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Authors: Rosamunde Pilcher
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Keile?"
"Is she there? ..."
"Just a moment and I'll get her."
"Nanny."
"Yes."
"How are the children?"
"Oh, they're very well. Having a lovely time. Just gone to bed." (This was slipped in quickly in case Virginia should ask to speak to them.)
"Is it hot?"
Oh, yes. Lovely. Perfect weather. Hold on and I'll tell Lady Keile you're there."
There were the sounds of Nanny putting down the receiver, her footsteps going across the hall, her distant voice. "Lady Keile!"
Virginia waited. If I was a woman who was taking to drink I would have one in my hand, right now. A great tall tumbler of dark-coloured whisky. But she wasn't and her stomach lay heavy with impending doom.
More footsteps, sharp neat, unmistakable. The receiver was lifted once more.
"Virginia."
"Yes, it's me."
The situation was hideously complicated by the fact that Virginia had never known what to call her mother-in-law. "Call me Mother," she had said kindly, as soon as Virginia and Anthony were married, but somehow this was impossible. And "Lady Keile" was worse. Virginia had compromised by only corresponding by postcard or telegram, and always calling her "you."
"How nice to hear you, dear. How are you feeling?"
"I'm very well . . ."
"And the weather? I believe you're having a heatwave."
"Yes, it's unbelievable. Look . . ."
"How is Alice?"
"She's very well, too . . ."
"And the darling children, they've been swimming today—the Turners have got a delicious pool in their garden, and invited Cara and Nicholas over for the afternoon. What a pity they're in bed; why didn't you call earlier?"
Virginia said, "I've got something to tell you."
"Yes?"
She closed her hand around the receiver until her knuckles ached. "I've been able to find a little cottage, quite near here. It's near the sea, and I thought it would be nice for the children if they came down and we spent the rest of the holidays together."
She paused, waiting for comment but there was only silence.
"The thing is, the weather is so beautiful and I feel so guilty enjoying it all on my own . . . and it would be good for them to have some sea air before we all have to go back to Scotland and they have to go back to school."
Lady Keile said, "A cottage? But I thought you were staying with Alice Lingard?"
"Yes, I am. I have been. I'm calling from Wheal House now. But I've taken this cottage."
"I don't understand."
"I want the children to come down and spend the rest of the holidays with me. I'll come up tomorrow in the train to fetch them."
"But what sort of a cottage?"
"Just a cottage. A holiday cottage ..."
"Well, if that's what you want ..." Virginia began to breathe a sigh of relief. ". . . But it seems hard luck on Nanny. It's not often she gets the chance of being in London and seeing all her own friends." The relief swiftly died. Virginia went back into the attack again.
"Nanny doesn't have to come."
Lady Keile was confused. "I'm sorry, the line's not very clear. I thought you said Nanny didn't have to come."
"She doesn't. I can look after the children. There's not room for her anyway. I mean there isn't a bedroom for her, or a nursery . . . and it's terribly isolated, and she'd hate it."
"You mean you intend taking the children away from Nanny?"
"Yes."
"But she'll be most terribly upset."
"Yes, I'm afraid she will, but ..."
"Virginia ..." Lady Keile's voice was upset, distressed. "Virginia, we can't talk about this over the telephone."
Virginia imagined Nanny on the upstairs landing, listening to the one-sided conversation.
"We don't need to. I'm coming up to London tomorrow. I'll be with you about five o'clock. We can talk about it then."
"I think," said Lady Keile, "that that would be best."
And she rang off.
The next morning Virginia drove to Penzance, left her car in the station park and caught the train to London. It was another hot, cloudless morning and she had not had time to reserve a seat, and, despite the fact that she managed to get hold of a porter
"Is she there? ..."
"Just a moment and I'll get her."
"Nanny."
"Yes."
"How are the children?"
"Oh, they're very well. Having a lovely time. Just gone to bed." (This was slipped in quickly in case Virginia should ask to speak to them.)
"Is it hot?"
Oh, yes. Lovely. Perfect weather. Hold on and I'll tell Lady Keile you're there."
There were the sounds of Nanny putting down the receiver, her footsteps going across the hall, her distant voice. "Lady Keile!"
Virginia waited. If I was a woman who was taking to drink I would have one in my hand, right now. A great tall tumbler of dark-coloured whisky. But she wasn't and her stomach lay heavy with impending doom.
More footsteps, sharp neat, unmistakable. The receiver was lifted once more.
"Virginia."
"Yes, it's me."
The situation was hideously complicated by the fact that Virginia had never known what to call her mother-in-law. "Call me Mother," she had said kindly, as soon as Virginia and Anthony were married, but somehow this was impossible. And "Lady Keile" was worse. Virginia had compromised by only corresponding by postcard or telegram, and always calling her "you."
"How nice to hear you, dear. How are you feeling?"
"I'm very well . . ."
"And the weather? I believe you're having a heatwave."
"Yes, it's unbelievable. Look . . ."
"How is Alice?"
"She's very well, too . . ."
"And the darling children, they've been swimming today—the Turners have got a delicious pool in their garden, and invited Cara and Nicholas over for the afternoon. What a pity they're in bed; why didn't you call earlier?"
Virginia said, "I've got something to tell you."
"Yes?"
She closed her hand around the receiver until her knuckles ached. "I've been able to find a little cottage, quite near here. It's near the sea, and I thought it would be nice for the children if they came down and we spent the rest of the holidays together."
She paused, waiting for comment but there was only silence.
"The thing is, the weather is so beautiful and I feel so guilty enjoying it all on my own . . . and it would be good for them to have some sea air before we all have to go back to Scotland and they have to go back to school."
Lady Keile said, "A cottage? But I thought you were staying with Alice Lingard?"
"Yes, I am. I have been. I'm calling from Wheal House now. But I've taken this cottage."
"I don't understand."
"I want the children to come down and spend the rest of the holidays with me. I'll come up tomorrow in the train to fetch them."
"But what sort of a cottage?"
"Just a cottage. A holiday cottage ..."
"Well, if that's what you want ..." Virginia began to breathe a sigh of relief. ". . . But it seems hard luck on Nanny. It's not often she gets the chance of being in London and seeing all her own friends." The relief swiftly died. Virginia went back into the attack again.
"Nanny doesn't have to come."
Lady Keile was confused. "I'm sorry, the line's not very clear. I thought you said Nanny didn't have to come."
"She doesn't. I can look after the children. There's not room for her anyway. I mean there isn't a bedroom for her, or a nursery . . . and it's terribly isolated, and she'd hate it."
"You mean you intend taking the children away from Nanny?"
"Yes."
"But she'll be most terribly upset."
"Yes, I'm afraid she will, but ..."
"Virginia ..." Lady Keile's voice was upset, distressed. "Virginia, we can't talk about this over the telephone."
Virginia imagined Nanny on the upstairs landing, listening to the one-sided conversation.
"We don't need to. I'm coming up to London tomorrow. I'll be with you about five o'clock. We can talk about it then."
"I think," said Lady Keile, "that that would be best."
And she rang off.
The next morning Virginia drove to Penzance, left her car in the station park and caught the train to London. It was another hot, cloudless morning and she had not had time to reserve a seat, and, despite the fact that she managed to get hold of a porter
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