The Far Country (8 page)

He got to his feet; this was too unpleasant, and he had no power to act. “I’m sorry, Miss Morton,” he said. “It sounds as though she would be better in the hospital—have you considered that? Perhaps the relieving officer would be the man for you to see. He’s at the Town Hall.”

The red-haired girl flared into sudden anger. “God blast you and the relieving officer,” she said. “I only hope this happens to you one day, that you’re old and dying of starvation, and you can’t get anyone to help you. And it will, too.”

She turned and left the office, white with anger. She shopped carefully with her three shillings, and bought two pints of milk, a few water biscuits, and a little sugar; that finished her money. She thought deeply; she could get some more food for her grandmother and for herself on the way back from Blackheath. It was urgent to get over there at once, before the bank shut, so that she could get her money. She turned and made for Ladysmith Avenue; on the way she stopped and spent fourpence on a copy of
The Times
, thinking that it would give the old lady an interest while she was absent,
and give something for her morale to hang on to during the afternoon.

When she got into the house she took
The Times
up to her grandmother’s room. The old lady lay in bed exactly as Jennifer had left her; her eyes were shut, and though she was breathing steadily it seemed to the girl that the respiration was now fainter than it had been when she had been lying in the same way on the previous night. Jennifer spoke to her, but she did not answer; however, when she reached in to the bed to get the hot-water bottles the old lady opened her eyes.

“Just getting your hot-water bottles, Granny,” the girl said. “I’ll make you another cup of Benger’s, too. I brought you
The Times.”

“So sweet of you,” her grandmother said. “I had to give up
The Times
, but I always go down every morning to look at the Births, Deaths, and Marriages. It’s so easy to miss things, and then you write to somebody and find they’re dead.”

The girl said, “I’m just going to get these water-bottles filled, and make you another hot drink. I’ll be back in about five minutes.”

When she got back the old lady was reading the front page of
The Times
. Jennifer packed the hot-water bottles around her and got her to take the best part of the cup of the milk drink, and to eat about half of one biscuit. While she was coaxing her to eat the rest there was a knock, at the front door; she went downstairs, and it was the postman with a heavy parcel.

She took it from him, and carried it up to show to her grandmother, with an instinct that anything that would stimulate and arouse her interest was good. “Look what the post’s brought,” she said. “Myer’s Emporium. What have you been buying?”

The old lady said, “Oh, that’s dear Jane. How sweet of her. It’s a parcel from Australia, Jenny. She sends one every month.”

“It’s got an English postmark, Granny,” the girl said.

“I know, my dear. She puts the order in Australia and the food comes from England somehow or other. So funny.”

“Shall I open it?”

“Please. I must write and thank her.” The parcel contained six cartons of dried fruit and a tin of lard; Jennifer now knew where the cartons she had seen in the larder came from. She asked, “Granny, who is Aunt Jane? She isn’t Mother’s sister, is she?”

“No, my dear. Your mother never had a sister. She’s my niece, my brother Tom’s daughter.”

“She’s the one who quarreled with the family because she married an Australian?”

“Yes, dear. Tom and Margaret were very much upset, but it’s turned out very well. I liked him, but Tom found him drinking white port with Jeffries, the butler, in the middle of the morning, and he used to swear dreadfully, and never saluted anybody. So different to our Army,”

Jennifer smiled. “What was Aunt Jane like?”

“Such a sweet girl—but very stubborn. Once she decided to do a thing there was no arguing with her; she had to see it through. I sometimes think that you’re a little like her, Jenny.”

Time was slipping by; if she were to get money that day she could not linger. “I’m going over to Blackheath now,” she said. “I’ll get a few things for the night, and I’ll get some money and some bits of things we need. I’ll be back about tea-time, but I’ll leave a note explaining everything to the nurse. Will you be all right, do you think?”

“I’ll be quite all right, my dear. Don’t hurry; I shall get a little sleep, I expect.”

Jennifer went downstairs and left a note on the hall table for the nurse, and travelled across London to her rooms at Blackheath. She got there about midday, packed a bag, went to the bank, and rang up her office to say that she would have to take the rest of the week off to look after her grandmother. Then she snatched a quick meal in a café and travelled back to Ealing.

