‘I cannot speak to Tempest just yet. She went into a nursing home for an operation last week.’
‘A serious one?’
‘A tumour on the womb. But at her age it is, in itself, less serious than in a younger woman.
‘Oh well, then you can’t do anything for us at present.’
‘I shall think,’ he said, ‘if I know anyone else. Have you approached Lettie on the subject?’
‘Oh, yes.
He smiled, and said, ‘Approach her no more. It is a waste of time. You must seriously think, Jean, of going to that home in Surrey. The cost is not high. Godfrey and I can manage it. I think Charmian would be joining you there soon. Jean, you should have a room of your own.
‘Not now,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘I shan’t move from here. I’ve made friends here, it’s my home.’
‘See you next Wednesday, my dear,’ he said, taking his hat and looking round the ward, sharply at each of the grannies in turn.
‘All being well,’ she said.
Two years ago, when she first came to the ward, she had longed for the private nursing home in Surrey about which there had been too much talk. Godfrey had made a fuss about the cost, he had expostulated in her presence, and had quoted a number of their friends of the progressive set on the subject of the new free hospitals, how superior they were to the private affairs. Alec Warner had pointed out that these were days of transition, that a person of Jean Taylor’s intelligence and habits might perhaps not feel at home among the general aged of a hospital.
‘If only,’ he said, ‘because she is partly what we have made her, we should look after her.’
He had offered to bear half the cost of keeping Jean in Surrey. But Dame Lettie had finally put an end to these arguments by coming to Jean with a challenge, ‘Would you not really, my dear,
Alec Warner had not liked to see her in this ward. The first week he had wanted her to move. In misery she had vacillated. Her pains were increasing, she was not yet resigned to them. There had been further consultations and talking things over. Should she be moved to Surrey? Might not Charmian join her there eventually?
Not now, she thought, after Alec Warner had departed. Granny Valvona had put on her glasses and was searching for the horoscopes. Not now, thought Miss Taylor. Not now that the worst is over.
At first, in the morning light, Charmian forgave Mrs Pettigrew. She was able, slowly, to walk downstairs by herself. Other movements were difficult and Mrs Pettigrew had helped her to dress quite gently.
‘But,’ said Mabel Pettigrew to her, ‘you should get into the habit of breakfast in bed.’
‘No,’ said Charmian cheerfully as she tottered round the table, grasping the backs of chairs, to her place. ‘That would be a bad habit. My morning cup of tea in bed is all that I desire. Good morning, Godfrey.’
‘Lydia May,’ said Godfrey, reading from the paper, ‘died yesterday at her home in Knightsbridge six days before her ninety-second birthday.’
‘A Gaiety Girl,’ said Charmian. ‘I well remember.’
‘You’re in good form this morning,’ Mrs Pettigrew remarked. ‘Don’t forget to take your pills.’ She had put the bottle beside Charmian’s plate. She now unscrewed the cap and extracted two pills which she laid before Charmian.
‘I have had my pills already,’ said Charmian. ‘I had them with my morning tea, don’t you remember?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Pettigrew, ‘you are mistaken, dear. Take your pills.’
‘She made a fortune,’ Godfrey remarked. ‘Retired in 1893 and married money both times. I wonder what she has left?’
‘She was before my time, of course,’ said Mabel Pettigrew.
‘Nonsense,’ said Godfrey.
‘I beg your pardon, Mr Colston, she was before my time. If she retired in 1893 I was only a child in 1893.’
‘I remember her,’ said Charmian. ‘She sang most expressively — in the convention of those times you know.’
‘At the Gaiety?’ said Mrs Pettigrew. ‘Surely —’
‘No, I heard her at a private party.’
‘Ah, you would be quite a grown girl, then. Take your pills, dear.’ She pushed the two white tablets towards Charmian.
Charmian pushed them back and said, ‘I have already taken my pills this morning. I recall quite clearly. I usually do take them with my early tea.’
‘Not always,’ said Mrs Pettigrew. ‘Sometimes you forget and leave them on your tray, as you did this morning, actually.’
‘She was the youngest of fourteen children,’ Godfrey read out from the paper, ‘of a strict Baptist family. It was not till her father’s death that, at the age of eighteen, she made her debut in a small part at the Lyceum. Trained by Ellen Terry and Sir Henry Irving, she left them however for the Gaiety where she became the principal dancer. The then Prince of Wales —’
‘She was introduced to us at Cannes,’ said Charmian, gaining confidence in her good memory that morning, ‘wasn’t she?’
‘That’s right,’ said Godfrey, ‘it would be about 1910.’
