One AUNT ADA
Mr. and Mrs. Beresford were sitting at the breakfast table. They were anordinary couple. Hundreds of elderly couples just like them were havingbreakfast all over England at that particular moment. It was an ordinarysort of day too, the kind of day that you get five days out of seven. Itlooked as though it might rain but wasn’t quite sure of it.
Mr. Beresford had once had red hair. There were traces of the red still,but most of it had gone that sandy- cum- grey colour that red- headedpeople so often arrive at in middle life. Mrs. Beresford had once had blackhair, a vigorous curling mop of it. Now the black was adulterated withstreaks of grey laid on, apparently2 at random3. It made a rather pleasant ef-fect. Mrs. Beresford had once thought of dyeing her hair, but in the endshe had decided4 that she liked herself better as nature had made her. Shehad decided instead to try a new shade of lipstick5 so as to cheer herself up.
An elderly couple having breakfast together. A pleasant couple, butnothing remarkable6 about them. So an onlooker7 would have said. If theonlooker had been young he or she would have added, “Oh yes, quitepleasant, but deadly dull, of course, like all old people.”
However, Mr. and Mrs. Beresford had not yet arrived at the time of lifewhen they thought of themselves as old. And they had no idea that theyand many others were automatically pronounced deadly dull solely8 onthat account. Only by the young of course, but then, they would havethought indulgently, young people knew nothing about life. Poor dears,they were always worrying about examinations, or their sex life, or buy-ing some extraordinary clothes, or doing extraordinary things to their hairto make them more noticeable. Mr. and Mrs. Beresford from their ownpoint of view were just past the prime of life. They liked themselves andliked each other and day succeeded day in a quiet but enjoyable fashion.
There were, of course, moments, everyone has moments. Mr. Beresfordopened a letter, glanced through it and laid it down, adding it to the smallpile by his left hand. He picked up the next letter but forbore to open it. In-stead he stayed with it in his hand. He was not looking at the letter, he waslooking at the toast rack. His wife observed him for a few moments beforesaying,
“What’s the matter, Tommy?”
“Matter?” said Tommy vaguely9. “Matter?”
“That’s what I said,” said Mrs. Beresford.
“Nothing is the matter,” said Mr. Beresford. “What should it be?”
“You’ve thought of something,” said Tuppence accusingly.
“I don’t think I was thinking of anything at all.”
“Oh yes, you were. Has anything happened?”
“No, of course not. What should happen?” He added, “I got theplumber’s bill.”
“Oh,” said Tuppence with the air of one enlightened. “More than you ex-pected, I suppose.”
“Naturally,” said Tommy, “it always is.”
“I can’t think why we didn’t train as plumbers,” said Tuppence. “If you’donly trained as a plumber10, I could have been a plumber’s mate and we’dbe raking in money day by day.”
“Very shortsighted of us not to see these opportunities.”
“Was that the plumber’s bill you were looking at just now?”
“Oh no, that was just an Appeal.”
“Delinquent boys—Racial integration11?”
“No. Just another Home they’re opening for old people.”
“Well, that’s more sensible anyway,” said Tuppence, “but I don’t see whyyou have to have that worried look about it.”
“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that.”
“Well, what were you thinking of?”
“I suppose it put it into my mind,” said Mr. Beresford.
“What?” said Tuppence. “You know you’ll tell me in the end.”
“It really wasn’t anything important. I just thought that perhaps—well,it was Aunt Ada.”
“Oh, I see,” said Tuppence, with instant comprehension. “Yes,” she ad-ded, softly, meditatively12. “Aunt Ada.”
Their eyes met. It is regrettably true that in these days there is in nearlyevery family, the problem of what might be called an “Aunt Ada.” Thenames are different—Aunt Amelia, Aunt Susan, Aunt Cathy, Aunt Joan.
They are varied13 by grandmothers, aged14 cousins and even great-aunts. Butthey exist and present a problem in life which has to be dealt with. Ar-rangements have to be made. Suitable establishments for looking after theelderly have to be inspected and full questions asked about them. Recom-mendations are sought from doctors, from friends, who have Aunt Adas oftheir own who had been “perfectly15 happy until she had died” at “TheLaurels, Bexhill,” or “Happy Meadows at Scarborough.”