She was lucky in that when she reached the house the doctor and the nurse were both there, with her grandmother. She waited in the hall till they came down from the bedroom; a few letters had arrived, two that seemed to be bills and one air-mailed from Australia. That would be Jane Dorman, Jennifer thought, who had married the Australian who drank port with the butler and never saluted anybody, and who still sent parcels of dried fruit to her aunt after thirty years. They must have been very close at one time for affection to have endured so long.

She looked round for the candle, but she could not find it; perhaps the doctor and the nurse had it upstairs with them. She stood in the dusk of the hall, waiting.

Presently they came out of the room upstairs, and the staircase was suddenly flooded with light as the nurse turned the switch. Jennifer went forward to meet them. “The electricity’s come on!” she exclaimed.

“Of course. Didn’t you go and see them?”

“They said they wouldn’t turn it on until I paid the bill.”

“The man came and turned it on this afternoon.” They left that for the moment, and the nurse said, “This is Dr. Thompson.”

He was a fairly young man, not more than about thirty; he looked tired and overworked. He said, “You’re Miss Morton? Let’s go into one of these rooms.”

They went into the drawing-room; it was as cold as a tomb, but anyway the light was on. Surrounded by the Burmese relics the girl asked, “How is she, Doctor?”

The young man glanced at her, summing her up. “She’s very ill,” he said. “Very ill indeed. You know what’s the matter with her, of course?”

Jennifer said, “She’s got no money.”

“Yes. Malnutrition. Starvation, if you like.” He glanced around the drawing-room, taking in the worn Indian carpet of fine quality, the old-fashioned, comfortable furniture, the sampler as a firescreen, the multitude of ornaments and bric-à-brac. “She wouldn’t sell any of this stuff, I suppose.”

“She’s very set in her ways,” the girl said. “She likes to have her own things round her.”

“I know.” He glanced at her. “Are you going to keep her here?”

“Could we get her into a hospital?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think there’s a chance. I don’t think any hospital would take her. You see, the beds are all needed for urgent cases; she might be bedridden for years if she gets over the immediate trouble.”

“She must have paid a lot of money into hospitals in her time,” said Jennifer. “She was always subscribing to things.”

“I’m afraid that doesn’t count for much in the Health Service. Things are different now, you know.”

“My father’s coming down from Leicester tomorrow,” the girl said. “He’s a doctor. I think he’ll have to decide what to do. I’ll stay with her tonight in any case.”

“You’ll be alone, here, will you?”

“Yes.” She hesitated, and then she said, “Do you think she’ll die?”

“I hope not. Would you be very frightened if she did die, and you were alone with her?”

“I’ve never seen anybody die,” the girl said evenly. “I hope that I’d be able to do what was best for her.”

“You’ll be all right….” He bit his lip. “I don’t think she’ll die tonight,” he said. “She’s definitely weaker than when I saw her yesterday, I’m afraid…. Nurse here has to get some sleep tonight. I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll look in again myself about eleven, just before I go to bed. In the meantime, this is what she’s got to have.”

He gave her her instructions, and went off with the nurse; Jennifer went up to her grandmother’s bedroom. It was warm with an electric radiator burning; the old lady lay in bed, but turned her eyes to the girl.

“I see you’ve got a radiator going, Granny,” she said. “That’s much better.”

“It was that nice man,” she said weakly. “I heard somebody moving around downstairs, and I thought it was you, Jenny. And then somebody knocked at my door, and it was him. He said he hoped he wasn’t intruding, but he thought I’d like the radiator, and he came in and turned it on and saw that it was burning properly. And then he said he hoped I’d soon be better.”

“How nice of him,” the girl said.

She made her grandmother comfortable and went out quickly to get to the shops before they shut. She bought the things that the doctor had told her to buy and a little food for her own supper. On
her way back to the house she passed the Electricity Department, and saw a light still burning in the office window, though the door was locked. She stopped, and rang the bell; the manager himself came to the door of the shop.

