of her protégé.
‘I think I ought to go and see Aunt Ada, you know, Tuppence,’ said Tommy. ‘It’s been some time.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Tuppence, without enthusiasm. ‘How long has it been?’
Tommy considered. ‘It must be nearly a year,’ he said.
‘It’s more than that,’ said Tuppence. ‘I think it’s over a year.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Tommy, ‘the time does go so fast, doesn’t it? I can’t believe it’s been as long as that. Still, I believe you’re right, Tuppence.’ He calculated. ‘It’s awful the way one forgets, isn’t it? I really feel very badly about it.’
‘I don’t think you need,’ said Tuppence. ‘After all, we send her things and we write letters.’
‘Oh yes, I know. You’re awfully good about those sort of things, Tuppence. But all the same, one does read things sometimes that are very upsetting.’
‘You’re thinking of that dreadful book we got from the library,’ said Tuppence, ‘and how awful it was for the poor old dears. How they suffered.’
‘I suppose it was true—taken from life.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Tuppence, ‘there must be places like that. And there are people who are terribly unhappy, who can’t help being unhappy. But what else is one to do, Tommy?’
‘What can anyone do except be as careful as possible. Be very careful what you choose, find out all about it and make sure she’s got a nice doctor looking after her.’
‘Nobody could be nicer than Dr Murray, you must admit that.’
‘Yes,’ said Tommy, the worried look receding from his face. ‘Murray’s a first-class chap. Kind, patient. If anything was going wrong he’d let us know.’
‘So I don’t think you need worry about it,’ said Tuppence. ‘How old is she by now?’
‘Eighty-two,’ said Tommy. ‘No—no. I think it’s eighty-three,’ he added. ‘It must be rather awful when you’ve outlived everybody.’
‘That’s only what we feel,’ said Tuppence. ‘They don’t feel it.’
‘You can’t really tell.’
‘Well, your Aunt Ada doesn’t. Don’t you remember the glee with which she told us the number of her old friends that she’d already outlived? She finished up by saying “and as for Amy Morgan, I’ve heard she won’t last more than another six months. She always used to say I was so delicate and now it’s practically a certainty that I shall outlive her. Outlive her by a good many years too.” Triumphant, that’s what she was at the prospect.’
‘All the same—’ said Tommy.
‘I know,’ said Tuppence, ‘I know. All the same you feel it’s your duty and so you’ve got to go.’
‘Don’t you think I’m right?’
‘Unfortunately,’ said Tuppence, ‘I do think you’re right. Absolutely right. And I’ll come too,’ she added, with a slight note of heroism in her voice.
‘No,’ said Tommy. ‘Why should you? She’s not your aunt. No, I’ll go.’
‘Not at all,’ said Mrs Beresford. ‘I like to suffer too. We’ll suffer together. You won’t enjoy it and I shan’t enjoy it and I don’t think for one moment that Aunt Ada will enjoy it. But I quite see it is one of those things that has got to be done.’
‘No, I don’t want you to go. After all, the last time, remember how frightfully rude she was to you?’
‘Oh, I didn’t mind that,’ said Tuppence. ‘It’s probably the only bit of the visit that the poor old girl enjoyed. I don’t grudge it to her, not for a moment.’
‘You’ve always been nice to her,’ said Tommy, ‘even though you don’t like her very much.’
‘Nobody could like Aunt Ada,’ said Tuppence. ‘If you ask me I don’t think anyone ever has.’
‘One can’t help feeling sorry for people when they get old,’ said Tommy.
‘I can,’ said Tuppence. ‘I haven’t got as nice a nature as you have.’
‘Being a woman you’re more ruthless,’ said Tommy.
‘I suppose that might be it. After all, women haven’t really got time to be anything but realistic over things. I mean I’m very sorry for people if they’re old or sick or anything, if they’re nice people. But if they’re not nice people, well, it’s different, you must admit. If you’re pretty nasty when you’re twenty and just as nasty when you’re forty and nastier still when you’re sixty, and a perfect devil by the time you’re eighty—well, really, I don’t see why one should be particularly sorry for people, just because they’re old. You can’t change yourself really. I know some absolute ducks who are seventy and eighty. Old Mrs Beauchamp, and Mary Carr and the baker’s grandmother, dear old Mrs Poplett, who used to come in and clean for us. They were all dears and sweet and I’d do anything I could for them.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Tommy, ‘be realistic. But if you really want to be noble and come with me—’
‘I want to come with you,’ said Tuppence. ‘After all, I married you for better or for worse and Aunt Ada is decidedly the worse. So I shall go with you hand in hand. And we’ll take her a bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates with soft centres and perhaps a magazine or two. You might write to Miss What’s-her-name and say we’re coming.’
‘One day next week? I could manage Tuesday,’ said Tommy, ‘if that’s all right for you.’
‘Tuesday it is,’ said Tuppence. ‘What’s the name of the woman? I can’t remember—the matron or the superintendent or whoever she is. Begins with a P.’
‘Miss Packard.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Perhaps it’ll be different this time,’ said Tommy.
‘Different? In what way?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Something interesting might happen.’
‘We might be in a railway accident on the way there,’ said Tuppence, brightening up a little.
‘Why on earth do you want to be in a railway accident?’
‘Well I don’t really, of course. It was just—’
‘Just what?’
‘Well, it would be an adventure of some kind, wouldn’t it? Perhaps we could save lives or do something useful. Useful and at the same time exciting.’
‘What a hope!’ said Mr Beresford.
‘I know,’ agreed Tuppence.
