and Martha can stay later. But, at any rate, I can relieve your mind on one thing. The blood-pressure you mentioned just now; do you think Dr Fisher has taken no account of these things, or that we should ever let him overlook anything as important as that?’ Clara leaned forward, widening her tired eyes in an effort to make them look triumphant. She spoke slowly and emphatically: ‘No, Edith – the last time the doctor was here he said that there was absolutely nothing wrong with your lungs, your heart or your blood-pressure. Everything is normal. It is nerves, Edith. There – I’ve told you now. It is only right you should know what he said – just a little worry about yourself after the shock of your accident. You have given yourself too much time to brood, that is all. And you must not talk about this blood-pressure again!’
‘Oh, but I didn’t say blood-pressure!’ exclaimed Edith with a frown. ‘It is not a pressure from inside at all. It is from outside – from the house. Don’t say you haven’t felt the weight of all that junk, Clara! Don’t tell me you are going to put up with it indefinitely – that ton weight on top of us till we die!’
Clara shuddered at ‘junk’ as though her sister had spoken an obscene word. Never, not in the worst moments of the spring-cleaning, had such a word been even whispered between them, and, seriously alarmed, she got up swiftly and began to arrange the little objects on the mantelpiece, with her back to Edith as though she had not heard.
‘Moving them about will not help in the least, Clara, as you know,’ Edith remarked quietly, as she watched her. ‘We have been doing it for years to try and relieve the pressure. There is not a thing in this house which has ever been in the same place for more than an hour at a time. But it does no good. The only way is to get rid of it all. Indeed, it must be done, and I will not be able to get out of bed until it is!’
When the doctor came on a special visit the next afternoon he was in no hurry to be away. He went softly about the large bedroom, looking about him easily and picking up various objects from desk and mantelpiece which he said were of rare value – collectors’ pieces, he called them as he turned them about in his hands admiringly. He studied the photographs for a long time and asked about the relations, and as he crossed over to the bed, he tapped the chairs with his fingers and slid his hand down the length of the wardrobe with an envious sigh. It might have been the house which he had come to examine and to praise for its excellent health and appearance, and he seemed almost reluctant to have to turn his attention to Edith.
It was not an uncommon thing, he told her, when he had settled down at last, to feel, in certain cases of mild nervous disorder, the kind of symptoms which she had described to her sister. On the contrary, it was quite a common experence to have the feeling of heaviness in the limbs – a sensation of pressure in the chest or head – yes, and even a feeling of suffocation – of being unable to breathe freely for the weight on the chest – a sensation, perhaps, of cramp about the heart. He smiled, and stretched his fingers tightly across his chest, then bound them around his head to express the familiar meaning. In most cases, he assured her, after a little rest, these common nervous symptoms disappeared very quickly – once the patient showed herself willing to get up and get on with her normal work. And this – he impressed it upon her as he got to his feet briskly – was the most important part of what he had to say. For there was absolutely nothing organically wrong with her. He repeated this as he went out of the door, and again to the family who were waiting downstairs to hear his verdict. But he was in a hurry now, and no longer took any notice of the precious things which jingled along the shelves of the hall as he strode past with his heavy tread.
A few days later Clara was having supper upstairs alone with her sister. A heavy responsibility had fallen on her – not only for the whole house and its upkeep, but also for the care of a woman whose thoughts, day and night, were now directed on this house with a ruthlessness never before known to the family. Edith’s eyes could no longer be said to rest on objects; she now raked through them with a glance so reckless and scathing that the more fragile stuff could not be expected to last long under it. This evening, however, after the meal, she lay for some time with her eyes shut, and Clara, praying that the obsession was passing, drew in deep breaths at the open window. It was a beautiful October evening. Below her the weekly gardener was brushing up the leaves, and soon the smoke from his bonfire drifted through the room. To Clara the smell was a narcotic, reminiscent of autumn days stretching back through monotonous years, and of the blue haze which hung in the wintry, upper rooms of the house – scarcely opened except for the spring and autumn cleaning. But Edith opened her eyes and sniffed the air with triumph.
‘You must begin with this room, Clara,’ she cried, suddenly sitting up straight and staring about her sharply. ‘That bureau over there has worried me for a long time. You see how it is packed with letters and papers which must be burned at once. No, of course they are not valuable. Why should they be? I don’t intend to look over them. They must simply be taken out, bundle by bundle, and put on that bonfire. It is better than choking the chimney. Yes, Clara, of course I mean what I am saying! I am not ill and I am not joking.’
Just before darkness fell that evening, Clara came slowly from the bedroom and down the stairs with her arms full of papers. Her brothers followed her out into the garden, keeping some little distance from her, like sober attendants on a bride, and automatically catching at the white strips and ribbons of paper which blew about her in the wind. At first the flames did not seem strong enough to consume the dense wads of superior notepaper, but after a while the sheets blew open, revealing for a glaring second time-honoured secrets of home and business, scraps of ancient family scandal and a smattering of long-forgotten endearments. Exclamation marks and question marks quivered together on the paper, and formidable lists of figures curled up swiftly into scrolls of fire. When the flames died down there was nothing left but some flimsy black scales floating in the air, and a grey ash on the ground.
The fire had not brought any colour to Clara’s face. She was paler than ever as she walked upstairs again to Edith’s room. It was her sister who was flushed, as though the flames had burned her cheeks.
‘The men can help you tomorrow,’ was all she said. ‘It is a beginning, anyway.’ She turned to the wall without another word and Clara left the room.
‘The doctor said it was particularly important not to give in to her,’ she said to her brothers as she wished them goodnight. They could not tell from her voice whether this was an apology or a challenge, and she looked preoccupied – uncertainly opening and shutting drawers and continually glancing about the room as she spoke as though sizing the place up after a long absence.
‘What is this?’ she asked, picking up an object from the sideboard as she was turning to leave.
‘What is that?’ replied James, looking uneasily at it. ‘Why, Clara – what are you talking about? You can see it is a brush with a curved handle. It has been there for years – and with a tray to match. There are two others like it in the drawer.’
‘Yes, that is true – and what are they all for?’ said Clara with unaccustomed sharpness.
‘What are they for? Why, surely they are crumb-brushes, Clara. You must have known they were for brushing crumbs off a tea-table!’
‘Then must there be three of them?’ exclaimed Clara. ‘Do we make more crumbs than anybody else, in this house? Is it likely that this one will get worn out with brushing in our lifetime – that there must always be two in reserve? It is very unlikely that I, at any rate shall use another brush while I live – far less the two of them. Do you even know how old I am?’
‘But of course, Clara,’ her brother replied hurriedly, ‘and there are certainly not an excessive quantity of crumbs about the place. Why must we discuss the brushes, if it upsets you? They were not ours, in the first place. You have forgotten that they came to us with the napkin rings and hot water bottles when Aunt Helen gave up her
