weather.
She lay in a narrow high bed in a ward called Honeysuckle. The ward was full of similar old women in similar beds. They had clean pink faces and white hair through which patches of rose pink scalp showed. Every bed trolley held at least two vases of flowers, the sops to conscience, Archery supposed, of visiting relatives who only had to sit and chat instead of handing bedpans and tending bed-sores.
‘A visitor for you, Alice,’ said the sister. ‘It’s no use trying to shake hands with her. She can’t move her hands but her hearing’s perfectly good and she’ll talk the hind leg off a donkey.’
A most un-Christian hatred flared in Archery’s eyes. If she saw it the sister took no notice.
‘Like a good gossip, don’t you, Alice? This is the Reverend Archery.’ He winced at that, approached the bed.
‘Good evening, sir.’
Her face was square with deeply ridged rough skin. One corner of her mouth had been drawn down by the paralysis of the motor nerves, causing her lower jaw to protrude and reveal large false teeth. The sister bustled about the bed, pulling the old servant’s nightgown higher about her neck and arranging on the coverlet her two useless hands. It was terrible to Archery to have to look at those hands. Work had distorted them beyond hope of beauty, but disease and oedema had smoothed and whitened the skin so that they were like the hands of a misshapen baby. The emotion and the feel for the language of 1611 that was with him always welled in a fount of pity. Well done, thou good and faithful servant, he thought. Thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things …
‘Would it upset you to talk to me about Mrs Primero, Miss Flower?’ He asked gently, easing himself into a bentwood chair.
‘Of course it wouldn’t,’ said the sister, ‘she loves it.’
Archery could bear no more. ‘This is rather a private matter, if you don’t mind.’
‘Private! It’s the whole ward’s bedtime story, believe me.’ She flounced away, a crackling navy and white robot.
Alice Flower’s voice was cracked and harsh. The strokes had affected her throat muscles and her vocal cords. But her accent was pleasant and correct, learnt, Archery supposed, in the kitchens and nurseries of educated people.
‘What was it you wanted to know, sir?’
‘First tell me about the Primero family.’
‘Oh, I can do that. I always took an interest.’ She gave a small rattling cough and turned her head to hide the twisted side of her mouth. ‘I went to Mrs Primero when the boy was born …’
‘The boy.’
‘Mr Edward, her only child he was.’
Ah, thought Archery, the father of rich Roger and his sisters.
‘He was a lovely boy and we always got on a treat, him and me. I reckon it really aged me and his poor mother when he died, sir. But he’d got a family of his own by then, thanks be to God, and Mr Roger was the living spit of his father.’
‘I suppose Mr Edward left him pretty well off, did he?’
‘Oh, no, sir, that was the pity of it. You see, Old Dr Primero left his money to madam, being as Mr Edward was doing so well at the time. But he lost everything on something in the city and when he was taken Mrs Edward and the three kids were quite badly off.’ She coughed again, making Archery wince. He fancied he could see a terrible vain effort to raise those hands and cover the rattling lips. ‘Madam offered to help – not that she had more than she needed – but Mrs Edward was that proud, she wouldn’t take a penny from her mother-in-law. I never shall know how she managed. There was the three of them, you see. Mr Roger he was the eldest, and then there was the two little mites, ever so much younger than their brother, but close together if you take my meaning. No more than eighteen months between them.’
She rested her head back on the pillows and bit at her lip as if trying to pull it back into place. ‘Angela was the oldest. Time flies so I reckon
She lay in a narrow high bed in a ward called Honeysuckle. The ward was full of similar old women in similar beds. They had clean pink faces and white hair through which patches of rose pink scalp showed. Every bed trolley held at least two vases of flowers, the sops to conscience, Archery supposed, of visiting relatives who only had to sit and chat instead of handing bedpans and tending bed-sores.
‘A visitor for you, Alice,’ said the sister. ‘It’s no use trying to shake hands with her. She can’t move her hands but her hearing’s perfectly good and she’ll talk the hind leg off a donkey.’
A most un-Christian hatred flared in Archery’s eyes. If she saw it the sister took no notice.
‘Like a good gossip, don’t you, Alice? This is the Reverend Archery.’ He winced at that, approached the bed.
‘Good evening, sir.’
Her face was square with deeply ridged rough skin. One corner of her mouth had been drawn down by the paralysis of the motor nerves, causing her lower jaw to protrude and reveal large false teeth. The sister bustled about the bed, pulling the old servant’s nightgown higher about her neck and arranging on the coverlet her two useless hands. It was terrible to Archery to have to look at those hands. Work had distorted them beyond hope of beauty, but disease and oedema had smoothed and whitened the skin so that they were like the hands of a misshapen baby. The emotion and the feel for the language of 1611 that was with him always welled in a fount of pity. Well done, thou good and faithful servant, he thought. Thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things …
‘Would it upset you to talk to me about Mrs Primero, Miss Flower?’ He asked gently, easing himself into a bentwood chair.
‘Of course it wouldn’t,’ said the sister, ‘she loves it.’
Archery could bear no more. ‘This is rather a private matter, if you don’t mind.’
‘Private! It’s the whole ward’s bedtime story, believe me.’ She flounced away, a crackling navy and white robot.
Alice Flower’s voice was cracked and harsh. The strokes had affected her throat muscles and her vocal cords. But her accent was pleasant and correct, learnt, Archery supposed, in the kitchens and nurseries of educated people.
‘What was it you wanted to know, sir?’
‘First tell me about the Primero family.’
‘Oh, I can do that. I always took an interest.’ She gave a small rattling cough and turned her head to hide the twisted side of her mouth. ‘I went to Mrs Primero when the boy was born …’
‘The boy.’
‘Mr Edward, her only child he was.’
Ah, thought Archery, the father of rich Roger and his sisters.
‘He was a lovely boy and we always got on a treat, him and me. I reckon it really aged me and his poor mother when he died, sir. But he’d got a family of his own by then, thanks be to God, and Mr Roger was the living spit of his father.’
‘I suppose Mr Edward left him pretty well off, did he?’
‘Oh, no, sir, that was the pity of it. You see, Old Dr Primero left his money to madam, being as Mr Edward was doing so well at the time. But he lost everything on something in the city and when he was taken Mrs Edward and the three kids were quite badly off.’ She coughed again, making Archery wince. He fancied he could see a terrible vain effort to raise those hands and cover the rattling lips. ‘Madam offered to help – not that she had more than she needed – but Mrs Edward was that proud, she wouldn’t take a penny from her mother-in-law. I never shall know how she managed. There was the three of them, you see. Mr Roger he was the eldest, and then there was the two little mites, ever so much younger than their brother, but close together if you take my meaning. No more than eighteen months between them.’
She rested her head back on the pillows and bit at her lip as if trying to pull it back into place. ‘Angela was the oldest. Time flies so I reckon
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