‘We haven’t quarrelled.’ Thaddeus smiles away the word that doesn’t belong, for it is ludicrous that they should quarrel, neither by nature being the kind to. He wonders if she knows that, for his part, he nurtures no animosity towards her and never has, although aware of her misgivings as regards himself. ‘I doubt we ever shall,’ he adds, preferring to say that than to touch upon his feelings.
‘When I first suggested a nanny for Georgina, and later when I suggested our present arrangement, I felt you could not at all have managed. Perhaps, though, you could have.’
‘It’s better for Georgina to have someone as a mother.’
‘If it’s a strain, you must say.’
‘And of course so must you.’
‘All this is much more than something for me to do. It is everything, but that should not come into it.’
‘It does come into it, because you are who you are, because Georgina is your child too.’
They hover, like uncertain birds. They skirt emotion, steer clear of words that might drag it out of hiding. Thaddeus’s hands are occupied, slicing cheese, his concentration guiding the slow movement of the knife. Her eyes unwavering, fixed now on the sliver cut from the Etorki, Mrs. Iveson does not speak. Then, suddenly, she says:
‘You made Letitia happy.’
‘Don’t people in marriages try for that?’
‘People in marriages are often wretched.’
Cautious again, they do not say more. On the table in the hall the telephone rings and Maidment, passing with the coffee, settles the tray on the table’s edge, one hand still holding it. As he lifts the receiver he wonders if- as several times recently and still a puzzle — there will be no response when he speaks. But a woman’s voice says at once:
‘Mr. Davenant?’
When Thaddeus comes the same voice tells him that Mrs. Dorothy Ferry has asked if he might be contacted and informed of her admission.
‘Admission?’
The name of a hospital is given. ‘Mrs. Ferry’s comfortable, Mr. Davenant, but there is cause for some concern. I rang at once.’
‘That was very good of you. Thank you.’
‘I’ll give you our address, sir.’
‘Yes. Please do.’
He listens and is told, informed that in the circumstances he may come at any time. Directions are given, should he care to do so. ‘This afternoon would not be inconvenient for us, Mr. Davenant.’
‘There is some urgency?’
‘We would not advise delay, sir.’
In the dining-room, when the conversation as it was is not resumed, Thaddeus says he’ll be out for a bit, explaining that someone has been taken into hospital, not giving details.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yes, so am I.’ And he wonders as he speaks if once he would have so promptly agreed to make this journey. Reflecting further, he knows he would not; and knows that making it now is another response to the influence of death and the sentiment it trails.
Twenty minutes later, hanging clothes on the line in the yard, Zenobia sees the blue Saab backed out of the garage. Through glass and vine leaves, drawing on his after-lunch cigarette behind the conservatory, Maidment observes it halt for a moment on the tarmac sweep, the passenger door pushed open. On her way from the dining-room, Mrs. Iveson hears Rosie called.
The hum of the engine fades and then can not be heard. Pettie listens for the sound of the car returning — something forgotten or some sudden change of plan. But nothing disturbs this dead time of the afternoon.
‘My dear!’ Mrs. Ferry greets her visitor from bright white pillows, her effort at jauntiness collapsing before it has a chance. ‘My dear, I didn’t think you’d come.’
Her voice is weak, a croak that is a whisper also. She tries to smile. She pushes out a hand.
‘It’s homey here,’ she says. ‘A little place is.’
‘Yes, I noticed.’
‘Can’t stand the big ones.’
‘I’m sorry you’re not well, Dot.’
‘Dear, I haven’t been, you know.’
‘You said.’
‘You didn’t go along with it.’
‘Of course I did.’
‘I couldn’t blame you, dear.’
Again there is the effort at a smile, but something collapses in Mrs. Ferry’s face and from beneath closed eyelids tears run on cheeks that are innocent of make-up, the first time Thaddeus has ever seen them so.
‘You rest now, Dot. Don’t try to talk.’
‘A pity we didn’t tie our loose ends together. A pity we didn’t get round to it.’
Her voice fades, is hardly audible when it returns, solitary words rising out of a jumble to hang there meaninglessly, the names of men, items on the menu at the Beech Trees, childhood words. In the small hospital they have given her a room to herself, to which a nurse now brings two cups of tea. She takes one away, realizing at once that her patient cannot manage it. When Thaddeus has drunk some of his he says:
‘I think you’d like to have a sleep.’
‘You pour us a drink, dear? He has to see the tax man. He won’t be back.’
Children are playing somewhere, a distant sound, muffled by double-glazing.
‘Come back to bed, Thad.’
A sister bustles in, brisk and jolly, her manner filling the little room. She takes Mrs. Ferry’s pulse. ‘Lovely,’ she says, then motions Thaddeus to the door. ‘Your mother’s quite poorly,’ she says more quietly.
‘Actually she’s not my mother.’
‘Oh, I thought they said — a friend, are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s not too bright. There’s been sedation, of course.’
‘I understand.’
‘She’ll know more about herself when she’s had a sleep. She lives on her own, we’re to understand?’
‘Yes, she’s on her own.’
‘You can always tell. I’m sorry about that little error.’
‘I’ll go in a moment.’
The sister nods and goes herself. Mrs. Ferry’s murmuring continues when Thaddeus returns to her bedside. It ceases when she opens her eyes. Slowly a smile begins, then wearily languishes.
‘Your wife,’ she says. ‘I often think about that kindness.’
‘I’m a widower, Dot. I wanted to tell you that.’
‘A what?’
‘A widower.’
‘Never, dear. He married a Lytham lady. Still clonking along, the pair of them.’
‘No, Dot, it’s -’
‘June eighty-eight, the registry in Lytham. Funny, how some people make a go of it.’
She closes her eyes, then with an effort opens them again.
‘The pancreas. They say — it’s not so good.’
‘It’ll be all right, Dot.’
‘You’ll take me to your lovely home, will you? Will you, Thad? I always wanted that.’
‘Of course.’
‘Butter side up, Thad. I always knew you’d settle butter side up. I used to say to Oscar, I said to Chef. “Good-looking boy,” Chef said. Well, you know what Chef got up to.’
Thaddeus doesn’t, but nods all the same.
‘It’s final, you know,’ Mrs. Ferry murmurs. ‘You know that, Thad? This lovely summer and it’s final.’
‘Of course it isn’t.’
‘I liked it best at Blackpool. I never thought I’d like a place like Blackpool, but I did. Time we were naughties there, you and I.’
He does not deny the claim, only wondering if for the moment he is someone else for her, or if the confusion’s in her memory.