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Authors: Ruth Rendell
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Mary would one day be, her bones more apparent than her flesh, the shape of her body still uncannily like a young girl’s.
Having arrived at Charlotte Cottage in a taxi with a gift for Mary from Lapland and a bottle of champagne, she renewed her friendship with Gushi. She had brought him a dog-chewing bar, which she assured him was made from reindeer skin, and, feeling for it in her bag, brought it out first and then an envelope.
“I nearly forgot. This came for you.”
Mary took it. “I was going to ask, but I thought it would be too soon.”
“Too soon for what?” Frederica gave Gushi the chewing bar and he rolled on his back on the carpet, grasping it in his paws and growling. “What is it? More about your bone marrow man?”
“I hope it’s his name and address.” She hesitated, as she had done with the trust’s last communication, turning the envelope in her hands, looking at the logo, the stamp, the postmark. “I shall know at last. It’s rather daunting.”
“Don’t be daunted. Would you like me to open it?”
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
“My darling Mary, you don’t have to open it in my presence. I shan’t be offended. Keep it till I’ve gone.”
Mary shook her head. “I’m going to open it now.”
It would, after all, be only a name. An ordinary sort of name, probably, and a number and a street anywhere in the country, in a city or a town or a village. She had been told it was in the British Isles, that was all.
There was no need, this time, for preparation, for bracing herself. Timidity was ridiculous when the contents of this envelope could not possibly contain any threat. Frederica handed her a paper knife from the desk, ivory handled, with a long thin blade. She had probably seen the Blackburn-Norrises use it. Mary slit along the top of the flap and took out the enclosure. The letter was short.
Dear Ms. Jago
,
We note that you have not asked us to pass your own name and address on to “Oliver” and therefore assume you will do this yourself. He is now willing to be identified. His name is Leo Nash and his address Flat 24, Redferry House, Plangent Road, London NW1. I should like to take this opportunity of wishing you a pleasant and rewarding meeting with Mr. Nash
.
Yours sincerely,
Deborah Cox
Mary read it aloud. She said, “How very strange. Plangent Road can’t be far from here. It’s North-west One like this is.”
“Maybe, but it’s not much like this,” Frederica said dryly. “It’s Somers Town. And you know nothing else about him? Nothing except that he’s twenty-three and male?”
“Twenty-four by now,” said Mary. “Do you know, all these months I’ve longed to meet him, and now I can I don’t know whether I want to or not. It’s a mistake to meet people in these circumstances, isn’t it? One’s always disappointed.”
“These circumstances aren’t within my experience, Mary. I don’t know. It’s old-fashioned to say this but I am old-fashioned. It would be unnatural if I wasn’t.”
“Say what?”
“I was going to say, I
am
saying, that it’s best to meet people through being introduced by your friends or family. Or at work perhaps, only I’ve never been to work, so I can’t say. This young man owes you a lot, he is under a great obligation to you, and that isn’t the best basis for a friendship.”
“A friendship!” said Mary. “He may not even answer my letter. If he feels he’s under an obligation he probably won’t want to meet me.”
“Is it true that we dislike those who have done us a service?”Frederica asked. “If so, the greater the service perhaps the greater the dislike. And it’s hard to imagine a greater service than saving someone’s life. He may feel he owes you more than he could ever repay. And then if he sees—how shall I put this? Mary, you’re very pretty and—well, graceful and sweet, you’re obviously educated and gifted and living in a lovely place, won’t that be a burden for him too? A
Having arrived at Charlotte Cottage in a taxi with a gift for Mary from Lapland and a bottle of champagne, she renewed her friendship with Gushi. She had brought him a dog-chewing bar, which she assured him was made from reindeer skin, and, feeling for it in her bag, brought it out first and then an envelope.
“I nearly forgot. This came for you.”
Mary took it. “I was going to ask, but I thought it would be too soon.”
“Too soon for what?” Frederica gave Gushi the chewing bar and he rolled on his back on the carpet, grasping it in his paws and growling. “What is it? More about your bone marrow man?”
“I hope it’s his name and address.” She hesitated, as she had done with the trust’s last communication, turning the envelope in her hands, looking at the logo, the stamp, the postmark. “I shall know at last. It’s rather daunting.”
“Don’t be daunted. Would you like me to open it?”
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
“My darling Mary, you don’t have to open it in my presence. I shan’t be offended. Keep it till I’ve gone.”
Mary shook her head. “I’m going to open it now.”
It would, after all, be only a name. An ordinary sort of name, probably, and a number and a street anywhere in the country, in a city or a town or a village. She had been told it was in the British Isles, that was all.
There was no need, this time, for preparation, for bracing herself. Timidity was ridiculous when the contents of this envelope could not possibly contain any threat. Frederica handed her a paper knife from the desk, ivory handled, with a long thin blade. She had probably seen the Blackburn-Norrises use it. Mary slit along the top of the flap and took out the enclosure. The letter was short.
Dear Ms. Jago
,
We note that you have not asked us to pass your own name and address on to “Oliver” and therefore assume you will do this yourself. He is now willing to be identified. His name is Leo Nash and his address Flat 24, Redferry House, Plangent Road, London NW1. I should like to take this opportunity of wishing you a pleasant and rewarding meeting with Mr. Nash
.
Yours sincerely,
Deborah Cox
Mary read it aloud. She said, “How very strange. Plangent Road can’t be far from here. It’s North-west One like this is.”
“Maybe, but it’s not much like this,” Frederica said dryly. “It’s Somers Town. And you know nothing else about him? Nothing except that he’s twenty-three and male?”
“Twenty-four by now,” said Mary. “Do you know, all these months I’ve longed to meet him, and now I can I don’t know whether I want to or not. It’s a mistake to meet people in these circumstances, isn’t it? One’s always disappointed.”
“These circumstances aren’t within my experience, Mary. I don’t know. It’s old-fashioned to say this but I am old-fashioned. It would be unnatural if I wasn’t.”
“Say what?”
“I was going to say, I
am
saying, that it’s best to meet people through being introduced by your friends or family. Or at work perhaps, only I’ve never been to work, so I can’t say. This young man owes you a lot, he is under a great obligation to you, and that isn’t the best basis for a friendship.”
“A friendship!” said Mary. “He may not even answer my letter. If he feels he’s under an obligation he probably won’t want to meet me.”
“Is it true that we dislike those who have done us a service?”Frederica asked. “If so, the greater the service perhaps the greater the dislike. And it’s hard to imagine a greater service than saving someone’s life. He may feel he owes you more than he could ever repay. And then if he sees—how shall I put this? Mary, you’re very pretty and—well, graceful and sweet, you’re obviously educated and gifted and living in a lovely place, won’t that be a burden for him too? A
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