take a letter a week to get to Germany, mightn’t it?’ said Mrs Fanshawe, taking her rings off and amusing herself by making them flash in the sunlight right into Nurse Rose’s eyes.
‘Weeks and weeks,’ said Nurse Rose, blinking. ‘You don’t want to worry about that.’
‘I should have sent a telegram. I think I’ll get you to send one for me.’
Once bitten, twice shy, thought Nurse Rose. She wasn’t even going to humour Mrs Fanshawe any more. Stick her neck out and her life would be a succession of errands for Mrs Fanshawe, running about the town sending crazy messages to a girl who didn’t exist.
‘Would you like me to brush your hair?’ she asked, pummelling the pillows.
‘Thank you very much, my dear. You’re a good girl.’
‘Back into bed then. Ooh! You’re as light as a feather. Don’t leave those lovely rings on the table, now.’
Nurse Rose had really been very helpful, Mrs Fanshawe thought. She didn’t seem or look very intelligent, but she must be. She was the only one who didn’t keep up this nonsense about Nora being dead. And how she envied her those rings! Funny little thing. . . When Nora came she would get her to run up to the flat and root out that paste thing she’d once bought on a whim at Selfridges. It wasn’t worth more than thirty shillings, but. Nurse Rose wouldn’t know that and she decided she would definitely give it to Nurse Rose.
She lay back comfortably while her hair was brushed.
‘While you’re getting my lunch,’ she said, ‘I’ll think how I’m going to word my telegram. Oh, and you might take my sister’s card away. It’s getting on my nerves.’
Nurse Rose was glad to escape. She came out of the room, pulling her bag of soiled linen, and because she wasn’t looking where she was going, almost cannoned into a tall dark girl.
‘Can you tell me where I can find Mrs Dorothy Fanshawe?’
‘She’s in there,’ said Nurse Rose. She had never seen any thing like the shoes the girl was wearing. They were of brown calf with a copper beech leaf on the instep and their shape was so strange and outlandish that Nurse Rose decided they must be the extreme of fashion. Nothing like them had ever been seen in Stowerton, nor, for that matter, Nurse Rose believed, in London. ‘Mrs Fanshawe’s just going to have her lunch,’ she said.
‘I don’t suppose it matters if that’s held up for ten minutes.’ Not to you, Nurse Rose thought indignantly, whoever you may be. But she couldn’t let those desirable shoes vanish without any comment and she said impulsively, ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, but I do think your shoes are super. Where did you get them?’
‘Nobody minds a compliment,’ said the girl coldly. ‘They were made in Florence but I bought them in Bonn.’
‘Bonn? Bonn’s in Germany, isn’t it? Ooh, you can’t be! You can’t be Nora. You’re dead!’
Earlier that morning Wexford had quoted Justice Shallow and now, as he contemplated Jolyon Vigo’s house, he thought that this was just the sort of place Shallow might have lived in. It would have been a mature house already in Shakespeare’s time, a ‘black and white’ house, timbered, solid, so perfect a place to live in that it seemed in advance to confer upon its owner grace and taste and superiority. A climbing rose with yellow satiny flowers spread across the black striped gables and nestled against the tudor roses, carved long ago by some craftsman on every square inch of oak. On either side of the front path a knot garden had been planted with low hedges and tufts of tiny blossom. It was so neat, so unnatural in a way, that Wexford had the notion the flowers had been embroidered on the earth.
A coach-house of slightly later vintage served as a double garage. It had a small belvedere and a vertical sundial under its pediment. The garage doors were open - a single untidy touch - and within
‘Weeks and weeks,’ said Nurse Rose, blinking. ‘You don’t want to worry about that.’
‘I should have sent a telegram. I think I’ll get you to send one for me.’
Once bitten, twice shy, thought Nurse Rose. She wasn’t even going to humour Mrs Fanshawe any more. Stick her neck out and her life would be a succession of errands for Mrs Fanshawe, running about the town sending crazy messages to a girl who didn’t exist.
‘Would you like me to brush your hair?’ she asked, pummelling the pillows.
‘Thank you very much, my dear. You’re a good girl.’
‘Back into bed then. Ooh! You’re as light as a feather. Don’t leave those lovely rings on the table, now.’
Nurse Rose had really been very helpful, Mrs Fanshawe thought. She didn’t seem or look very intelligent, but she must be. She was the only one who didn’t keep up this nonsense about Nora being dead. And how she envied her those rings! Funny little thing. . . When Nora came she would get her to run up to the flat and root out that paste thing she’d once bought on a whim at Selfridges. It wasn’t worth more than thirty shillings, but. Nurse Rose wouldn’t know that and she decided she would definitely give it to Nurse Rose.
She lay back comfortably while her hair was brushed.
‘While you’re getting my lunch,’ she said, ‘I’ll think how I’m going to word my telegram. Oh, and you might take my sister’s card away. It’s getting on my nerves.’
Nurse Rose was glad to escape. She came out of the room, pulling her bag of soiled linen, and because she wasn’t looking where she was going, almost cannoned into a tall dark girl.
‘Can you tell me where I can find Mrs Dorothy Fanshawe?’
‘She’s in there,’ said Nurse Rose. She had never seen any thing like the shoes the girl was wearing. They were of brown calf with a copper beech leaf on the instep and their shape was so strange and outlandish that Nurse Rose decided they must be the extreme of fashion. Nothing like them had ever been seen in Stowerton, nor, for that matter, Nurse Rose believed, in London. ‘Mrs Fanshawe’s just going to have her lunch,’ she said.
‘I don’t suppose it matters if that’s held up for ten minutes.’ Not to you, Nurse Rose thought indignantly, whoever you may be. But she couldn’t let those desirable shoes vanish without any comment and she said impulsively, ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, but I do think your shoes are super. Where did you get them?’
‘Nobody minds a compliment,’ said the girl coldly. ‘They were made in Florence but I bought them in Bonn.’
‘Bonn? Bonn’s in Germany, isn’t it? Ooh, you can’t be! You can’t be Nora. You’re dead!’
Earlier that morning Wexford had quoted Justice Shallow and now, as he contemplated Jolyon Vigo’s house, he thought that this was just the sort of place Shallow might have lived in. It would have been a mature house already in Shakespeare’s time, a ‘black and white’ house, timbered, solid, so perfect a place to live in that it seemed in advance to confer upon its owner grace and taste and superiority. A climbing rose with yellow satiny flowers spread across the black striped gables and nestled against the tudor roses, carved long ago by some craftsman on every square inch of oak. On either side of the front path a knot garden had been planted with low hedges and tufts of tiny blossom. It was so neat, so unnatural in a way, that Wexford had the notion the flowers had been embroidered on the earth.
A coach-house of slightly later vintage served as a double garage. It had a small belvedere and a vertical sundial under its pediment. The garage doors were open - a single untidy touch - and within
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