Remembering Carmen by Nicholas Murray Read Free Book Online Page B

sarcasm.
    â€œMakes you want to head straight back to the Smoke.”
    â€œWhat are we looking for?”
    â€œAlbion Villa, Hyacinth Drive.”
    â€œIs that for real?”
    â€œIt’s what it says here.”
    Soon they stopped a ruddy local in mirror-bright brown brogues and a pale green tweed jacket in whose V was lodged an efflorescent yellow Paisley cravat. Ebulliently, he turned them round and gestured towards the distance and Hyacinth Drive, third on the left. In his excitement he dropped a string bag of library books, causing his small Scots terrier in its tartan cummerbund to break into a fit of shrill yapping. They thanked him and darted away.
    â€œQuiet, Monty! Quiet, there’s a good chap!”
    Carmen spoke for them both when she observed that this had better be worth it. Hyacinth Drive turned out to be a steep ascent towards the base of the Malvern Hills. The substantial late Victorian villas – with their high protective shrubberies, solid gates built to withstand the intruder, and their air of quiet, self-assured dulness – retreated from the sloping road, being reachable by asphalted drives of a gradient even steeper than that of the Drive itself. Albion Villa eventually hove into view. It was much like the others, though its paintwork was in a poorer state of repair, and the garden was slipping easily into a state of urban wilderness. Brightly coloured weeds poked out of the fissures in the asphalt, and the front gate lacked several of its supporting struts. They marched up to the front door which turned out to be open. A small shrill voice called from within:
    â€œIs that you, Miss O’Hare? Do please come in. The door is open.”
    Tentatively, with that extravagant slowness of movement – tender smirks, condescending sweetness of manner – with which we behave when approaching the elderly and infirm, Carmen and Christopher crossed into the hallway. A gloriously blue canvas crossed by a solitary white gull winging above a trough of yellow sand filled the whole of the left-hand wall, quite diverting their eyes from the threadbare carpet.
    Miss Watersmith, her white hair disordered as if she had been caught in a stiff gale at sea, smiled welcomingly at them, her veined and knobbled hands gripping tightly a light aluminium Zimmer frame. She looked like a benign little bishop about to deliver a sermon from the pulpit. She wore a loud orange dress of delicate silk which must have been quite a hit in 1947. She cocked her head in the direction of the front room which opened off to the right.
    â€œI’ll be with you in a moment. Do make yourselves comfortable. Mrs Meredith has been so kind and laid out our coffee things. If you could be so kind as to pour us all out some coffee, Mr...”
    â€œWilson.”
    â€œThat would be most kind. I am afraid that I take such a long time to complete anything these days.”
    And then she laughed (having moved about three feet into the room):
    â€œBut time, contrary to the conceits of the poets who would see me hastening to the grave, is what I seem, these days, to have in abundance. I can happily spend half an hour getting up to consult a dictionary for one word. When I was young I seemed to have no time at all. We lived, you know, in such an unconscionable whirl. We were so fast . But now I am inundated with time. The days are so long. And Charon and his dark boat are nowhere to be seen.”
    They laughed a little too enthusiastically.
    â€œI expect you have come to hear me prattle about my days with Virginia. That’s what they all seem to want to hear now. It’s an awful thing to say but I didn’t really like her at all. She was so bluestockingy, and such a wicked gossip. That was the thing I didn’t like about that set. So malicious in their gossip. It really wasn’t necessary. I think that they didn’t really care for ordinary human kindness. There was something cold and brittle about