He peered at her in the half light, his eyes dazzled by the strong light at his desk. “It’s after hours,” he said. “The office is closed now. You’ll have to come back in the morning.”

“It’s me—Jennifer Morton,” she said. “I just looked in to thank you for turning on the electricity.”

He recognised her then. “Oh, that’s all right,” he said. “I rang up head office, and they gave permission.” In fact he had sat for an hour staring blankly at the calendar, unable to work, and with the girl’s words searing in his mind. Then he had rung up his supervisor and had repeated to him what Jennifer had said. He had added a few words of his own, saying that he had checked with the district nurse, and he was going to re-connect the supply. He had said quietly that they could take whatever action seemed best to them; if the job required behaviour of that sort from him, he didn’t want the job. He was now waiting for the storm to break, uncertain of his own future, unsettled and reluctant to go home and tell his wife.

“I’ve got my cheque-book here,” she said. “I can pay the bill now, if you like.”

It might soothe the supervisor if the cheque were dated on the same day as his own revolt. He showed her into the office and she sat down and wrote out the cheque; in turn he wrote out the receipt, stamped it, and gave it to her, “How is your grandmother tonight?” he asked.

“Not too good,” she replied. “She’s got a better chance now that we can get some warmth into the house. I’m sorry I said that to you this morning. One gets a bit strung up.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said. “Can’t you get her into the hospital?”

The girl shook her head. “She’s too old,” she said a little bitterly. “They don’t want people in there who are just dying of old age. She’s lost her pension because we’ve left India and the fund’s run dry. She can’t get an old age pension under the new scheme because she hasn’t contributed to it for fifteen years, or something. She’s spent all her capital in trying to live, and sold most of her furniture, and the bank won’t give her any more upon the house. There’s no place for old ladies in the brave new world.”

He tightened his lips, conscious of his own dark fears. “I know,” he said. “It’s getting worse each year. Sometimes one feels the only thing to do is to break out and get away while you’re still young enough. Try it again in Canada, perhaps, or in South Africa.”

She looked at him, startled. “Is that what you’re thinking of?”

“If I was alone, I’d go, I think,” he said. “But it’s the children—that’s what makes it difficult. They’ve got to have a home….”

She had no time to stay and talk to him; she cut it short and
hurried back to the house. There was a telegram there now from her father saying that he was coming down next day without her mother, who was not so well, and enclosing a telegraphed money order for ten pounds. She put that in her bag and glanced at the two bills, one for groceries and one for milk, each with a politely-worded note at the bottom that was a threat of action. No good worrying her grandmother with those. She took off her coat and hat, and went upstairs with the letter from Australia in her hand.

In the bedroom the old lady was still lying in much the same position. She was awake and she knew Jennifer, but she was breathing now in an irregular manner, with three or four deep breaths and then a pause. There was nothing that Jennifer could do about it; the only thing was to carry on and do what the doctor had told her. It was time for another drink of warm milk, this time with brandy in it.

She gave the air-mail letter to her grandmother. “There’s an air-mail letter for you,” she said brightly. “Like me to get your glasses?”

“Please, dear. Did you see where it was from?”

“It’s from Australia.”

The old lady took the spectacle case with trembling hands, fumbling a little and put the glasses on, and looked at the letter. “Yes, that’s from dear Jane. So sweet of her to keep on writing, and sending me such lovely parcels. We must make a cake, Jenny. Such lovely things….”

Jennifer went downstairs and warmed the milk up in a saucepan on the stove and made herself a cup of tea at the same time; she mixed the Benger’s Food and added the brandy, and carried both cups up to the bedroom. She found her grandmother staring bewildered at a slip of paper in her hand, the envelope and the letter lying on the counterpane that covered her.

“Jenny,” she said weakly. “Jenny, come here a minute. What is this?”

The girl took it from her. It clearly had to do with banking; it was like a cheque and yet it was not quite an ordinary cheque. The words were clear enough, however. “It’s a sort of cheque, Granny,” she said. “It’s made payable to you, for five hundred pounds sterling. I’m not quite sure what sterling means. It seems to be signed by the Commonwealth Bank of Australia. It’s as if the bank was giving you five hundred pounds.”