The Far Country by Nevil Shute
“Well, you’re not going to get along without it any longer, Granny,” Jennifer said firmly. “You can’t when you’re in bed.” She thought quickly; she had about thirty pounds in her bank, but her cheque-book was at Blackheath on the other side of London. “I’ll get them to turn it on again,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Oh, my dear, I don’t know what to do….”
The girl wiped the old cheeks gently with her handkerchief. “Cheer up, Granny,” she said. “It’ll be all right. Tell me—isn’t there any money?”
The old lady said, “None at all. You see, I’ve lived too long.”
“Don’t you believe it,” Jennifer said. “You’ve got a good many more years yet. But what about the pension? That goes on until you die, doesn’t it?”
“That’s what Geoffrey thought, and so did I. But it was an Indian pension, dear, and when the Socialists scuttled out of India there weren’t any civil servants left in India to pay into the fund. Only us widows were left drawing out of it, and now the money is all gone.”
“But wasn’t it a Government pension?”
“Not for widows, dear. Geoffrey’s pension was a Government pension, but that stopped when he died. This was a private fund, that we civil servants in India all paid into. They had to halve the pensions a few years ago, and then last year they stopped it altogether and wound up the fund.”
The girl said, “Oh Granny! And you gave me such a lovely dinner when I came here last!”
“Of course, my dear. A young girl like you must have proper meals. Although it’s so difficult, with all this rationing. Jenny, have you had your breakfast yet?”
“Not yet. I’m going out in a few minutes, and I’ll get some then.”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing in the house, Jenny. I am so sorry.”
“Don’t think about it, Granny. I’ll get a few things when I’m out and bring them in.”
“Yes, do that, dear.” She paused. “Will you bring me the little red morocco case that’s on the dressing-table?”
“This one?”
“Yes, that’s it. Bring it to me here.”
The girl brought the jewel case over to the bed and gave it to her grandmother, who opened it with fingers that trembled so that they could barely serve their function. Inside there was a jumble of souvenirs, the relics of a long life. A gold locket on a gold chain, broken, with a wisp of a baby’s hair in it. A painted miniature portrait of a young boy in the clothes of 1880, a faded photograph of a bride and bridgegroom. dated 1903, a small gold sovereign purse to hang upon a watch-chain, three small gold and alabaster seals, a string of black jet beads. She rummaged among these things and many others with fingers that were almost useless, and finally produced a gold ring set with five diamonds in a row, unfashionable in these days.
She gave this to Jennifer. “I want you to do a little job for me when you are out, Jenny,” she said. “In the New Broadway, two doors on the other side of Paul’s patisserie shop, you’ll find a jeweller’s shop called Evans. Go in and ask to see Mr. Evans himself, and give him this, and tell him that you come from me. He’s a very nice man, and he’ll understand. He’ll give you money for it, whatever it’s worth. I’m afraid it may not be enough to pay the electricity, but you can get a joint of beef and some vegetables, and we’ll cook a nice dinner for you. Take my ration book with you—it’s on the corner of the bureau in the drawing-room—and get some flour and dripping and sugar, and then we’ll make a cake; there’s plenty of dried fruit downstairs that dear Jane sends me from Australia. So kind of her, after all these years. And if there’s enough money, get a little bottle of claret. A young girl like you ought not to look so pale.”
“You mustn’t sell your ring,” the girl said gently. “Look, I’ve got plenty of money to carry on with—I’ve got over thirty pounds in the bank. I’ll use some of that, and I’ll be telephoning Mummy this morning and she’ll send us down some more. I expect Daddy will come down to see you tomorrow, when he hears that you’re in bed.”
Her grandmother shook her head. “Your mother hasn’t got any money to spare,” she said. “She might have had once, but now with this horrible Health Service and doctors getting less money than dentists … Sell the ring, my dear. I can’t get it on my finger now, I’m so rheumatic, and I shan’t want it any more.”
“What is it, Granny?” the girl asked, turning it over in her fingers. “Who gave it to you?”
“Geoffrey,” the old lady said. “Geoffrey gave it to me, when we became engaged. We went to the Goldsmiths and Silversmiths in Regent Street together to buy it … such a fine, sunny day. And then we went and had lunch at Gatti’s; it felt so funny on the fork, because I wasn’t used to wearing rings. And then we took a hansom for the afternoon and drove down to Roehampton to see the polo, because Geoffrey’s friend Captain Oliver was playing. But I didn’t see much of the polo, because I was looking at my new ring, and at Geoffrey. So silly….” The old voice faded off into silence.
“I can’t sell that,” the girl said gently. “I’m not going to sell your engagement ring.”
“My dear, there’s nothing else.”
“Yes, there is,” the girl said. “I’ve got thirty pounds. I’m going to spend that first. If you don’t like it, you can leave me that ring in your will.”
“I’ve done that already, Jenny, with a lot of other things that aren’t there now, because I had to sell them. I’m so very, very sorry. There was a little emerald and ruby brooch that Geoffrey got at Mandalay, and a pair of pearl ear-rings that came from Mergui. So pretty; I did want you to have those. But everything has been so troublesome….”