The days are past when Aunt Elisabeth, Aunt Ada and the rest of themlived on happily in the homes where they had lived for many years previ-ously, looked after by devoted16 if sometimes somewhat tyrannical old ser-vants. Both sides were thoroughly17 satisfied with the arrangement. Orthere were the innumerable poor relations, indigent18 nieces, semi-idioticspinster cousins, all yearning19 for a good home with three good meals aday and a nice bedroom. Supply and demand complemented20 each otherand all was well. Nowadays, things are different.
For the Aunt Adas of today arrangements have to be made suitable, notmerely to an elderly lady who, owing to arthritis21 or other rheumatic diffi-culties, is liable to fall downstairs if she is left alone in a house, or who suf-fers from chronic22 bronchitis, or who quarrels with her neighbours and in-sults the tradespeople.
Unfortunately, the Aunt Adas are far more trouble than the opposite endof the age scale. Children can be provided with foster homes, foisted23 off onrelations, or sent to suitable schools where they stay for the holidays, orarrangements can be made for pony24 treks25 or camps and on the whole verylittle objection is made by the children to the arrangements so made forthem. The Aunt Adas are very different. Tuppence Beresford’s own aunt—Great-aunt Primrose26—had been a notable troublemaker27. Impossible to sat-isfy her. No sooner did she enter an establishment guaranteed to providea good home and all comforts for elderly ladies than after writing a fewhighly complimentary28 letters to her niece praising this particular estab-lishment, the next news would be that she had indignantly walked out ofit without notice.
“Impossible. I couldn’t stay there another minute!”
Within the space of a year Aunt Primrose had been in and out of elevensuch establishments, finally writing to say that she had now met a verycharming young man. “Really a very devoted boy. He lost his mother at ayoung age and he badly needs looking after. I have rented a flat and he iscoming to live with me. This arrangement will suit us both perfectly. Weare natural affinities29. You need have no more anxieties, dear Prudence30.
My future is settled. I am seeing my lawyer tomorrow as it is necessarythat I should make some provision for Mervyn if I should predecease himwhich is, of course, the natural course of events, though I assure you at themoment I feel in the pink of health.”
Tuppence had hurried north (the incident had taken place in Aberdeen).
But as it happened, the police had arrived there first and had removed theglamorous Mervyn, for whom they had been seeking for some time, on acharge of obtaining money under false pretences31. Aunt Primrose had beenhighly indignant, and had called it persecution—but after attending theCourt proceedings32 (where twenty- five other cases were taken into ac-count)—had been forced to change her views of her protégé.
“I think I ought to go and see Aunt Ada, you know, Tuppence,” saidTommy. “It’s been some time.”
“I suppose so,” said Tuppence, without enthusiasm. “How long has itbeen?”
Tommy considered. “It must be nearly a year,” he said.
“It’s more than that,” said Tuppence. “I think it’s over a year.”
“Oh dear,” said Tommy, “the time does go so fast, doesn’t it? I can’t be-lieve it’s been as long as that. Still, I believe you’re right, Tuppence.” Hecalculated. “It’s awful the way one forgets, isn’t it? I really feel very badlyabout it.”
“I don’t think you need,” said Tuppence. “After all, we send her thingsand we write letters.”
“Oh yes, I know. You’re awfully33 good about those sort of things, Tup-pence. But all the same, one does read things sometimes that are very up-setting.”
“You’re thinking of that dreadful book we got from the library,” saidTuppence, “and how awful it was for the poor old dears. How theysuffered.”
“I suppose it was true—taken from life.”
“Oh yes,” said Tuppence, “there must be places like that. And there arepeople who are terribly unhappy, who can’t help being unhappy. But whatelse is one to do, Tommy?”
“What can anyone do except be as careful as possible. Be very carefulwhat you choose, find out all about it and make sure she’s got a nice doc-tor looking after her.”
“Nobody could be nicer than Dr. Murray, you must admit that.”
