Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis (33 page)

His wife looked across the breakfast table, on this September morning, and thought how remarkably young he looked as he read
The Caxley Chronicle.

'I see Aunt Dolly's Emily has gone,' he said, eyes fixed upon the paper.

'Poor old thing,' said his wife perfunctorily. 'But she must have been terribly old.'

'About the same age as mother, I should guess. They were at school together, I know.'

'What will happen to Aunt Dolly?'

John lowered the paper thoughtfully.

'I don't know. I really don't know.'

He rose, tugging at his jacket and smoothing his hair.

'She really shouldn't be alone there,' said his wife solicitously. 'Anything might happen.'

'I might drive over and see her,' said John, kissing her swiftly. 'It's rotten getting old. This'll cut up Aunt Dolly badly.'

During the day he turned over in his mind the possibilities for Dolly Clare.

Could she be persuaded, he wondered, to leave the Beech Green cottage and make her home at 'Harada'? There were points in favour of such a move.

For one thing, it would be further company for his mother, and if anything happened to Alice then Dolly, presumably, would still be there. It was another hedge against the possibility of his mother having to live in his own house some day.

Again, Dolly's little cottage, humble though it was, was exceedingly pretty, and just the sort of place which was being snapped up by Londoners looking for a weekend cottage. A similar one at Fairacre, John remembered with a glow of pleasure, fetched five thousand pounds last month. The money could be invested and add to Aunt Dolly's tiny pension, thought John solicitously.

Besides, it would be keeping the money in the family.

He spent much of the day working out little sums—the possible interest that Dolly Clare would get on her problematical gains, if invested wisely—and it was almost time to leave the shop before he faced the cold fact that Dolly might not wish to sell, and that his mother might prefer to have 'Harada' to herself.

He determined to go and see his mother that evening and to make a few delicate enquiries.

Meanwhile, Ada too had been thinking. This death of Emily created some problems. She was honest enough to admit to herself that she did not feel any grief on Emily's behalf. There had never been any love lost between the two.

Even now, Ada felt resentment at the way Emily had usurped her own place in young Dolly's affections. As little children in Caxley, Dolly had always followed Ada's lead. She adored her elder sister, and had been content to do her bidding without question.

But things had changed under the influence of the Davis family, and particularly with the growth of the friendship between Emily and Dolly. Now Ada was not always right. Dolly began to question some of her decisions, and to ask Emily's opinion before her sister's. Ada considered Emily a subversive influence, and, as she grew older, she found no reason to change her views.

Then there was the affair of Manny's marrow which had made young Emily a minor heroine. The boys' attention had been diverted from Ada, the queen of the playground at Beech Green School, and although it was only a temporary defection, it gave Ada further cause to dislike Emily.

Later still, when Ada was a young mother, and not long after the little contretemps of the baby's dummy, Emily played a more important part in Ada's life. It was an episode which she remembered with shame for the rest of her life, and Emily's attitude at the time did little to assuage Ada's guilt.

Even now, over half a century later, she shied away from the remembrance, although she knew from experience that it would return before long to haunt her. Did Emily ever tell? Did Dolly ever know?

The anxiety pricked her as keenly now as it had so many years ago. And she would never know the answers! Sometimes the old Jewish God of Retribution seemed very real to Ada.

The thought of Dolly brought more practical problems to her mind. She would be left alone in the little house at Beech Green, and would be worse off without Emily's financial help in the partnership they had so much enjoyed.

It was all very tiresome, thought Ada with exasperation. She supposed she ought to invite her to 'Harada'. It would be expected of her, by her local friends, she had no doubt, and when one was so well respected in the church, and particularly in the Mothers' Union, it behoved one to act correctly.

But why should she alter her comfortable way of life to accommodate a sister who really meant very little to her? They had gone their own ways for so long, that, despite a proper sisterly warmth when they met, they had little in common.