The girl put the ring back into the jewel box. “Leave it there for now,” she said. “I promise you I’ll come and tell you if we have to sell it. But we shan’t have to; we’ve got plenty of money between us.”
She made her grandmother comfortable and promised her that she would be back in an hour and a half; then she went out with a shopping basket. She got a good breakfast at Lyons’ of porridge and fish, and as she breakfasted she made her plans. She had only twelve and threepence in her purse, and her breakfast cost her three shillings of that. Before she could lay her hands on any more money she must go to Blackheath to get her cheque-book and cash a cheque, and the fare there would be about four and three. That left her about five shillings; she had to telephone her mother, but perhaps she could reverse the charges for the call to Leicester. She must keep a margin of about two shillings for contingencies; if she could reverse the charges for the call she would have about three shillings to spend on food for her grandmother.
The sense of crisis, and the breakfast, stimulated her; she could beat this thing. She went out and stood in a call-box and rang up her parents; she was early, and the hundred-mile call came through at once. She told her father what had happened.
“She’s got no money at all, Daddy,” she said. “She’s just hasn’t been eating—I think that’s really all that’s the matter with her. She’s very weak, and she’s in bed, of course.” She told him what the district nurse had said about her grandmother’s chances. She told him about the pension.
They extended the call. “Can you let me have some money, Daddy? I’ve only got a few shillings. I’m going back to Blackheath about midday and I’ll get my cheque-book then, but I’m not sure if I’ll be in time to cash a cheque. I may be too late. I’ll be back here in Ealing this afternoon, anyway, before dark.”
He said, “I’ll send you a telegraph money order at once for ten pounds. You should get that this afternoon. Either your mother or I will come down tomorrow and be with you some time tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll see what’s to be done then. It’s a bit of a shock, this.”
“Don’t let Mummy worry over it too much,” the girl said. “I think she’s probably going to be all right. I’m going now to see if I can talk them into turning on the electricity again. It’ll make a lot of difference if we can get a radiator going in her room.”
She said, “I’m going over to Blackheath to get my cheque-book today. I can let you have the cheque first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Fine,” he said, with forced geniality. “Then we shall be able to re-connect the supply.”
“Can’t you do it today?”
“I’m afraid the account will have to be settled first.”
Jennifer said desperately. “She’s really terribly ill, and we can’t even warm up hot milk in the house, or get hot water for her water-bottles. We must have electricity tonight.”
He got to his feet; this was too unpleasant, and he had no power to act. “I’m sorry, Miss Morton,” he said. “It sounds as though she would be better in the hospital—have you considered that? Perhaps the relieving officer would be the man for you to see. He’s at the Town Hall.”
The red-haired girl flared into sudden anger. “God blast you and the relieving officer,” she said. “I only hope this happens to you one day, that you’re old and dying of starvation, and you can’t get anyone to help you. And it will, too.”
She turned and left the office, white with anger. She shopped carefully with her three shillings, and bought two pints of milk, a few water biscuits, and a little sugar; that finished her money. She thought deeply; she could get some more food for her grandmother and for herself on the way back from Blackheath. It was urgent to get over there at once, before the bank shut, so that she could get her money. She turned and made for Ladysmith Avenue; on the way she stopped and spent fourpence on a copy of The Times, thinking that it would give the old lady an interest while she was absent, and give something for her morale to hang on to during the afternoon.
When she got into the house she took The Times up to her grandmother’s room. The old lady lay in bed exactly as Jennifer had left her; her eyes were shut, and though she was breathing steadily it seemed to the girl that the respiration was now fainter than it had been when she had been lying in the same way on the previous night. Jennifer spoke to her, but she did not answer; however, when she reached in to the bed to get the hot-water bottles the old lady opened her eyes.
“Just getting your hot-water bottles, Granny,” the girl said. “I’ll make you another cup of Benger’s, too. I brought you The Times.”
“So sweet of you,” her grandmother said. “I had to give up The Times, but I always go down every morning to look at the Births, Deaths, and Marriages. It’s so easy to miss things, and then you write to somebody and find they’re dead.”
The girl said, “I’m just going to get these water-bottles filled, and make you another hot drink. I’ll be back in about five minutes.”
When she got back the old lady was reading the front page of The Times. Jennifer packed the hot-water bottles around her and got her to take the best part of the cup of the milk drink, and to eat about half of one biscuit. While she was coaxing her to eat the rest there was a knock, at the front door; she went downstairs, and it was the postman with a heavy parcel.
She took it from him, and carried it up to show to her grandmother, with an instinct that anything that would stimulate and arouse her interest was good. “Look what the post’s brought,” she said. “Myer’s Emporium. What have you been buying?”
The old lady said, “Oh, that’s dear Jane. How sweet of her. It’s a parcel from Australia, Jenny. She sends one every month.”
“It’s got an English postmark, Granny,” the girl said.
“I know, my dear. She puts the order in Australia and the food comes from England somehow or other. So funny.”
“Shall I open it?”
