came hurrying into the room a few minutes later, a cheerful, motherly woman with a ready smile. Grace asked how her quilting was progressing – Mrs Gosling was an expert quilter and at Grace’s suggestion had embarked on a set of cushion covers to be given as one of the prizes in a raffle in aid of the new hospice. She told Grace she was now working on the final cover and hoped to finish it in a couple of days. Grace was delighted; the draw was to take place next week. Grace had long been a supporter of the present Cannonbridge hospice and had helped from the start to raise funds for the new building, even in her invalid state, encouraging everyone connected with her to join in.
When Mrs Gosling had gone off again, Grace lay back and closed her eyes. She was feeling somewhat fatigued; time for a little rest before lunch. Inside a very few moments she had slipped into a pleasantly somnolent state in which the chirruping of the garden birds, the distant sounds of the household, mingled together in a lulling murmur.
By two-thirty lunch was over, the kitchen restored to order and Mrs Dalton settled down for her nap. Dorothy Nevett was up in her room on the top floor, enjoying an hour or two of leisure. She liked having her room up here, so beautifully private; she had had the whole floor to herself since the staff had been reduced. She paced about the room, her head full of the phone call she had received yesterday evening from her friend, Alice Upjohn.
Alice had lived next door to Dorothy when they were children; they had sat next to each other in school. When Alice was thirteen her father was transferred on promotion by his firm to a branch down south and the family was uprooted. But the two friends kept in regular touch, by letter in the early years but later spending holidays together.
When Alice left school, she began work as a clerk in a local government office; she continued living at home. The years slipped by. When she was forty-five her father died and her mother’s health soon afterwards began to deteriorate; she spent her final years in care. The house was sold to pay the nursing home fees and Alice moved into a small rented flat near the home; her mother lingered on for several years.
Alice had recently been offered early retirement in a cost-cutting exercise and had immediately accepted. She would be finishing work at the end of March; she would have a pension and a lump sum.
Dorothy and Alice had long shared a dream of buying a little cottage to retire to, in their favourite resort on the Dorset coast. As soon as Alice accepted the offer of early retirement, before saying a word to Dorothy, she contacted estate agents in the resort but quickly discovered that prices were way out of reach. Then she had an inspiration. She got on to every solicitor in the area and came at last upon what she was hoping for: a small cottage still to be disposed of at the tail-end of an estate, the executors ready to let the property go for a very reasonable sum if the transaction could be speedily put through. Alice’s lump sum, together with her savings and what she had inherited from her mother, would provide her half of the purchase price, as she had joyfully informed Dorothy over the phone yesterday evening. What about Dorothy? Could she provide her half?
Dorothy had her savings, she’d always been thrifty, but they were nowhere near enough. Then perhaps she could raise a mortgage for the balance, Alice suggested. ‘We’ll have to decide very quickly,’ Alice had gone on to say. ‘We’ll never get another chance like this.’ She had liked what she’d been told about the cottage but hadn’t yet had a chance to view it. ‘Try to get away for the weekend.’ she urged Dorothy over the phone. ‘If we find it’s what we want, you’ll have a few days after you get back to try to raise the money.’
Dorothy had approached Grace at lunchtime to ask if she could take a weekend break but she had said nothing about the cottage. Grace had readily assented.
Dorothy halted in her pacing to pick up from the top of her bureau a long frame holding three photographs of Alice: as a schoolgirl of thirteen, with dark curly hair and a shy smile; as a young woman, on their first holiday together; and the mature Alice, a few years ago, on another of their long succession of shared holidays, her figure almost as slender, her smile little changed.
She replaced the photograph, took down a jacket and left the room. She went quietly down the back stairs, out by a side door into the garden. No sign of Gosling. She spotted a garden lad at work in a greenhouse; he gave her a wave as she went by. She walked rapidly through the cultivated gardens, striking out for the fields and woods where she could stride about undisturbed, to think out her thoughts.
How would her bank or building society be likely to look upon an application for a mortgage from a woman of her age, in her financial situation? Two years ago, when Grace Dalton was sufficiently recovered to be able to look calmly at her future, she had sent for Dorothy and told her she was making a new will. It had long been understood between them that Dorothy would retire at sixty with a pension, in recognition of her long and faithful service. Grace had asked if Dorothy would now forget about leaving at sixty and would agree instead to remain with Grace until the end, whenever that might be. In return she would receive a larger pension, together with an additional benefit – a lump sum based on the total number of years she had worked at Elmhurst. If she agreed, she would receive these new entitlements, even if Grace were to die within a very short time.
Grace hadn’t been coy about mentioning actual figures and Dorothy’s eyes had opened wide when she heard them. She had needed no time to think the offer over and had at once accepted.
But that was two years ago now. Dorothy had believed then that Grace wouldn’t last out the twelvemonth. But the doctor spoke now of the possibility that she might with care live a few more years. Suppose she did manage to raise a mortgage and they did buy the cottage: how would Alice relish living there on her own for that length of time? She frowned in thought as she wheeled about in the dappled sunshine of the woodland.
How long, realistically, was Grace likely to live? That was undoubtedly the question.
Dusk was falling on Monday evening, a week later, as Dorothy reached the crossroads marking the final stage of her journey back from Dorset to Elmhurst. She usually enjoyed driving but today she had found the journey wearisome. It had been altogether a tiring weekend, with so much to weigh up and ponder.
The cottage had turned out to be even better than she had hoped; it would do them beautifully. Not too small, a decent stretch of garden, neglected now, but they could soon put that to rights. They had found a surveyor to go over the cottage and he had been able to assure them the property was structurally very sound. A few repairs would be needed but nothing too expensive. He foresaw no difficulty in raising a mortgage.
She frowned out through the windscreen as she drove through the light-splashed twilight. It was her own share of the purchase money that now presented the only remaining stumbling block. The solicitor had agreed to give them a week to reach a decision. Next Monday evening she was to ring Alice at 7.45, to tell her if she would or would not be able to raise the money. She had fixed on that precise time in order to be certain of making the call without being overheard. Mrs Dalton would be settled down after her supper, watching TV or reading, maybe listening to music or to the radio. Jean would either have gone out or be glued to the TV in the staff sitting room, absorbed in the latest instalment of her favourite soap opera.
First thing the following morning, Tuesday, Alice was to phone the solicitor, to give him a straight yes or no.
At half past four on Wednesday afternoon, Matthew Dalton came out of the Brentworth office of the Inland Revenue, carrying a briefcase stuffed with papers. He set off back to his office with a light step and an air of profound relief. He’d managed to stave off disaster, for the present, at least. He well knew the euphoria would have drained away by morning but he intended to enjoy it while it lasted – take the evening off for once from