Would Dolly mix comfortably with the prosperous widows who still came occasionally to play bridge in Ada's drawing room? She was far more likely, thought Ada, to sit in a corner, like a death's head at a feast, while the chatter went on, making everyone self-conscious.

And how would Alice like it? After all, she must consider Alice's feelings. She might very well feel hurt at another person coming to live at the house, on intimate terms. And, of course, it would make more work. There would be another bed to cope with, more laundry, more heating in the bedroom, more vegetables to peel, more meat to buy. Really, the more one thought of it, the greater the problem became.

She was restless and irritable throughout the day, wondering what to do. She wanted to appear generous in the sight of the little world of Caxley, but she very much resented the discomfort and expense it might put her to.

So like Emily, she thought distractedly, to go first, and leave such a muddle for others to tidy up!

Perhaps John might be of help. She determined to telephone him, as soon as he returned from the shop. After all, Dolly was his godmother, as well as his aunt. He should give her some attention at this difficult time. It was all too much for Ada alone.

Really, she felt quite faint with worry about it. She went to the drawing room door and called Alice.

'Could we have tea early, dear? My poor head's throbbing. Jam and cream with the scones, Alice dear.'

But there was no need to make a telephone call, for John appeared very soon after the meal had been dispatched, and broached the painful subject with masculine frankness.

'Bad news about Emily Davis. You saw it, I expect, in the paper?'

'I don't know what's bad about dying in your eighties,' said Ada tartly. 'Surely it's only to be expected. I know I feel very near my end often enough.'

John sensed from this reply that his mother was in one of her difficult moods. The dash of self-pity in her last sentence was always a danger sign.

He patted her hand kindly.

'You're a wonderful old lady,' he assured her. 'Lots of happy years ahead for you.'

She allowed herself to be slightly mollified.

'Yes, well—I suppose I do keep pretty bright, considering. But it's always a shock when one of your own generation goes.'

'Aunt Dolly will miss her,' said John, approaching the subject of his schemes warily.

'Bound to,' agreed Ada. She brushed a scone crumb from her lap and considered how best to put her difficulties to John.

'She shouldn't be alone,' said John. 'Not at her age.'

'No,' said Ada. 'Not at her age. And she's never been really robust. She was always the weakling of the two of us.'

'It's a problem.'

'It certainly is.'

'I take it she'll be pretty hard up?'

'No doubt about it. They shared expenses, of course, which helped them both.'

John stood up and balanced himself first on his toes and then on his heels. It was a habit he had had since childhood, and indicative of mental unrest. Ada found it irritating.

'Don't keep rocking, John.'

'Sorry, mother,' he said, standing stock still. 'It's just that I'm a bit worried about poor Aunt Dolly. She is my godmother, you know.'

'I know well enough,' snapped his mother, resenting the reproachful note in John's voice. 'And you're not the only one to be worried. I've been almost distracted, wondering what to do for the best, all day today.'

John felt that some progress was being made.

'What had you in mind?'

'Well, naturally, as she's my only sister, my first thought was to invite her here.'

'That's very generous of you, mother. But do you think you are up to it?'

Ada sighed heavily.

'We all have to make sacrifices at times like this. And no doubt Dolly would appreciate it.'

'I'm sure she would be most grateful.'

'But then—I don't know. It would be such a complete
change in her way of life, wouldn't it? And we're so far here from the shops and things. Have you considered having her at your house? She is your godmother, you know.'

John, though taken aback at this surprise attack, rallied well.

'Out of the question,' he replied swiftly. 'No spare room, for one thing, and then I think Aunt Dolly would find the children too much for her.'

'Humph!' snorted Ada, thwarted. A short silence ensued.

'If she
did
leave Beech Green, I think she would get a very good price for the cottage,' said John at last. His mother's love of money was as strong as his own. He could have found no surer way of diverting her attention.

'Would she now?' said his mother speculatively. 'How much should you think?'

'Somewhere in the region of five thousand.'

