Blue Bedroom and Other Stories (10 page)

“I've never had a baby,” said Miss Cameron, “so I don't know how people feel. But I imagine it is rather an emotional time. And you can't help how you feel. It's no good people telling you not to be depressed.”

“She says she's too old. She's nearly forty.”

“My mother was forty before I was born, and I was her first and only child. And there's nothing wrong with me and there was nothing wrong with my mother.”

Bryony looked up, her attention caught by this revelation. “Was she really? Did you mind, about her being so old?”

Miss Cameron decided that this was one time when the whole truth went out the window. “No, not at all. And for your baby it will be different, because you'll be there. I can't think of anything nicer than having a sister fourteen years older than oneself. Just like having the very best sort of aunt.”

“The awful thing is,” said Bryony, “I wouldn't mind so much if something happened to the baby. But I couldn't bear anything to happen to my mother.”

Miss Cameron leaned forward and gave her a pat on the shoulder. “It won't. Don't think about it. The doctors will take every care of her.” It seemed time to try to talk about something else. “Now. It's Christmas Eve. There are carols on television. Would you like to listen to them?”

“No, if you don't awfully mind. I don't want to think about Christmas, and I don't want to watch television.”

“Then what would you like to do?”

“I think I'd just like to talk.”

Miss Cameron's heart sank. “Talk. What shall we talk about?”

“Perhaps we could talk about you.”

“Me?” Despite herself she had to laugh. “My goodness, what a boring subject. An old maiden lady, practically in her dotage!”

“How old are you?” asked Bryony with such simplicity that Miss Cameron told her. “But fifty-eight's not old! That's only a year or two older than my father and he's young. At least, I always think he is.”

“I'm afraid I'm still not very interesting.”

“I think everybody's interesting. And do you know what my mother said when she first saw you? She said you had a beautiful face and that she would like to draw you. So how's that for a compliment?”

Miss Cameron flushed with pleasure. “Well, that's very gratifying…”

“So tell me about you. Why did you buy this little house? Why did you come
here?
”

And so Miss Cameron, normally so reserved and silent, began painfully to talk. She told Bryony about that first holiday in Kilmoran, before the war, when the world was young and innocent and you could buy an ice cream cone for a penny. She told Bryony about her parents, her childhood, the old, tall house in Edinburgh. She told her about University, and how she had met her friend Dorothy, and all at once this unaccustomed flood of reminiscence was no longer an ordeal, but a kind of relief. It was pleasant to remember the old-fashioned school where she had taught for so many years, and she was able to speak dispassionately about those last bleak times before her father finally died.

Bryony listened avidly, with as much interest as if Miss Cameron were telling her of some amazing personal adventure. And when she got to the bit about old Mr. Cameron's will, and being left so comfortably off, Bryony could not contain herself.

“Oh, how marvellous. It's just like a fairy story. It's just such a terrible pity there isn't a good-looking, white-haired prince to turn up and claim your hand in marriage.”

Miss Cameron laughed. “I'm a little old for that kind of thing.”

“What a pity you didn't marry. You'd have been a marvellous sort of mother. Or even if you'd had sisters and brothers and then you could have been the marvellous sort of aunt!” She looked around the little sitting room with satisfaction. “It's just exactly right for you, isn't it? This house must have been waiting for you, knowing that you were going to come and live here.”

“That's a fatalistic sort of attitude.”

“Yes, but a positive one. I'm terribly fatalistic about everything.”

“You mustn't be too fatalistic. God helps those who help themselves.”

“Yes,” said Bryony. “Yes, I suppose so.”

They fell silent. A log broke and collapsed into the fire, and as Miss Cameron leaned forward to replace it, the clock on the mantelpiece chimed half-past seven. They were both astonished to realise that it was so late, and Bryony at once remembered her mother.

“I wonder what's happening?”

“Your father will ring the moment he has anything to tell us. And meantime, I think we should wash up these tea things and decide what we're going to have for supper. What would you like?”

“My most favourite would be tinned tomato soup and bacon and eggs.”

“That would be my most favourite, too. Let's go and get it.”

