amy was! She had made light of taking me on, useless as I was, but I knew how much extra work I should be making, and determined to get downstairs as soon as possible.

Tibby, released from the hated basket, was roaming cautiously about the room, sniffing at Amy's rose and cream decor with the greatest suspicion and dislike. She had deigned to drink a little milk, but was clearly going to take some time to settle down.

'You are an ungrateful cat,' I told her. 'You might well have been left behind with Mrs Pringle, and she would have bottomed you with the rest of the house.'

Amy entered with the tea tray.

'I imagine heaven's like this,' I said. 'Perfect surroundings, and angels wafting in with the tea.'

'But this one's going to watch you spread your own jam this time,' she warned me.

Later that evening, as the summer dusk fell and the scent of the lime flowers hung heavy on the air, Amy sat by the lamp and stitched away at her tapestry. A moth fluttered round the light, tapping a staccato tattoo on the shade, but Amy did not seem aware of it.

It was very quiet in the room. It seemed to me that Amy was unusually pensive, and although she had enough to think of, in all conscience, with me on her hands, somehow I felt her thoughts were elsewhere.

'Amy,' I began, 'you know I can't thank you enough for all you're doing, but won't I be even more of a burden when James comes home?'

'It won't be for several days,' said Amy, snipping a thread. 'It may be even longer. There was some possibility of going straight on to Scotland, if he can arrange things with somebody at the office to attend to that end and save him coming back again.'

There was something in Amy's tone which disquieted me. Despondency? Resignation? Hopelessness?

I had never seen Amy in this mood, and wondered what was the cause.

'I don't think I shall need a blue pill tonight,' I said, changing the subject. 'I can hardly keep awake as it is.'

'I'm horribly sleepy too,' confessed Amy. She began to roll up her work, and glanced at the clock.

'James usually rings about eight, but something must have stopped him. No doubt there will be a letter in the post in the morning. I shan't wait up any longer.'

She rose, and came close to the bed.

'Have you got all you need? I've left this little bell to ring if you need me in the night, and I shall prop my door ajar. Tibby's settled in the kitchen, so there's nothing for you to worry about.'

She bent to give me a rare kiss on the forehead.

'Sleep well. I'll see you in the morning.'

After Amy had gone, I turned out the light and slid carefully down the bed. Tired though I was, I could not sleep.

It grieved me to see Amy so unhappy. Something more than my problems was eating at her heart. I had not known Amy for over thirty years without being able to measure her moods.

That James was at the bottom of it all, I had no doubt. Was the rapscallion more than usually entangled this time? Was their marriage seriously threatened by the present philanderings?

It is at times like this that a spinster counts her blessings. Her troubles are of her own making, and can be tackled straightforwardly. She is independent, both monetarily and in spirit. Her life is wonderfully simple, compared with that of her married sister. And she cannot be hurt, quite so cruelly, as a woman can be by her husband.

Conversely, she has no-one with whom to share her troubles and doubts. She must bear alone the consequences of all her actions and, coming down to brass tacks, she must be able to support herself financially, physically and emotionally.

I know all this from first-hand experience. I know too that there are some people who view my life as narrow and self-centred. Some, even, find a middle-aged single woman pitiable, if not faintly ridiculous. This, I have always felt, is to rate the value of men too highly, although I recognise that a truly happy marriage is probably the highest state of contentment attainable by either partner.

But how often something mars the partnership! Jealousy, indolence, illness, family difficulties, money troubles – so much can go wrong when two lives are joined.

Outside, in the darkness, a screech owl gave its blood-curdling cry. A shadow crept over the moon, and turning my face into the comfort of a pillow – supplied by James – I decided that it was time for sleep.

5 Recovery at Bent

T
HE
days passed very agreeably at Amy's. Time hangs heavily, some people say, when there is nothing to do, but I found, in my enforced idleness, that the hours flew by.

The weather had changed from its earlier brilliance. The sky was overcast, the air was still. There was something curiously restful about these soft grey days. The air was mild and I sat in the garden a great deal, nursing my arm and propping my battered ankle on a foot-rest.

Amy had a small pond with a tinkling fountain in her garden, and the sound of the splashing water was often the only noise to be heard. I felt stronger daily, and began to get very clever at using my left hand. I was more and more conscious how much I owed to Amy's generosity of spirit. Without her care and companionship these early days of progress would have been much slower.

During these quiet days I had the opportunity of observing Amy as she went about her tasks. She dealt with her domestic routine with great efficiency, and I began to realise, at the end of a week, that without the method with which she approached each chore, I should have been alone far more often. As it was, she had time to sit and talk to me, or simply to sit beside me and read, or work at her tapestry. I think we grew closer together, in those few days, than we had ever been before.

Very little mention was made of James, although Amy did say one evening that he had telephoned to say that he was in Scotland and would not be returning for a week or so. The determinedly gay manner in which she told me this, confirmed my fears that Amy herself was a very worried woman. It made her kindness to me doubly dear.

One morning I was taking my cautious walk in the garden, leaning heavily upon a fine ebony stick of James's, when I was horrified to see the corpse of a hedgehog floating in the pond. Obviously, it had tried to reach the water, toppled in, and been unable to scramble out again. It was a pathetic sight, and I was wondering how I could get it out when Amy called from the house, and emerged with one of her friends, Gerard Baker.

I had met him first at one of Amy's parties, and several times since then. He had been collecting material for a book about minor Victorian poets, and visited Fairacre once or twice to learn more about our one poet Aloysius Stone.

We, in Fairacre, are rather proud of Aloysius, who lived in one of the cottages in Tyler's Row, and was somewhat of a trial at village concerts in the early part of the century. He loved the opportunity of reciting his poems, and was apt to go on for far longer than his allotted time, much to the consternation of the programme organisers and the outspokenness of his audience.

'This is a great day,' said Amy after we had exchanged greetings, and Gerard had commiserated with me about my battered condition. She held up a book.

'Not
The Book?
' I said.

'The very same,' said Gerard. 'Came out last month.'

'Well! And I didn't hear a thing.'

'I'm. not surprised. I shouldn't think a book ever crept out into the world with as little notice as this one had.'

'But surely it will be reviewed? After all your hard work you're bound to have some recognition.'