All The Days of My Life (98 page)

He stares blindly, tiredly, desperately at his large black and white cat, which is tapping indignantly at the window, waiting to be let in. Behind the cat stretched the garden, sunny in the afternoon light. He gazes at the great chestnut tree, standing very still in the middle of the lawn. The solid mass of leaves are still dark green but interspersed among them, and visible at the ends of the branches, some are yellowing, preparing to drop. He glances across the room at the big grandfather clock in its blue alcove, sees that it is four o'clock, sighs, gets up and opens the window. In springs the cat and begins to rub round his legs. “If only Joe Endell had lived,” he sighs in a sudden access of pity for Molly, and, behind it, lies the thought that if Endell
had lived, perhaps the problem of Molly's memoirs would never have arisen.

The telephone rings loudly in the quiet room. It is, most likely, thinks Sir Herbert, either his sovereign ringing to enquire about Molly's story, or Molly herself asking for an opinion. Showing a good turn of speed for a man of his age, Sir Herbert is swiftly away from the telephone, the cat and the room, and out in the hall collecting his coat and then in the street hailing a taxi.

As he leans back in the seat he enjoys driving through the noisy, tatty, brightly-coloured, jibber-jabbering streets of London, on to the peace of the gentlemen's club to which he belongs.

Perhaps it is rightly in France where we should leave Molly, as she and her son walk across the flagstones of the courtyard to the big grey house, ring the heavy doorbell and see before them in the doorway the bent figure of the old maid who has been her mother's constant companion during so many years of exile.

Or perhaps we should leave her as she and the tall boy walk down the drive and turn to wave back at the two small, grey figures who stand there, light, bent and frail as if, like leaves ready to blow away, they are only insecurely placed on the heavy flagstones where they stand. Behind them looms the house, all wreathed in mist, a complicated, massive pattern of stone crenellations, buttresses and bays. One of the figures, her mother's, slowly lifts her arm, then links it to the supporting arm of the old servant. Both women turn and begin to walk slowly up the steps of the house, while Molly and Fred continue down the drive, past the misty trees and lawns on either side of them. They go through the gates to the car which will take them to the airport.

The author wishes to thank the Arts Council of Great Britain, and the British taxpayers, who gave her a grant of £3,000 in 1980 to help her write this book.

This electronic edition published in 2012 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3D

All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this
publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation
electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise),
without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any
unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution
and civil claims for damages

Visit
www.bloomsbury.com
to find out more about our authors and their books
You will find extracts, author interviews, author events and you can
sign up for
newsletters
to be the first to hear about our latest releases and special offers