The Sunlight on the Garden Read Online Free Page B

‘I’m not a great one for puddings,’ she said, as she had often said before. She raised her tumbler of water and sipped at it, then sipped again. ‘Wars are terrible things.’
    â€˜Well, yes, they are.’
    â€˜My fiancé was killed in the war, you know. Did I ever tell you that? I mean the war before this one.’ How could I have supposed that she might mean the present one? ‘At Mons. You may have heard of Mons. Thousands and thousands of people were killed there, you know. English, French, Huns. And he was one of them. Later, people – meaning to be kind of course – used to tell me that someone else would come along for me. That’s what they used to tell me. Someone else. But there was no one else. How could there be? After the war, there were too many women for the men to go around. So here I am.’ She raised her glass and sipped again. ‘But it’s not been a bad life. I’ve been lucky to have spent all these years here. The house is almost a palace, isn’t it? And Mr Derek has been like a son to me. His mother was always so busy, you know. In those days, when he was growing up. She had all those charities and she loved her hunting. And – oh – all those other things.’ She squinted at me, her mouth pursed, and then said in a suddenly sharp voice: ‘It’s odd, your not having been called up.’
    â€˜I’m exempt. I have asthma.’ There was no reason why I should feel self-defensive and guilty but I did.
    â€˜Oh, yes, your asthma!’
    A silence followed, eventually broken by the sound of voices from beyond the dining-room door.
    Nanny jumped to her feet. ‘Oh, there they are!’
    I soon came to hate the rigid manner of the two nurses in their starchy uniforms. Clearly, they resented my intrusions into the sickroom. Clearly too, they even more resented any task that Hammond asked me to do for him. On one occasion, as I was patting a pillow, one of the two women snatched it from me. ‘I can do that!’ A few days later, when I had begun to read to him the news from the Morning Post , the other, who was then on duty, interrupted: ‘I think he ought to get some sleep now. Doctor said that sleep was the best thing for him.’ No longer did I occupy the dressing-room, since that was where, the door always open, one or other was always sentinel. My new room, far larger, with a yellowing sitz-bath with rusty taps in one corner of it, was at the other end of the long corridor.
    One afternoon, when one of the two had left and the other had still not arrived, I was alone with Hammond. His face was blotched with curious reddish-purple swellings, each the size of a then penny piece, and his forehead was creased and shiny with sweat. His eyes were closed as, seated in an upright chair, I stared across at him with a dull, heavy mingling of repugnance and grief. There was a rusty stain of blood, shaped like a star, on his pillow, whether from his mouth, his nose or somewhere else I could only guess. The ammoniac smell was overpowering.
    His eyes opened blearily. He stared, then screwed them up. ‘Mouse,’ he muttered.
    â€˜Mouse. Oh, Mouse. It’s you.’
    I got up slowly, approached the bed and lowered my hand. At once, with a swiftness that struck me with momentary terror, one of the claw-hands shot up and gripped it. ‘Oh, Mouse, I feel so ill. Why do I feel so ill?’
    â€˜It’s because of the temperature. That’s all. But it’s going down,’ I added, lying. ‘You’re getting better.’
    â€˜Oh, don’t be silly, Mouse. I’ve had it. I’m sure I’ve had it. I thought I’d had it after the crash and I was wrong. But this time …’ He raised his head and then let it fall back sideways on the pillow.
    â€˜I forgot to shave you this morning.’ I had noticed, for the first time, the stubble on his chin. He was always so careful