*   *   *

The telephone call did not come through until half-past nine. Mrs. Ashley was in labour. There was no saying how long it would be, but Mr. Ashley intended staying at the hospital.

“I'll keep Bryony here for the night,” said Miss Cameron firmly. “She can sleep in my spare bedroom. And I have a telephone by my bed, so don't hesitate to ring me the moment you have any news.”

“I'll do that.”

“Do you want to speak to Bryony?”

“Just to say goodnight.”

Miss Cameron shut herself in the kitchen while father and daughter talked together. When she heard the ring of the receiver being replaced, she did not go out into the hall, but busied herself at the sink, filling hot-water bottles and wiping down the already immaculate draining board. She half-expected tears when Bryony joined her, but Bryony was composed and dry-eyed as ever.

“He says we just have to wait. Do you mind if I stay the night with you? I can go next door and get my toothbrush and things.”

“I want you to stay. You can sleep in my spare room.”

Bryony finally went to bed, with a hot-water bottle and a tumbler of warm milk. Miss Cameron went to say goodnight, but she was too shy to stoop and kiss her. Bryony's flame of hair was spread like red silk on Miss Cameron's best linen pillowcase, and she had brought an aged teddy along with the toothbrush. The teddy had a threadbare nose and only one eye. Half an hour later, when she herself went to bed, she looked in and saw that Bryony was fast asleep.

Miss Cameron lay between the sheets, but sleep did not come easily. Her brain seemed to be wound up with memories, people and places that she had not thought about in years.

I think everybody's interesting,
Bryony had said and Miss Cameron's heart lifted in hope for the state of the world. Nothing could be too bad if there were still young people who thought that way.

She said you had a beautiful face.
Perhaps, she thought, I don't do enough. I have allowed myself to become too self-contained. It is selfish not to think more about other people. I must do more. I must try to travel. I shall get in touch with Dorothy after the New Year and see if she would like to come with me.

Madeira. They could go to Madeira. There would be blue skies and bougainvillia. And jacaranda trees …

*   *   *

She awoke with a terrible start in the middle of the night. It was pitch dark, it was bitterly cold. The telephone was ringing. She put out a hand and turned on the bedside light. She looked at her clock and saw that it was not the middle of the night, but six o'clock in the morning. Christmas morning. She picked up the telephone.

“Yes?”

“Miss Cameron. Ambrose Ashley here…” He sounded exhausted.

“Oh.” She felt quite faint. “Tell me.”

“A little boy. Born half an hour ago. A lovely little boy.”

“And your wife?”

“She's asleep. She's going to be fine.”

After a little, “I'll tell Bryony,” said Miss Cameron.

“I'll get back to Kilmoran some time this morning—around midday, I should think. I'll ring the hotel and take you both there for lunch. That is, if you'd like to come?”

“How kind,” said Miss Cameron. “How very kind.”

“You're the kind one,” said Mr. Ashley.

*   *   *

A new baby. A new baby on Christmas morning. She wondered if they would call it Noel. She got up and went to the open window. The morning was black and cold, the tide high, the inky waves lapping at the sea wall. The icy air smelt of the sea. Miss Cameron took a deep breath of it, and felt, all at once, enormously excited and filled with boundless energy. A little boy. She revelled in a great sense of accomplishment, which was ridiculous because in fact she had accomplished nothing.

Dressed, she went downstairs to put a kettle on to boil. She laid a tea tray for Bryony and put two cups and saucers upon it.

I should have a present,
she told herself.
It's Christmas and I have nothing to give her.
But she knew that with the tea tray she was taking Bryony the best present she had ever had.

Now, it was nearly seven. She went upstairs and into Bryony's room, set the tray down on the bedside table and turned on the lamp. She went to draw the curtains. In the bed, Bryony stirred. Miss Cameron went to sit by her, to take her hand. The teddy was visible, its ears beneath Bryony's chin. Bryony's eyes were opened. She saw Miss Cameron sitting there, and at once they were wide and filled with apprehension.

Miss Cameron smiled. “Happy Christmas.”

