Blue Bedroom and Other Stories by Rosamunde Pilcher Page B

opened the floodgates, and all Bryony’s anxieties were released in a torrent of tears. “Oh…” Her mouth went square as a bawling child’s, and Miss Cameron could not bear it. She could not remember when she had last had physical, loving contact with another human being, but now she opened her arms and gathered the weeping girl up into them. Bryony’s arms came round her neck and Miss Cameron was held so closely and so tightly that she thought she would choke. She felt the thin shoulders beneath her hands; the wet cheek, streaming with tears, was pressed against her own.
    â€œI thought … I thought something awful was going to happen. I thought she was going to die.”
    â€œI know,” said Miss Cameron. “I know.”
    *   *   *
    It took a little time for them both to recover. But at last it was over, the tears mopped up, the pillows plumped, the tea poured, and they could talk about the baby.
    â€œI’m certain,” said Bryony, “that it is terribly special to be born on Christmas Day. When shall I see them?”
    â€œI don’t know. Your father will tell you.”
    â€œWhen’s he coming?”
    â€œHe’ll be here in time for lunch. We’re all going out to the hotel to eat roast turkey.”
    â€œOh, good. I’m glad you’re coming too. What shall we do till he comes? It’s only half-past seven.”
    â€œThere’s lots to do,” said Miss Cameron. “We’ve got to have a great big breakfast, and light a great big Christmas fire. And if you’d like to, we could go to church.”
    â€œOh, let’s. And sing carols. I don’t mind thinking about Christmas now. I didn’t want to think about it last night.” She said, “I suppose I couldn’t have a simply boiling hot bath, could I?”
    â€œYou can do anything you like.” She stood up and picked up the tea tray and carried it to the door. But as she opened the door, Bryony said, “Miss Cameron,” and she turned back.
    â€œYou were so sweet to me last night. Thank you so much. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there.”
    â€œI liked having you,” said Miss Cameron truthfully. “I liked talking.” She hesitated. An idea had just occurred to her. “Bryony, after all we’ve been through together, I don’t really think you should go on calling me Miss Cameron. It sounds so very formal, and after all, we’re past that now, aren’t we?”
    Bryony looked a little surprised, but not in the least put out.
    â€œAll right. If you say so. But what shall I call you?”
    â€œMy name,” said Miss Cameron, and found herself smiling, because, really, it was a very pretty name, “is Isobel.”

Tea With the Professor
    They had arrived at the station far too early, but this was the way that James liked it, because he had a horror of missing the train. They had parked the car, bought his ticket, and now walked slowly up the ramp together, Veronica carrying his bag and James with his rugger ball tucked under one arm and his raincoat trailing over the other.
    The platform was deserted. Out of the wind it was still warm, and they found a seat in a sheltered corner and sat together in a blaze of gold September sunshine. James kicked at the gravel with the toe of his shoe. Above them the dry and dusty leaves of a palm tree rattled in the breeze. A car passed on the road, and a porter appeared from a little shed with a trolley, which he proceeded to haul the length of the platform. They watched his progress in silence. James looked up at the face of the clock.
    â€œNigel’s late,” he said with satisfaction.
    â€œThere’s five minutes yet.”
    He kicked the gravel again. She observed his profile, cool and detached, the lashes of his lowered eyelids brushing the still-baby curves of his cheek. He was ten years old, her only