The Shortest Journey Read Online Free Page B

her daughter.
What a nice surprise for you! She told me that it’s her mother’s
birthday this week and she always likes to come down to see her
round about then. Isn’t that nice! But, of course, I don’t have to
tell you, Mrs Malory, how thoughtful Mrs Douglas is and how good
she’s always been to her mother – not like some I could mention.
The tales I could tell you! It takes all sorts, I suppose. Still,
it is so nice to see a daughter so devoted to her mother. Quite
restores one’s faith in human nature, you might say.’
    I gave Mrs Wilmot a brief, false smile and made my
way up to Mrs Rossiter’s room. It was Thelma’s voice that called
out ‘Come in’ in response to my knock and it was Thelma who took
the bunch of primroses from my hand.
    ‘Look, Mummy, at the lovely flowers that Sheila has
brought you – isn’t that kind of her?’
    I felt cheated. I had wanted to put the flowers into
Mrs Rossiter’s hand and see her eyes light up as they always did
when I brought her some small remembrance. She was pleased, of
course, but gave only a polite little murmur and a shy smile.
    ‘I know how you love primroses,’ I said, hearing my
voice sound too emphatic. Thelma Douglas is one of those small,
slim, energetic women who make me feel like a large, ponderous,
slow-thinking, unfashionable provincial. From her neat dark head
(untouched by grey) to her small feet in their ridiculously
high-heeled shoes she epitomised everything that was urban and
elegant. It is an extraordinary paradox, I suppose, that one should
feel inferior to people one really despises. Not for one moment
would I ever want to be like Thelma – but still, I couldn’t help
wishing that I wasn’t wearing an old camel jacket and a tweed skirt
– both embellished with dog-hairs – and a pair of flat, comfortable
shoes.
    Thelma came back from the bathroom with a vase full
of water and picked up the primroses.
    ‘Aren’t they lovely! I adore the spring, such an
exciting time of the year!’
    She tucked the primroses neatly into the vase,
pausing when she had finished with the violets in her hand.
    ‘I’m afraid these won’t go in properly. I always
think it’s such a pity to pick them really – they never last in
water.’
    Mrs Rossiter got up from her chair and quickly took
the violets from her daughter.
    ‘They’re so beautiful. Look, I’ve got this tiny glass
vase – they’ll just fit nicely. And did you know,’ she smiled at
me, ‘they drink through their faces, so if you turn them upside
down at night they last for days.’
    Thelma laughed. ‘What extraordinary things you know
about, Mummy,’ she said. And, turning to me, ‘Now do tell me what
you’ve been doing – all the gossip in the town. I always think that
real life is lived here and not in London!’
    This was so palpably untrue that I didn’t even bother
to reply, but said, ‘Oh, nothing ever happens here – what about
you? How is Gordon? Your mother tells me that the business is doing
splendidly, you must both be so busy.’
    ‘My dear, it’s frantic, just a madhouse from morning
to night. But so stimulating – I do feel my brain would atrophy if I didn’t have at least half a dozen problems to
be solved every day! But yes’ – she lowered her voice as she
prepared to talk seriously about the one thing that really mattered
to her – ‘the business is doing very well indeed. We have these two
new accounts.’ She mentioned brand names that we had heard of even
down in Taviscombe.
    ‘Goodness,’ I said, impressed in spite of myself,
‘you must be doing well.’
    ‘We’re at a tricky stage, of course. We ought to be
expanding to take advantage of big accounts like those – new
offices, bigger staff – but there’s a cash-flow problem. When is
there not? But it’s a difficult time to raise the finance, as you
can imagine, with the City being a bit jumpy and 1992 almost upon
us.’
    She held forth for some little time on this theme and
then, as