Blue Bedroom and Other Stories (19 page)

The thought of the cold reception her tentative advances might precipitate caused Ellen's imagination to turn and flee in horror. Sometime, she would go. Not before Christmas. Perhaps at New Year. Anyway, now, she was too busy. There was so much to do. Mince pies to make, lists to be written …

Firmly, putting Ruth Sanderford out of her head, she went upstairs and made her bed. Across the landing, the door of Vicky's bedroom stood shut. Ellen opened it and looked inside, saw the dust on the dressing table, the bed, piled with folded blankets, the closed windows. Without Vicky's possessions, it had a strangely impersonal air, a room belonging to anybody, or nobody. Standing there in the open doorway, Ellen suddenly knew, beyond doubt, that Vicky would be going to Switzerland. That Christmas must somehow be endured without her.

What would they do, she and James? What would they talk about, sitting at either end of the dining-room table with a turkey too big to eat? Perhaps she should cancel the turkey and order lamb chops. Perhaps they should go away, to one of those hotels that cater to lonely, elderly people.

She closed the door swiftly, shutting away not just Vicky's deserted room, but the frightening images of old age and loneliness that must come to us all. At the far end of the landing, a narrow staircase led up to the loft. Without any reason in mind, Ellen went up these stairs and through the door that led into the huge attic with its slope-ceilinged roof. It was empty save for a few suitcases and the bulbs she had planted for the spring, now shrouded in thick blankets of newspaper. Dormer windows and a spacious skylight let in the first pale rays of the low sun, and there was a pleasant smell of wood and camphor.

In a corner stood a box containing the Christmas tree decorations. But would they have a tree this year? It was always Vicky's job to dress the tree, and there seemed little point, if she wasn't going to be here. There seemed, in fact, little point in anything.

Say I told you to call.

Ruth Sanderford was back again. Living at Monk's Thatch, a short walk away across the frosty fields. All right, so she was famous, but Ellen had read all her books and loved them, identifying with the harassed mothers, the angry, misunderstood children, the frustrated wives.

But I am not frustrated.

The attic was part and parcel of the idea that she had had; the scheme that James had dismissed out of hand, the plan that she had allowed to die because there was no person to give her a little encouragement.

James and Vicky. Her husband and her child. All at once Ellen was fed up with the pair of them. Fed up with worrying about Christmas, fed up with the house. She longed for escape. She would go, now, this minute and call on Ruth Sanderford. Before this brave new courage seeped away, she went downstairs, bundled herself into her coat, found a jar of homemade marmalade and another of mincemeat and put them into a basket. As though she were setting out on some intrepid and dangerous journey, she stepped out into the icy morning and slammed the door shut behind her.

*   *   *

It had turned into a beautiful day. A pale, cloudless sky, sparkling frost on the bare trees, the furrows of plough iron hard. Rooks cawed from topmost branches, and the air was icy and sweet as wine. Her spirits rose; she swung the basket, savouring her rising energy. The footpath lay along the edge of the fields, over wooden stiles. Soon, beyond the hedgerows, Trauncey came into view. A little church with a pointed spire, a cluster of cottages. Over the last stile, and she was in the road. Smoke rose serenely from chimneys, gray plumes in the still air. An old man, driving a pony and trap, clip-clopped by. They said good morning. Ellen went on, up the winding street.

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 capable.”

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.”