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Authors: Elizabeth Goudge
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I thought you must have something to start you off, and I took bread and milk for you. It’s all in the larder.” They were at the bottom of the stairs now and Mary had gone down them stepping carefully in the center of the worn treads, as she had done as a child. “The parlor and dining room are clean but they’ve not been lived in for some while, for Miss Lindsay was bedridden at the last. They smell a bit damp and I laid a fire in the parlor just in case you should wish to put a match to it.”
In the kitchen she gave Mary the bills and put on a shrunken coat that hung behind the door. It must once have been a child’s and was as much too tight for her as Baker’s coat was too large for him. “I’ll be around in the morning at ten o’clock,” she said. “You won’t be nervous all on your own?”
“I don’t think I’ve got a nerve in my body,” said Mary. “I’ve been terrified, in the blitz, but never nervous. I slept alone in my London flat.”
“Ah, you’re used to it,” said Mrs. Baker. “Good night, dear,” and she banged the door behind her and was gone.
Now I’m alone in my house, thought Mary. Now it’s beginning.
She went upstairs again and in the last of the sunset light unpacked her things, folding them carefully away in the drawers that Mrs. Baker had lined with clean white paper, stopping sometimes to look at the room and get the feel of it, for she was one of those women to whom the privacy of her bedroom is as important as his shell to a snail. It was always a matter of astonishment to her that those religious who slept not in cells but in dormitories could retain their sanity. She supposed they abandoned their shell for love of God and in prayer found the sheltering of His hand instead. Mary herself came of an agnostic family but she had been confirmed at school, under pressure from her head mistress, had enjoyed singing hymns in chapel and still went to church at Christmas and Easter, finding herself deeply moved by the beliefs that were the rock beneath the charming traditions and practices. But where had she heard the phrase that had come into her mind, the sheltering of God’s hand? She couldn’t imagine. It had seemed to come from the room.
The light had nearly gone but she had taken possession of her shell. Many other women had called it theirs but they had passed and now it was hers. Her Chinese dressing gown with the golden dragons lay on the bed and the silver-backed brushes and silver-topped bottles from her dressing case, miraculously not smashed when Mr. Baker dropped it, sparkled on the grave Victorian mahogany dressing table. John’s photograph was on the mantelpiece and a volume of Jane Austen was by her bed. She liked Jane. She liked her cheerful sanity. She had expected no very great things of human nature, yet she had loved it, and in Mr. Knightley and Jane Bennett she had portrayed a quiet steady goodness that had been as lasting in literature as it would have been in life. And she had lived in a house much like this, in a village hidden in a quiet fold of green and rural England, and found her existence entirely satisfying. That’s why I’ve come, thought Mary. To have a look at the few last fragments of her England before it is too late; that and to keep faith with Cousin Mary.
She groped her way down the stairs and struggled with the oil lamp that Mrs. Baker had put ready for her in the kitchen. She succeeded in lighting it at last and by its soft light ate a supper of cold ham, bananas and tea. By the time she had finished, it was quite dark and she could see three stars in the windowpane. She was, she found, dreadfully tired and her limbs felt like lead as she washed up and stoked the Rayburn. But there was something she had to know before she went to bed. All day the surface of her mind had been obsessed with practical problems but all the time, in her heart and at the back of her mind, had been the little things. Were they still here?
Putting off
In the kitchen she gave Mary the bills and put on a shrunken coat that hung behind the door. It must once have been a child’s and was as much too tight for her as Baker’s coat was too large for him. “I’ll be around in the morning at ten o’clock,” she said. “You won’t be nervous all on your own?”
“I don’t think I’ve got a nerve in my body,” said Mary. “I’ve been terrified, in the blitz, but never nervous. I slept alone in my London flat.”
“Ah, you’re used to it,” said Mrs. Baker. “Good night, dear,” and she banged the door behind her and was gone.
Now I’m alone in my house, thought Mary. Now it’s beginning.
She went upstairs again and in the last of the sunset light unpacked her things, folding them carefully away in the drawers that Mrs. Baker had lined with clean white paper, stopping sometimes to look at the room and get the feel of it, for she was one of those women to whom the privacy of her bedroom is as important as his shell to a snail. It was always a matter of astonishment to her that those religious who slept not in cells but in dormitories could retain their sanity. She supposed they abandoned their shell for love of God and in prayer found the sheltering of His hand instead. Mary herself came of an agnostic family but she had been confirmed at school, under pressure from her head mistress, had enjoyed singing hymns in chapel and still went to church at Christmas and Easter, finding herself deeply moved by the beliefs that were the rock beneath the charming traditions and practices. But where had she heard the phrase that had come into her mind, the sheltering of God’s hand? She couldn’t imagine. It had seemed to come from the room.
The light had nearly gone but she had taken possession of her shell. Many other women had called it theirs but they had passed and now it was hers. Her Chinese dressing gown with the golden dragons lay on the bed and the silver-backed brushes and silver-topped bottles from her dressing case, miraculously not smashed when Mr. Baker dropped it, sparkled on the grave Victorian mahogany dressing table. John’s photograph was on the mantelpiece and a volume of Jane Austen was by her bed. She liked Jane. She liked her cheerful sanity. She had expected no very great things of human nature, yet she had loved it, and in Mr. Knightley and Jane Bennett she had portrayed a quiet steady goodness that had been as lasting in literature as it would have been in life. And she had lived in a house much like this, in a village hidden in a quiet fold of green and rural England, and found her existence entirely satisfying. That’s why I’ve come, thought Mary. To have a look at the few last fragments of her England before it is too late; that and to keep faith with Cousin Mary.
She groped her way down the stairs and struggled with the oil lamp that Mrs. Baker had put ready for her in the kitchen. She succeeded in lighting it at last and by its soft light ate a supper of cold ham, bananas and tea. By the time she had finished, it was quite dark and she could see three stars in the windowpane. She was, she found, dreadfully tired and her limbs felt like lead as she washed up and stoked the Rayburn. But there was something she had to know before she went to bed. All day the surface of her mind had been obsessed with practical problems but all the time, in her heart and at the back of her mind, had been the little things. Were they still here?
Putting off
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