Ada nodded slowly.

'She'd need some of that to see her fixed comfortably for the rest of her life, of course—' Her voice trailed away.

'Naturally, naturally,' agreed John hastily. 'Properly invested it should bring in a nice little sum for the next few years.'

He cleared his throat fussily.

'How old is dear Aunt Dolly now?' he asked in a would-be casual tone.

'Eighty-four,' said Ada shortly.

'She's made a will, I hope?'

'I believe so. I know if she went first, the house was to be Emily's.'

'Really?' John sounded startled. 'And now what happens?'

'I'm not sure, but I've an idea it might go to a niece of Emily's.'

It was John's turn to sigh.

'Ah well, she must do as she likes with her own property, of course, but I do hope she isn't making a mistake. Well, mother, how do you feel about inviting her here? Would you be happy about it?'

'I must think it over. I'm sure poor Dolly would enjoy the greater comfort she'd get here, and she'd have company, of course, but it would mean a lot of extra work. Not that I'd mind that—I've worked all my life—but I shouldn't like to place a burden on Alice.'

'Of course not,' agreed John. 'You think it over, my dear, and give me a ring, before you write to Aunt Dolly.'

He kissed her cheek and departed, leaving her to her thoughts.

***

Five thousand, thought Ada. It was worth keeping in the family. She reviewed the situation anew. There were arguments for and against inviting Dolly to 'Harada'. She pondered on the problem in the gathering dusk.

At last she came to a decision. She would write to Dolly expressing sympathy, and telling her that she could make her home in Caxley should she wish to do so. Then, in all truth, she could tell her friends that she had invited Dolly to live with her, and any money would be wisely invested for her maintenance. John would see to that.

She went to her writing desk and wrote swiftly in her large, bold hand.

Dear Dolly,

I was most distressed to hear about poor Emily and hasten to send my deepest sympathy.

You can guess how worried I am to know you are quite alone now. Should you care to come and stay here with me,
you know you would be most welcome. For a short visit, if you prefer it, to see how you like it here, but with a view to living here permanently, I mean.

The back bedroom is very comfortable, although it is facing north, and the little box room next door could be turned into a snug little sitting room, if you like the idea.

I know you wouldn't want to be idle, and Alice and I would welcome your help in running the house.

Do think it over. I know John would be very happy to give you any help in disposing of your furniture and so on, if the need arises.

With love from,

Ada.

She glanced at the clock. If Alice hurried, she could catch the last outgoing post at the main office in the High Street.

She stuck on a stamp with an energetic banging, and called imperiously for Alice.

When she was safely dispatched on her hurried errand, Ada rang John to tell him what she had done.

He was a trifle annoyed that she had written without consulting him again, but he was resigned to his mother's highhanded and impetuous methods.

'Well, we'll have to wait and see now, won't we?' was all he found to say.

But as he put the receiver down, he had a strong feeling that Aunt Dolly's cottage would never be his.

He was right.

Two mornings later, he called to see his mother, who handed him Dolly's reply in silence.

My dear Ada,

Your kind sympathy is very much appreciated. I miss dear Emily more than I can say, as you may imagine, and because of that I am doubly grateful for your kind suggestion of sharing your home with me.

It is a very generous gesture, Ada dear, and I have thought about the matter seriously. However, I am determined to stay here, where I am so happy, and I am lucky enough to have good neighbours who will always help me, I know.

Perhaps John would bring you out to tea one day when things are more settled, and I can thank you both properly for all your concern for my welfare.

Your loving sister,

Dolly.

'That's that then,' said John, returning the letter. They both sighed. John for the loss of a dream; his mother with secret relief.

A
DA'S
relief was genuine. There would have been many drawbacks to Dolly's presence in the house. Perhaps the most irksome would have been the constant nagging query in her own mind: 'Did Dolly know?'

What was this guilty memory which worried Ada so unduly after so many years? And what part did Emily Davis play in it?