“Please. I must write and thank her.” The parcel contained six cartons of dried fruit and a tin of lard; Jennifer now knew where the cartons she had seen in the larder came from. She asked, “Granny, who is Aunt Jane? She isn’t Mother’s sister, is she?”
“No, my dear. Your mother never had a sister. She’s my niece, my brother Tom’s daughter.”
“She’s the one who quarreled with the family because she married an Australian?”
“Yes, dear. Tom and Margaret were very much upset, but it’s turned out very well. I liked him, but Tom found him drinking white port with Jeffries, the butler, in the middle of the morning, and he used to swear dreadfully, and never saluted anybody. So different to our Army,”
Jennifer smiled. “What was Aunt Jane like?”
“Such a sweet girl—but very stubborn. Once she decided to do a thing there was no arguing with her; she had to see it through. I sometimes think that you’re a little like her, Jenny.”
Time was slipping by; if she were to get money that day she could not linger. “I’m going over to Blackheath now,” she said. “I’ll get a few things for the night, and I’ll get some money and some bits of things we need. I’ll be back about tea-time, but I’ll leave a note explaining everything to the nurse. Will you be all right, do you think?”
“I’ll be quite all right, my dear. Don’t hurry; I shall get a little sleep, I expect.”
Jennifer went downstairs and left a note on the hall table for the nurse, and travelled across London to her rooms at Blackheath. She got there about midday, packed a bag, went to the bank, and rang up her office to say that she would have to take the rest of the week off to look after her grandmother. Then she snatched a quick meal in a café and travelled back to Ealing.
She was lucky in that when she reached the house the doctor and the nurse were both there, with her grandmother. She waited in the hall till they came down from the bedroom; a few letters had arrived, two that seemed to be bills and one air-mailed from Australia. That would be Jane Dorman, Jennifer thought, who had married the Australian who drank port with the butler and never saluted anybody, and who still sent parcels of dried fruit to her aunt after thirty years. They must have been very close at one time for affection to have endured so long.
She looked round for the candle, but she could not find it; perhaps the doctor and the nurse had it upstairs with them. She stood in the dusk of the hall, waiting.
Presently they came out of the room upstairs, and the staircase was suddenly flooded with light as the nurse turned the switch. Jennifer went forward to meet them. “The electricity’s come on!” she exclaimed.
“Of course. Didn’t you go and see them?”
“They said they wouldn’t turn it on until I paid the bill.”
“The man came and turned it on this afternoon.” They left that for the moment, and the nurse said, “This is Dr. Thompson.”
He was a fairly young man, not more than about thirty; he looked tired and overworked. He said, “You’re Miss Morton? Let’s go into one of these rooms.”
They went into the drawing-room; it was as cold as a tomb, but anyway the light was on. Surrounded by the Burmese relics the girl asked, “How is she, Doctor?”
The young man glanced at her, summing her up. “She’s very ill,” he said. “Very ill indeed. You know what’s the matter with her, of course?”
Jennifer said, “She’s got no money.”
“Yes. Malnutrition. Starvation, if you like.” He glanced around the drawing-room, taking in the worn Indian carpet of fine quality, the old-fashioned, comfortable furniture, the sampler as a firescreen, the multitude of ornaments and bric-à-brac. “She wouldn’t sell any of this stuff, I suppose.”
“She’s very set in her ways,” the girl said. “She likes to have her own things round her.”
“I know.” He glanced at her. “Are you going to keep her here?”
“Could
He shook his head. “I don’t think there’s a chance. I don’t think any hospital would take her. You see, the beds are all needed for urgent cases; she might be bedridden for years if she gets over the immediate trouble.”
“She must have paid a lot of money into hospitals in her time,” said Jennifer. “She was always subscribing to things.”
“I’m afraid that doesn’t count for much in the Health Service. Things are different now, you know.”
“My father’s coming down from Leicester tomorrow,” the girl said. “He’s a doctor. I think he’ll have to decide what to do. I’ll stay with her tonight in any case.”
“You’ll be alone, here, will you?”
“Yes.” She hesitated, and then she said, “Do you think she’ll die?”
“I hope not. Would you be very frightened if she did die, and you were alone with her?”
“I’ve never seen anybody die,” the girl said evenly. “I hope that I’d be able to do what was best for her.”
“You’ll be all right….” He bit his lip. “I don’t think she’ll die tonight,” he said. “She’s definitely weaker than when I saw her yesterday, I’m afraid…. Nurse here has to get some sleep tonight. I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll look in again myself about eleven, just before I go to bed. In the meantime, this is what she’s got to have.”
He gave her her instructions, and went off with the nurse; Jennifer went up to her grandmother’s bedroom. It was warm with an electric radiator burning; the old lady lay in bed, but turned her eyes to the girl.
“I see you’ve got a radiator going, Granny,” she said. “That’s much better.”
“It was that nice man,” she said weakly. “I heard somebody moving around downstairs, and I thought it was you, Jenny. And then somebody knocked at my door, and it was him. He said he hoped he wasn’t intruding, but he thought I’d like the radiator, and he came in and turned it on and saw that it was burning properly. And then he said he hoped I’d soon be better.”