'Be going to me own funeral next, I expect.'
'No,' cried Henrietta. 'You mustn't let go. You said just now that Dr. Christow told you that you and he were going to make medical history. Well, you've got to carry on by yourself. The treatment's just the same. You've got to have the guts for two -you've got to make medical history by yourself-for him.'
Mrs. Crabtree looked at her for a moment or two.
'Sounds a bit grand! I'll do my best, ducky. Carn't say more than that.'
Henrietta got up and took her hand.
'Good-bye. I'll come and see you again if I may.'
'Yes, do. It'll do me good to talk about the doctor a bit.' The bawdy twinkle came into her eye again. 'Proper man in every kind of way. Dr. Christow.'
'Yes,' said Henrietta. 'He was…'
The old woman said:
'Don't fret, ducky-what's gorn's gorn.
You can't 'ave it back…'
Mrs. Crabtree and Hercule Poirot, Henrietta thought, expressed the same idea in different language.
She drove back to Chelsea, put away the car in the garage and walked slowly to the studio.
Now, she thought, it has come. The moment I have been dreading-the moment when I am alone…
Now I can put it off no longer… Now grief is here with me.
What had she said to Edward? 'I should like to grieve for John…'
She dropped down on a chair and pushed back the hair from her face.
Alone-empty-destitute…
This awful emptiness.
The tears pricked at her eyes, flowed slowly down her cheeks.
Grief, she thought, grief for John…
Oh, John-John…
Remembering-remembering… His voice, sharp with pain: If I were dead, the first thing you'd do, with the tears streaming down your face, would be to start modelling some damned mourning woman or some figure of grief.
She stirred uneasily… Why had that thought come into her head?
Grief… Grief… A veiled figure… its outline barely perceptible-its head cowled…
Alabaster…
She could see the lines of it-tall, elongated … its sorrow hidden, revealed only by the long mournful lines of the drapery …
Sorrow, emerging from clear transparent alabaster.
If I were dead…
And suddenly bitterness came over her full tide!
She thought, That's what I am! John was right. I cannot love-I cannot mourn-not with the whole of me… It's Midge, it's people like Midge who are the salt of the earth.
Midge and Edward at Ainswick…
That was reality-strength-warmth…
But I, she thought, am not a whole person.
I belong not to myself, but to something outside me…
I cannot grieve for my dead…
Instead I must take my grief and make it into a figure of alabaster…
'Exhibit N. 58 Grief, Alabaster. Miss Henrietta Savernake.'
She said under her breath:
'John, forgive me… forgive me… for what I can't help doing…'
