Читать книгу In the Event of My Death - Emma Page - Страница 13

CHAPTER 8

On Wednesday morning, Dorothy Nevett, with Mrs Gosling in tow, busied herself with the preparation of bedrooms, in readiness for the weekend visitors. Esther and James would have the large, twin-bedded room at the front of the house, across the landing from the best bedroom – the one occupied by Mrs Dalton until her illness, and now no longer used. Nina would require only a single room as Matthew wouldn’t be staying the night. He would arrive towards the end of Saturday afternoon and would leave again after the birthday dinner, to drive back home. He was one of the organizers of a charity golf tournament to be held on the Sunday morning, in aid of the new hospice and would be playing in the tournament himself. James was also taking part in the tournament but as he wasn’t involved in the organizing and wouldn’t be playing in any of the early matches, he had no need to hurry back to Brentworth and would be staying the night at Elmhurst.

Verity could occupy a single room near Jean Redfern’s bedroom. There was never any need to ponder about where to put Barry: around the corner from Jean’s room, along a passage, in the snug little room he had always had, from the very first night he had ever slept at Elmhurst. He was fond of the room and looked on it by now as his own. He would have been astonished and dismayed to find some interloper installed in his place and himself banished to other quarters. Not that Dorothy would dream of playing any such trick on him. She had always had a soft spot for Barry who had been unfailingly considerate and well-mannered towards her, even as a young boy, stunned by his father’s death.

Verity was another matter entirely. She had certainly been subdued enough when she first came to Elmhurst but Dorothy had felt from the start there was a volcano simmering away deep down inside, waiting to erupt. She had always struck Dorothy as someone who might, under the thrust of events and emotions, be capable of almost anything.

At eleven-thirty on Thursday morning, Dr Wheatley called to check that all was well with Grace, in readiness for the birthday celebrations. He brought with him his card and birthday gift, a handsome Welsh knee-rug, gorgeously coloured.

During the afternoon, Jean washed and set Grace’s hair. She had grown used to the task over the last two years and took pride in achieving an ever more pleasing result. She had early on got Grace to agree to the purchase of a salon-type hairdryer and now went about the operation with almost professional expertise.

The first guests to arrive were Verity and Barry, on Friday afternoon. They went along separately to see Grace and have a chat, leaving an interval between their visits, mindful of the need not to tire her.

The early evening brought Esther on her own; James would be arriving on Saturday afternoon. She had a chat with Grace before supper. Later, when Verity and Barry were sitting together, absorbed in their own conversation, Esther wandered off to the old playroom, where so many hours of her childhood had been spent. The room was large, furnished with cupboards, shelves and drawers. It looked out over the garden, at the rear of the house.

The last children to use it had been Verity and Barry. The only use made of it in more recent years was as a green room at Christmas and other domestic festivals when it had always been an Elmhurst tradition to play charades, get up playlets or revue-type shows. Everyone, servants and all, had been pressed into these productions.

There had been none of these entertainments since Grace’s illness, but the big dressing-up chest was still there, with garments belonging to Daltons dead and gone. A roomy cupboard still housed an assortment of items useful as props.

Esther opened the cupboard and glanced over the shelves. She lifted the lid of the chest, fingered the contents. She crossed to the rows of bookshelves. One shelf held old bound copies of magazines. She took down a volume and went over to a window seat. She sat slowly turning the pages, sunk in thought.

* * *

Saturday morning was bright and calm, crisply invigorating. After an early breakfast, Matthew Dalton went off to his office. Nina put her bag in her car for the overnight stay at Elmhurst and drove over to the Dalton cottage. She wore old casual clothing; her hair was tied up in a scarf, in readiness for whatever jobs might present themselves, indoors or out.