been waiting for me.
“Was everything all right?” she asked.
“Fine, thank you.”
“And you found everything you wanted?”
“I think I’ve got all the papers Annie promised me,” I said, holding up the shopping bags.
“Good gracious, I expect all that will keep you busy!”
“I expect it will.”
“And everything was all right in the house?”
“It felt a bit cold and damp, but otherwise everything seemed fine.”
She came down the steps from her front door and said confidentially, “ I’ve got Annie’s potted plants. Well, I did mention to Mr. Stillwell how worried I was about keeping them watered, and she had some very nice ones—that beautiful Christmas cactus, for instance, though that one doesn’t need watering so often. She’s had it for ages and it’s grown enormous, so it really ought to be repotted. Anyway, I was telling Mr. Stillwell about all this and he asked me if I’d like to have them. Wasn’t that kind!”
“I’m sure he’ll be glad to know that you’ll look after them.”
“Potted plants are so personal, don’t you think, more than plants in the garden. And, actually, I’m really worried about Annie’s garden—it’s getting quite overgrown. I just looked over the fence the other day and I was shocked to see how bad it was. I’m sure it would have grieved poor Annie to see it looking like that.”
“I expect,” I said soothingly, “Mr. Stillwell will be making some arrangement about it when he comes down.”
“Oh, do you think so? Yes, I’m sure you’re right—such a nice man. Now, while you’re here, would you like to come in and have a cup of tea—or coffee?”
“That’s very kind of you, but I really ought to be getting on with all this.” I held up the shopping bags again. “Some other time, perhaps, I’d love to.”
When I got home I certainly intended to start work on the papers, but by the time I’d let the animals out and then fed them it was lunchtime. After lunch I had to go in to Brunswick Lodge because I’d rashly promised Anthea that I’d set out the chairs and help with the refreshments for a talk on discontinued local railways that she’d persuaded someone to give. By the time I got home all I had the energy for was to get supper and spend the evening slumped in front of the televison.
The following day was gray and rainy, miserable outside and appealingly warm and cozy inside, the sort of day, in fact, most conducive to work. I spread out some of the photographs on the dining room table. As I worked my way through them I became absorbed in my task—many of them would be invaluable. The changing face of the village street, with ancient cars and bicycles; a group of children at the village school, one of estate tenants and another of bell ringers, all taken in the 1890s; photographs of the football club and the cricket team sometime in the 1930s—many others of a similar nature. Finally, I found a photograph of a little girl (about eight years old) standing, shyly, just behind her mother, on the steps of a cottage. They both wore summer dresses, and both were staring self-consciously at the camera. It was only when I read the writing on the back ( Martha and Annie, Whitsun 1954 ) that I realized that the bashful child in the cotton frock, with a bow of ribbon in her straight fair hair, had grown up to be the Annie who had been such a forceful personality in the village. I sat for quite a while looking at it—a moment in time, one summer day in the early 1950s. The dining room clock striking twelve recalled me to the present and I hastily put the photographs back in their folder and went to get ready to have lunch with Rosemary.
“Well, at least I’ve made a start,” I said, swishing the ice about in my spritzer. We usually go out when we have lunch together; it saves us both cooking. “There’s masses of stuff—a whole chestful from Annie’s.”
“What was it like going in there?” Rosemary asked
“Was everything all right?” she asked.
“Fine, thank you.”
“And you found everything you wanted?”
“I think I’ve got all the papers Annie promised me,” I said, holding up the shopping bags.
“Good gracious, I expect all that will keep you busy!”
“I expect it will.”
“And everything was all right in the house?”
“It felt a bit cold and damp, but otherwise everything seemed fine.”
She came down the steps from her front door and said confidentially, “ I’ve got Annie’s potted plants. Well, I did mention to Mr. Stillwell how worried I was about keeping them watered, and she had some very nice ones—that beautiful Christmas cactus, for instance, though that one doesn’t need watering so often. She’s had it for ages and it’s grown enormous, so it really ought to be repotted. Anyway, I was telling Mr. Stillwell about all this and he asked me if I’d like to have them. Wasn’t that kind!”
“I’m sure he’ll be glad to know that you’ll look after them.”
“Potted plants are so personal, don’t you think, more than plants in the garden. And, actually, I’m really worried about Annie’s garden—it’s getting quite overgrown. I just looked over the fence the other day and I was shocked to see how bad it was. I’m sure it would have grieved poor Annie to see it looking like that.”
“I expect,” I said soothingly, “Mr. Stillwell will be making some arrangement about it when he comes down.”
“Oh, do you think so? Yes, I’m sure you’re right—such a nice man. Now, while you’re here, would you like to come in and have a cup of tea—or coffee?”
“That’s very kind of you, but I really ought to be getting on with all this.” I held up the shopping bags again. “Some other time, perhaps, I’d love to.”
When I got home I certainly intended to start work on the papers, but by the time I’d let the animals out and then fed them it was lunchtime. After lunch I had to go in to Brunswick Lodge because I’d rashly promised Anthea that I’d set out the chairs and help with the refreshments for a talk on discontinued local railways that she’d persuaded someone to give. By the time I got home all I had the energy for was to get supper and spend the evening slumped in front of the televison.
The following day was gray and rainy, miserable outside and appealingly warm and cozy inside, the sort of day, in fact, most conducive to work. I spread out some of the photographs on the dining room table. As I worked my way through them I became absorbed in my task—many of them would be invaluable. The changing face of the village street, with ancient cars and bicycles; a group of children at the village school, one of estate tenants and another of bell ringers, all taken in the 1890s; photographs of the football club and the cricket team sometime in the 1930s—many others of a similar nature. Finally, I found a photograph of a little girl (about eight years old) standing, shyly, just behind her mother, on the steps of a cottage. They both wore summer dresses, and both were staring self-consciously at the camera. It was only when I read the writing on the back ( Martha and Annie, Whitsun 1954 ) that I realized that the bashful child in the cotton frock, with a bow of ribbon in her straight fair hair, had grown up to be the Annie who had been such a forceful personality in the village. I sat for quite a while looking at it—a moment in time, one summer day in the early 1950s. The dining room clock striking twelve recalled me to the present and I hastily put the photographs back in their folder and went to get ready to have lunch with Rosemary.
“Well, at least I’ve made a start,” I said, swishing the ice about in my spritzer. We usually go out when we have lunch together; it saves us both cooking. “There’s masses of stuff—a whole chestful from Annie’s.”
“What was it like going in there?” Rosemary asked
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