“Has my father rung?”

“You've got a baby brother, and your mother's safe and sound.”

“Oh…” It was too much. Relief opened the floodgates, and all Bryony's anxieties were released in a torrent of tears. “Oh…” Her mouth went square as a bawling child's, and Miss Cameron could not bear it. She could not remember when she had last had physical, loving contact with another human being, but now she opened her arms and gathered the weeping girl up into them. Bryony's arms came round her neck and Miss Cameron was held so closely and so tightly that she thought she would choke. She felt the thin shoulders beneath her hands; the wet cheek, streaming with tears, was pressed against her own.

“I thought … I thought something awful was going to happen. I thought she was going to die.”

“I know,” said Miss Cameron. “I know.”

*   *   *

It took a little time for them both to recover. But at last it was over, the tears mopped up, the pillows plumped, the tea poured, and they could talk about the baby.

“I'm certain,” said Bryony, “that it is terribly
special
to be born on Christmas Day. When shall I see them?”

“I don't know. Your father will tell you.”

“When's he coming?”

“He'll be here in time for lunch. We're all going out to the hotel to eat roast turkey.”

“Oh, good. I'm glad you're coming too. What shall we do till he comes? It's only half-past seven.”

“There's lots to do,” said Miss Cameron. “We've got to have a great big breakfast, and light a great big Christmas fire. And if you'd like to, we could go to church.”

“Oh, let's. And sing carols. I don't mind thinking about Christmas now. I didn't want to think about it last night.” She said, “I suppose I couldn't have a simply boiling hot bath, could I?”

“You can do anything you like.” She stood up and picked up the tea tray and carried it to the door. But as she opened the door, Bryony said, “Miss Cameron,” and she turned back.

“You were so sweet to me last night. Thank you so much. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been there.”

“I liked having you,” said Miss Cameron truthfully. “I liked talking.” She hesitated. An idea had just occurred to her. “Bryony, after all we've been through together, I don't really think you should go on calling me Miss Cameron. It sounds so very formal, and after all, we're past that now, aren't we?”

Bryony looked a little surprised, but not in the least put out.

“All right. If you say so. But what
shall
I call you?”

“My name,” said Miss Cameron, and found herself smiling, because, really, it was a very pretty name, “is Isobel.”

Tea With the Professor

They had arrived at the station far too early, but this was the way that James liked it, because he had a horror of missing the train. They had parked the car, bought his ticket, and now walked slowly up the ramp together, Veronica carrying his bag and James with his rugger ball tucked under one arm and his raincoat trailing over the other.

The platform was deserted. Out of the wind it was still warm, and they found a seat in a sheltered corner and sat together in a blaze of gold September sunshine. James kicked at the gravel with the toe of his shoe. Above them the dry and dusty leaves of a palm tree rattled in the breeze. A car passed on the road, and a porter appeared from a little shed with a trolley, which he proceeded to haul the length of the platform. They watched his progress in silence. James looked up at the face of the clock.

“Nigel's late,” he said with satisfaction.

“There's five minutes yet.”

He kicked the gravel again. She observed his profile, cool and detached, the lashes of his lowered eyelids brushing the still-baby curves of his cheek. He was ten years old, her only son, returning to boarding school. They had said goodbye at home, in a passionate hug that made her feel as though she was being torn apart. Now, with this over, it was as though he had already gone. She blessed him for his composure.

A car raced up the hill, changed down, swung into the station yard. There was a screech of brakes and a rattle of loose stone.

James squirmed round on the seat to peer out through the slats of the wooden railing.

“It's Nigel.”

“I thought they wouldn't be long.”

They sat waiting. A moment later Nigel and his mother came up the ramp, she all breathless and blonde, he chubby and sleek as a mole. Nigel was the same age as James and the boys had started school together, but James had no affection for him. Their only common bond was this journey to and from school, when they shared a carriage and comics and, one imagined, a little stilted conversation. Veronica sometimes felt guilty about James's lack of enthusiasm for Nigel. “Why don't we ask him over in the holidays? It would be someone for you to play with.”