(11/20) Farther Afield by Miss Read Read Free Book Online
Authors: Miss Read
about it while I had been staying at Bent, and it occurred to me that perhaps the plans had fallen through.
'That's nearly a fortnight away,' said Amy.
'You'll probably need to go shopping.'
'That doesn't mean that you've got to go back to Fairacre.'
I pointed out that there were a number of matters to attend to at home. There were some school forms to be filled up, and a certain amount of organisation for next term. My domestic arrangements also needed some attention, though no doubt Mrs Pringle's bottoming would be almost finished.
'I'm mobile now,' I said, stretching out my lumpy ankle. 'Why, I can even dress myself if I keep to button-down-the-front things, and remember to thread the bad arm through the sleeve first!'
'You're getting above yourself,' Amy smiled. 'I really think you are getting better.'
She surveyed me with her head on one side.
'I can see you're really bent on going. Tell you what. Let's drive over tomorrow afternoon and get the place ready, and see if you can manage the stairs and so on. If so, I'll install you the day after.'
And so it was agreed.
Amy took up her tapestry and I turned the pages of a magazine.
The thought of going home excited me. I should never cease to be grateful to my old friend, but I longed to potter about my own home, to get back to my books and my garden, to see the familiar birds on the bird table, and to smell the pinks in my border again. Tibby, too, would welcome the return.
Beyond Amy's window the rain was falling. Grey veils drifted across the fields, blotting the distant hills from view. It made the drawing-room seem doubly snug.
'I wonder how long it will be before I can do without this confounded sling,' I mused aloud. 'I can wriggle my fingers quite well. How long does a bone take to mend?'
Amy looked at me thoughtfully.
'Weeks at our age, I imagine.'
'I'm not decrepit, and I don't feel old.'
'I do now and again,' said Amy, with a vigour that belied her words. 'I find myself behaving like an old lady sometimes. You know, never walking up escalators, and not minding if young things like Vanessa stand up when I enter a room.'
'I haven't got quite to that stage yet.'
'But when I start pinning brooches on my hats,' said Amy, resuming her stitching, 'I shall know I'm really old.'
There was a companionable silence for a while. Outside, the rain grew heavier, and began to patter at the windows.
'Of course, I think about dying now and again,' I said.
'Who doesn't?'
'What do you do about it?'
'Well,' said Amy, snipping a thread, 'I make sure I'm wearing respectable corsets – not my comfortable ones with the elastic stretched and speckled with rubber bits – and I pay up outstanding bills and, frankly, there's not much else one can do, is there, dear?'
'But hope,' I finished for her.
'But hope,' she echoed.
She turned her gaze upon the rain-swept view through the window. There had been a dying fall in those last two words.
It was plain that it was the sadness of living, not of dying, which preoccupied my friend's thoughts.
And my heart grieved for her.
The next afternoon we drove from Bent to Fairacre. The rain had ceased, leaving everything fresh and fragrant. The sun shone, striking rainbows from the droplets on the hedge, and in its summer strength drawing steam from the damp roads. Sprays of wild roses arched towards the ground, weighted with the water which trembled in their shell-pink cups, and everywhere the scent of honeysuckle hung upon the air.
In the lush fields the cattle steamed as they fed, and birds splashed joyously in their wayside baths. Everywhere one looked there was rejoicing in the sunshine after the rain, and my spirits rose accordingly.
As Fairacre drew nearer I grew happier and happier, until I broke into singing.
Amy began to laugh.
'What an incorrigible home-bird you are! You remind me of Timmy Willie.'
'When he was asked what he did when it rained in the country?' I enquired.
'"When it rains",' quoted Amy, dodging
'That's nearly a fortnight away,' said Amy.
'You'll probably need to go shopping.'
'That doesn't mean that you've got to go back to Fairacre.'
I pointed out that there were a number of matters to attend to at home. There were some school forms to be filled up, and a certain amount of organisation for next term. My domestic arrangements also needed some attention, though no doubt Mrs Pringle's bottoming would be almost finished.
'I'm mobile now,' I said, stretching out my lumpy ankle. 'Why, I can even dress myself if I keep to button-down-the-front things, and remember to thread the bad arm through the sleeve first!'
'You're getting above yourself,' Amy smiled. 'I really think you are getting better.'
She surveyed me with her head on one side.
'I can see you're really bent on going. Tell you what. Let's drive over tomorrow afternoon and get the place ready, and see if you can manage the stairs and so on. If so, I'll install you the day after.'
And so it was agreed.
Amy took up her tapestry and I turned the pages of a magazine.
The thought of going home excited me. I should never cease to be grateful to my old friend, but I longed to potter about my own home, to get back to my books and my garden, to see the familiar birds on the bird table, and to smell the pinks in my border again. Tibby, too, would welcome the return.
Beyond Amy's window the rain was falling. Grey veils drifted across the fields, blotting the distant hills from view. It made the drawing-room seem doubly snug.
'I wonder how long it will be before I can do without this confounded sling,' I mused aloud. 'I can wriggle my fingers quite well. How long does a bone take to mend?'
Amy looked at me thoughtfully.
'Weeks at our age, I imagine.'
'I'm not decrepit, and I don't feel old.'
'I do now and again,' said Amy, with a vigour that belied her words. 'I find myself behaving like an old lady sometimes. You know, never walking up escalators, and not minding if young things like Vanessa stand up when I enter a room.'
'I haven't got quite to that stage yet.'
'But when I start pinning brooches on my hats,' said Amy, resuming her stitching, 'I shall know I'm really old.'
There was a companionable silence for a while. Outside, the rain grew heavier, and began to patter at the windows.
'Of course, I think about dying now and again,' I said.
'Who doesn't?'
'What do you do about it?'
'Well,' said Amy, snipping a thread, 'I make sure I'm wearing respectable corsets – not my comfortable ones with the elastic stretched and speckled with rubber bits – and I pay up outstanding bills and, frankly, there's not much else one can do, is there, dear?'
'But hope,' I finished for her.
'But hope,' she echoed.
She turned her gaze upon the rain-swept view through the window. There had been a dying fall in those last two words.
It was plain that it was the sadness of living, not of dying, which preoccupied my friend's thoughts.
And my heart grieved for her.
The next afternoon we drove from Bent to Fairacre. The rain had ceased, leaving everything fresh and fragrant. The sun shone, striking rainbows from the droplets on the hedge, and in its summer strength drawing steam from the damp roads. Sprays of wild roses arched towards the ground, weighted with the water which trembled in their shell-pink cups, and everywhere the scent of honeysuckle hung upon the air.
In the lush fields the cattle steamed as they fed, and birds splashed joyously in their wayside baths. Everywhere one looked there was rejoicing in the sunshine after the rain, and my spirits rose accordingly.
As Fairacre drew nearer I grew happier and happier, until I broke into singing.
Amy began to laugh.
'What an incorrigible home-bird you are! You remind me of Timmy Willie.'
'When he was asked what he did when it rained in the country?' I enquired.
'"When it rains",' quoted Amy, dodging
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