Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont (24 page)

Pretending to be a relation of Mrs Palfrey’s, he had telephoned the hospital to inquire.

‘“As comfortable as could be expected”, she said. I asked if the flowers had arrived, but she was unable to confirm that.’

They had each put a few shillings towards sending carnations.

‘In fact, she was a little on the abrupt side,’ Mr Osmond added. ‘Officious.’

‘They’re hard pushed,’ said Mrs Burton. ‘I shouldn’t want their job.’

‘It is a calling, I suppose,’ Mrs Post murmured.

‘It was moving her like that,’ Mr Osmond repeated for the twentieth time. ‘I can’t get over it. The sheer incompetence! I should have thought even someone from the Catering Corps would have known better than that.’

So knit together were they now in their anxiety that Mrs Post impulsively took a box of Holiday Assortment from under a cushion and handed it round. Mr Osmond chose a Cherry Delight and Mrs Burton took a Rum Truffle. The Colonel declined. He had not cared for Mr Osmond’s sneering remark about the Catering Corps. It was a necessary branch of the Service, and entitled to respect. He thought he would go out for a stroll, although he was bored already with the walks about the Cromwell Road; was beginning to think of moving on elsewhere.

‘You worked a miracle,’ Mrs Palfrey whispered, her eyes roving about the little room where she lay alone.

Ludo put her poetry book on the locker beside her. Mrs Post had made a parcel of some night-gowns and, before putting these in a drawer, Ludo looked at them with interest.

‘All out of capital,’ Mrs Palfrey said, still looking with content about the room. ‘Touching my capital.’ She smiled, and winked at Ludo. ‘I don’t know what Ian will say.’

‘Ian?’

‘Son-in-law.’

‘Oh, yes, I’m with you.’

‘I didn’t want that money you left here. It was a present. Take it back, won’t you?’

‘No.’ He sounded quite stern.

She closed her eyes, and Ludo got up to walk restlessly about the room. He looked out of the window at traffic and plane trees in the rain. On the chest of drawers twelve pale yellow carnations, curled up, dying, lolled sideways in a chipped vase. Beside them was a card. ‘With best wishes for a speedy recovery from your old friends at the Claremont.’

When I’m better, Mrs Palfrey thought – for she no longer believed that she was going to die – when I can get round to it, I shall change my will. He shall have what Desmond would have had, if only he’d taken the trouble to come and see me.

In this, she was for once unjust to Desmond, who had sat by her bed for twenty minutes the previous evening,
while she dozed. She had said a word or two to him, but could not now remember the occasion.

Smiling faintly, she let her eyes rest on Ludo, who was bending to examine a chart hanging at the foot of the bed.

Thank you,’ she began. She meant for the room, the visit, the night-gowns, for himself.

‘Do you remember the one about the daffodils?’ she asked him after a time. ‘I can’t.’

He knew that she was fretting about forgotten poetry. ‘Wordsworth?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘I love that one; but it’s gone.’

He had been made to learn it at school, and thought it a dismal, jog-trot jingle. With a few ‘tra-las’ to fill in what he had forgotten, he stood at the foot of her bed and recited it.

‘So much in common.’ She sighed contentedly.

She seemed to sleep, and he was just about to creep away when she spoke again. ‘Oh, I remember when you were a little boy. You used to hide behind those long red curtains and call “Goo-ee”, but before I could look anywhere you’d say, “I’m
here,
Grannie” . You never liked mysteries.’

Then she really slept, and Ludo was able to go home.

Rosie, at a loose end, had called; but nobody was there, and no key had been left underneath the dustbin. She went away, rather piqued that Ludo had not been waiting for her to turn up again.

It was in his own basement room, and not in Harrods Banking Hall that Ludo the next day wrote the last words of
They Weren’t Allowed to Die There.

Having done so, he felt drained of all feeling, and tired, as if he had spewed up a whole world.

When Elizabeth arrived, her mother was already dead. Sister got the brace of grouse, which had been intended to secure favours from whomsoever had the power to give most – Ian’s suggestion.

‘We found an envelope with money under her pillow. We shall ask you later to sign for it. I can’t think how it came to be there.’

‘Strange. Was no one with her? When she died, I mean.’

‘Her grandson had left a little earlier. She was peacefully asleep when he went. He had been reading poetry to her.’

‘Poetry?’

‘Her other grandson called once, but I believe she didn’t wake,’ Sister went on.

‘She has – had – no other grandson.’

‘Oh, well, perhaps she was wandering, or someone got it wrong. In the end it was a lovely death. She simply slipped away. We were glad and proud to do what we could for her. She had such lovely manners. Always said “thank you”, even if she didn’t at all like what she got.’

Sister glanced at her watch, and then at papers on
her desk. ‘Would you like me to organise a cup of tea?’ she suggested brightly.

‘No, I won’t stop.’

(No ‘thank you’ from
her,
Sister noted.)

‘There’s rather a lot to be done,’ Elizabeth said wearily. ‘It’s all been a shock.’

Sister nodded and clicked her tongue sympathetically, then took out a pencil and filled in something on a form.

‘Tragic, too. She was just about to remarry,’ Elizabeth said.

‘Oh, how
sweet,’
the Sister said. ‘I never stop marvelling at some of these old people. I think, in the end, geriatrics will become my passion.’

At the Claremont, they watched the Deaths column of the
Daily Telegraph;
but no notice of Mrs Palfrey’s death appeared. Elizabeth and Ian had decided that there was no one left who would be interested.

The first Virago Modern Classic,
Frost in May
by Antonia White, was published in 1978. It launched a list dedicated to the celebration of women writers and to the rediscovery and reprinting of their works. Its aim was, and is, to demonstrate the existence of a female tradition in literature, and to broaden the sometimes narrow definition of a ‘classic’ which has often led to the neglect of interesting books. Published with new introductions by some of today’s best writers, the books are chosen for many reasons: they may be great works of literature; they may be wonderful period pieces; they may reveal particular aspects of women’s lives; they may be classics of comedy, storytelling, letter-writing or autobiography.

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