Late Call by Angus Wilson

Author:Angus Wilson [Wilson, Angus]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature
ISBN: 9781111027186
Publisher: Unknown
Published: 1964-01-01T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIVE

New Leaves

IT WAS the second time that Sylvia had been caught by Renee Cranston in Melling. This time they met face to face outside the self-service store; but Renee only said, “Well, you certainly are a rare bird these days. Keeping all right? Cheerio!” and flashing her bright smile was gone. Sylvia couldn’t tell whether she imagined a hurt look in that cheeky bird’s eye or not. In any case she was too resigned to worry. She had rationalised the shopping now to once a week in the Town Centre and three quick tootles to the Melling shops. The quarter hour’s rush shopping in Melling was almost over; soon she would be home to pack Arthur off to the British Legion and the bookies, and to begin a long day of nothing at “The Sycamores”. Or not really nothing, for there was always the tele and books, and then she was determined to see that she had a proper lie down on her bed each afternoon as the doctor had recommended. After all, she had retired from work because she was an invalid, and it was absurd to start getting steamed up now just because she had to lead an invalid’s life.

She’d quite scared herself the evening of that play. Having high blood pressure gave people these morbid fancies; but you had to be careful because a lot of worrying like that would send the blood pressure rushing up. Anyway, with all their religions and philosophy and that, they hadn’t solved these problems in thousands of years, so what price an ignorant old woman like her taking them on? It would all be the same in a hundred years, that’s all you could say. That and do your best, which she’d tried to do. She’d done her stint of hard work in her day. Arthur seemed as pleased as Punch with life—she’d spent her ^200 gratuity in paying all his debts, but what did he care about that? As to the family, with all that education what did they want with her? She was grateful to them for being so kind and she tried to do a good part by them where she could; for the rest she could repay them best by keeping her trap shut. She’d thought this again and again as she watched some of the old residents fretting their days away with nagging and groaning, and what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander.

Morbid fancies apart, one problem did vex her at spare moments —as now when she had got back from shopping, or between programmes and books, or in the evening interval just before the family returned. Should she write to Miss Priest? She knew the address now—the hotel’s name had slipped through into the newspaper reports. A woman reporter had interviewed Miss Priest there. “A tall well-dressed white-haired woman looking younger than her years, Miss Priest laughed at my suggestion that many in her position would have fled from the scene of such tragic association as soon as they were able.

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