Laura was lying on the sofa downstairs, dressed in slacks and a shirt and sweater.
The idea of Mrs. O’Brien had been repellent, but Laura found the actual person sitting opposite her in a wing chair quite endearing. Mary O’Brien was a tall, gaunt woman with a rather stern face that lit up when she smiled. She was very direct. Laura appreciated that.
“I shall have to have my weekends,” she said. “I have two still at home and I must keep things going for them, although Rose Marie is a good cook now and Jack does a lot of odd jobs round the house.”
“Of course,” Laura said, thinking with relief, I’ll have some solitude, after all. It seemed like a reprieve.
“How long do you expect you’ll need me?”
“I don’t know how long I have to live,” Laura said, looking Mrs. O’Brien straight in the eye. “It might be six months.”
“You’re very ill, Mrs. Spelman?”
“Not yet,” said Laura dryly “But Dr. Goodwin was very insistent that I have some help as soon as possible.”
Mrs. O’Brien nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of you. Of course I’m not a nurse, but I don’t mind carrying trays. Do you have a washing machine?”
And after that Laura showed Mary O’Brien her room and bath and the kitchen and where things were in general.
“It’s a big house for you all alone, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so. My husband died three years ago, you see, and the children are married or away. I’ve lived here so long I never think about it one way or another.” Because Laura liked Mary O’Brien, who appeared to take difficult things for granted, it was all settled with no fuss. In fact she felt quite euphoric when Mrs. O’Brien drove off, and went at once to the telephone to tell Aunt Minna the good news.
Of course the truth would come out when Mary O’Brien was around all day and all night, but at least it had become very clear to Laura that someone impersonal was what she needed, someone who would not be too involved. A strange relationship at best, it would require tact on both sides. But Laura to her own amazement trusted Mary O’Brien. She would, she sensed, be practical, and she had not winced or withdrawn when Laura made it quite clear what was involved, though she had not told Mrs. O’Brien what her illness was—that would come later—and she was grateful that Mrs. O’Brien had not asked.
Laura decided not to push herself, partly to be prepared for Harriet Moors, and partly because she wanted to listen to music—two Schubert quartets and a wonderful Octet in F Minor that she had not listened to for years. Everything important from now on would be going on inside her and would have, she realized, very little to do with other people or with anything she might feel she must “do.” Her sense of haste even a few days ago about sorting out papers, about things she should arrange about before she felt too ill, was rapidly sliding away. The only reality for the moment was in these transparent voices of two violins, a cello, a viola. By half-past five, after a long nap, Laura felt honed down to essentials. What would it be like to have to summon herself when Harriet Moors arrived? She was really in no way responsible for this girl, after all. Take it easy, Laura admonished herself, and let her talk. Then the doorbell rang.
“Be an angel and put another log on the fire, will you?” Laura asked when she had helped Harriet off with her sheepskin jacket. “I’ll get us a drink. What would you like? A martini perhaps?”
“A glass of wine if you have one.”
Of course! Laura had forgotten that martinis were out-of-date. Nevertheless she mixed one for herself, feeling rather jaunty as she did so. Her usual drink was scotch.
Looking across from the wing chair to Harriet on the sofa, Laura noted that her visitor’s hand shook as she took a sip of white wine.
“Well, Harriet, what’s on your mind?”
“Just …” Harriet swallowed. “I’ve decided that I can’t
The idea of Mrs. O’Brien had been repellent, but Laura found the actual person sitting opposite her in a wing chair quite endearing. Mary O’Brien was a tall, gaunt woman with a rather stern face that lit up when she smiled. She was very direct. Laura appreciated that.
“I shall have to have my weekends,” she said. “I have two still at home and I must keep things going for them, although Rose Marie is a good cook now and Jack does a lot of odd jobs round the house.”
“Of course,” Laura said, thinking with relief, I’ll have some solitude, after all. It seemed like a reprieve.
“How long do you expect you’ll need me?”
“I don’t know how long I have to live,” Laura said, looking Mrs. O’Brien straight in the eye. “It might be six months.”
“You’re very ill, Mrs. Spelman?”
“Not yet,” said Laura dryly “But Dr. Goodwin was very insistent that I have some help as soon as possible.”
Mrs. O’Brien nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of you. Of course I’m not a nurse, but I don’t mind carrying trays. Do you have a washing machine?”
And after that Laura showed Mary O’Brien her room and bath and the kitchen and where things were in general.
“It’s a big house for you all alone, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so. My husband died three years ago, you see, and the children are married or away. I’ve lived here so long I never think about it one way or another.” Because Laura liked Mary O’Brien, who appeared to take difficult things for granted, it was all settled with no fuss. In fact she felt quite euphoric when Mrs. O’Brien drove off, and went at once to the telephone to tell Aunt Minna the good news.
Of course the truth would come out when Mary O’Brien was around all day and all night, but at least it had become very clear to Laura that someone impersonal was what she needed, someone who would not be too involved. A strange relationship at best, it would require tact on both sides. But Laura to her own amazement trusted Mary O’Brien. She would, she sensed, be practical, and she had not winced or withdrawn when Laura made it quite clear what was involved, though she had not told Mrs. O’Brien what her illness was—that would come later—and she was grateful that Mrs. O’Brien had not asked.
Laura decided not to push herself, partly to be prepared for Harriet Moors, and partly because she wanted to listen to music—two Schubert quartets and a wonderful Octet in F Minor that she had not listened to for years. Everything important from now on would be going on inside her and would have, she realized, very little to do with other people or with anything she might feel she must “do.” Her sense of haste even a few days ago about sorting out papers, about things she should arrange about before she felt too ill, was rapidly sliding away. The only reality for the moment was in these transparent voices of two violins, a cello, a viola. By half-past five, after a long nap, Laura felt honed down to essentials. What would it be like to have to summon herself when Harriet Moors arrived? She was really in no way responsible for this girl, after all. Take it easy, Laura admonished herself, and let her talk. Then the doorbell rang.
“Be an angel and put another log on the fire, will you?” Laura asked when she had helped Harriet off with her sheepskin jacket. “I’ll get us a drink. What would you like? A martini perhaps?”
“A glass of wine if you have one.”
Of course! Laura had forgotten that martinis were out-of-date. Nevertheless she mixed one for herself, feeling rather jaunty as she did so. Her usual drink was scotch.
Looking across from the wing chair to Harriet on the sofa, Laura noted that her visitor’s hand shook as she took a sip of white wine.
“Well, Harriet, what’s on your mind?”
“Just …” Harriet swallowed. “I’ve decided that I can’t
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