And poor Frances. One’s heart goes out to Frances.”
Penelope looked at me and took another cigarette. “Don’t feel too sorry for her,” she said. “She’s as fit as a fiddle now and about to start a new life. Her G.P. lost his wife about the time he diagnosed her cancer, and he and Frances are getting married next month. So you could say that all’s well that ends well.”
“I wouldn’t go as far as that,” I said.
THE WINK
THE WOMAN IN RECEPTION gave her directions: Go through the dayroom, then the double doors at the back, turn left, and Elsie’s in the third room on the right. Unless she’s in the yroom.
Elsie wasn’t but the Beast was. Jean always called him that, she had never known his name. He was sitting with the others watching television. A semicircle of chairs was arranged in front of the television, mostly armchairs but some wheelchairs, and some of the old people had fallen asleep. He was in a wheelchair and he was awake, staring at the screen where celebrities were taking part in a game show.
Ten years had passed since she had last seen him but she knew him, changed and aged though he was. He must be well over eighty. Seeing him was always a shock, but seeing him in here was a surprise. A not unpleasant surprise. He must be in that chair because he couldn’t walk. He had been brought low; his life was coming to an end.
She knew what he would do when he saw her. He always did. But possibly he wouldn’t see her, he wouldn’t turn around. The game show would continue to hold his attention. She walked as softly as she could, short of tiptoeing, around the edge of the semicircle. Her mistake was to look back just before she reached the double doors. His eyes were on her and he did what he always did. He winked.
Jean turned sharply away. She went down the corridor and found Elsie’s room, the third on the right. Elsie was asleep, sitting in an armchair by the window. Jean put the flowers she had brought on the bed and sat down on the only other chair, an upright one without arms. Then she got up again and drew the curtain a little to keep the sunshine off Elsie’s face.
Elsie had been at Sweetling Manor for two weeks, and Jean knew she would never come out again. She would die here—and why not? It was clean and comfortable and everything was done for you and probably it was ridiculous to feel as Jean did, that she would prefer anything to being here, including being helpless and old and starving and finally dying alone.
They were the same age, she and Elsie, but she felt younger and thought she looked it. They had always known each other, had been at school together, had been each other’s bridesmaids. Well, Elsie had been her matron of honor, having been married a year by then. It was Elsie she had gone to the pictures with that evening, Elsie and another girl whose name she couldn’t remember. She remembered the film, though. It had been Deanna Durbin in
Three Smart Girls.
Sixty years ago.
When Elsie woke up Jean would ask her what the other girl was called. Christine? Kathleen? Never mind. Did Elsie know the Beast was in here? Jean remembered then that Elsie didn’t know the Beast, had never heard what happened that night—no one had, she had told no one. It was different in those days, you couldn’t tell because you would get the blame. Somehow, ignorant though she was, she had known that even then.
Ignorant. They all were, she and Elsie and the girl called Christine or Kathleen. Or perhaps they were just afraid. Afraid of what people would say, would think of them. Those were the days of blame, of good behavior expected from everyone, of taking responsibility, and often punishment, for one’s own actions.You put up with things and you got on with things. Complaining got you nowhere.
Over the years there had been extraordinary changes. You were no longer blamed or punished, you got something called empathy. In the old days what the Beast did would have been her fault. She
Penelope looked at me and took another cigarette. “Don’t feel too sorry for her,” she said. “She’s as fit as a fiddle now and about to start a new life. Her G.P. lost his wife about the time he diagnosed her cancer, and he and Frances are getting married next month. So you could say that all’s well that ends well.”
“I wouldn’t go as far as that,” I said.
THE WINK
THE WOMAN IN RECEPTION gave her directions: Go through the dayroom, then the double doors at the back, turn left, and Elsie’s in the third room on the right. Unless she’s in the yroom.
Elsie wasn’t but the Beast was. Jean always called him that, she had never known his name. He was sitting with the others watching television. A semicircle of chairs was arranged in front of the television, mostly armchairs but some wheelchairs, and some of the old people had fallen asleep. He was in a wheelchair and he was awake, staring at the screen where celebrities were taking part in a game show.
Ten years had passed since she had last seen him but she knew him, changed and aged though he was. He must be well over eighty. Seeing him was always a shock, but seeing him in here was a surprise. A not unpleasant surprise. He must be in that chair because he couldn’t walk. He had been brought low; his life was coming to an end.
She knew what he would do when he saw her. He always did. But possibly he wouldn’t see her, he wouldn’t turn around. The game show would continue to hold his attention. She walked as softly as she could, short of tiptoeing, around the edge of the semicircle. Her mistake was to look back just before she reached the double doors. His eyes were on her and he did what he always did. He winked.
Jean turned sharply away. She went down the corridor and found Elsie’s room, the third on the right. Elsie was asleep, sitting in an armchair by the window. Jean put the flowers she had brought on the bed and sat down on the only other chair, an upright one without arms. Then she got up again and drew the curtain a little to keep the sunshine off Elsie’s face.
Elsie had been at Sweetling Manor for two weeks, and Jean knew she would never come out again. She would die here—and why not? It was clean and comfortable and everything was done for you and probably it was ridiculous to feel as Jean did, that she would prefer anything to being here, including being helpless and old and starving and finally dying alone.
They were the same age, she and Elsie, but she felt younger and thought she looked it. They had always known each other, had been at school together, had been each other’s bridesmaids. Well, Elsie had been her matron of honor, having been married a year by then. It was Elsie she had gone to the pictures with that evening, Elsie and another girl whose name she couldn’t remember. She remembered the film, though. It had been Deanna Durbin in
Three Smart Girls.
Sixty years ago.
When Elsie woke up Jean would ask her what the other girl was called. Christine? Kathleen? Never mind. Did Elsie know the Beast was in here? Jean remembered then that Elsie didn’t know the Beast, had never heard what happened that night—no one had, she had told no one. It was different in those days, you couldn’t tell because you would get the blame. Somehow, ignorant though she was, she had known that even then.
Ignorant. They all were, she and Elsie and the girl called Christine or Kathleen. Or perhaps they were just afraid. Afraid of what people would say, would think of them. Those were the days of blame, of good behavior expected from everyone, of taking responsibility, and often punishment, for one’s own actions.You put up with things and you got on with things. Complaining got you nowhere.
Over the years there had been extraordinary changes. You were no longer blamed or punished, you got something called empathy. In the old days what the Beast did would have been her fault. She
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