“Yes,” said Tommy, the worried look receding34 from his face. “Murray’s afirst- class chap. Kind, patient. If anything was going wrong he’d let usknow.”
“So I don’t think you need worry about it,” said Tuppence. “How old isshe by now?”
“Eighty-two,” said Tommy. “No—no. I think it’s eighty-three,” he added.
“It must be rather awful when you’ve outlived everybody.”
“That’s only what we feel,” said Tuppence. “They don’t feel it.”
“You can’t really tell.”
“Well, your Aunt Ada doesn’t. Don’t you remember the glee with whichshe told us the number of her old friends that she’d already outlived? Shefinished up by saying ‘and as for Amy Morgan, I’ve heard she won’t lastmore than another six months. She always used to say I was so delicateand now it’s practically a certainty that I shall outlive her. Outlive her by agood many years too.’ Triumphant35, that’s what she was at the prospect36.”
“All the same—” said Tommy.
“I know,” said Tuppence, “I know. All the same you feel it’s your dutyand so you’ve got to go.”
“Don’t you think I’m right?”
“Unfortunately,” said Tuppence, “I do think you’re right. Absolutelyright. And I’ll come too,” she added, with a slight note of heroism37 in hervoice.
“No,” said Tommy. “Why should you? She’s not your aunt. No, I’ll go.”
“Not at all,” said Mrs. Beresford. “I like to suffer too. We’ll suffer to-gether. You won’t enjoy it and I shan’t enjoy it and I don’t think for onemoment that Aunt Ada will enjoy it. But I quite see it is one of those thingsthat has got to be done.”
“No, I don’t want you to go. After all, the last time, remember howfrightfully rude she was to you?”
“Oh, I didn’t mind that,” said Tuppence. “It’s probably the only bit of thevisit that the poor old girl enjoyed. I don’t grudge38 it to her, not for a mo-ment.”
“You’ve always been nice to her,” said Tommy, “even though you don’tlike her very much.”
“Nobody could like Aunt Ada,” said Tuppence. “If you ask me I don’tthink anyone ever has.”
“One can’t help feeling sorry for people when they get old,” said Tommy.
“I can,” said Tuppence. “I haven’t got as nice a nature as you have.”
“Being a woman you’re more ruthless,” said Tommy.
“I suppose that might be it. After all, women haven’t really got time to beanything but realistic over things. I mean I’m very sorry for people ifthey’re old or sick or anything, if they’re nice people. But if they’re notnice people, well, it’s different, you must admit. If you’re pretty nastywhen you’re twenty and just as nasty when you’re forty and nastier stillwhen you’re sixty, and a perfect devil by the time you’re eighty—well,really, I don’t see why one should be particularly sorry for people, just be-cause they’re old. You can’t change yourself really. I know some absoluteducks who are seventy and eighty. Old Mrs. Beauchamp, and Mary Carrand the baker’s grandmother, dear old Mrs. Poplett, who used to come inand clean for us. They were all dears and sweet and I’d do anything Icould for them.”
“All right, all right,” said Tommy, “be realistic. But if you really want tobe noble and come with me—”
“I want to come with you,” said Tuppence. “After all, I married you forbetter or for worse and Aunt Ada is decidedly the worse. So I shall go withyou hand in hand. And we’ll take her a bunch of flowers and a box ofchocolates with soft centres and perhaps a magazine or two. You mightwrite to Miss What’s-her-name and say we’re coming.”
“One day next week? I could manage Tuesday,” said Tommy, “if that’sall right for you.”
“Tuesday it is,” said Tuppence. “What’s the name of the woman? I can’tremember—the matron or the superintendent39 or whoever she is. Beginswith a P.”
“Miss Packard.”
“That’s right.”
“Perhaps it’ll be different this time,” said Tommy.
“Different? In what way?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Something interesting might happen.”
“We might be in a railway accident on the way there,” said Tuppence,brightening up a little.
“Why on earth do you want to be in a railway accident?”
“Well I don’t really, of course. It was just—”
“Just what?”
“Well, it would be an adventure of some kind, wouldn’t it? Perhaps wecould save lives or do something useful. Useful and at the same time excit-ing.”
“What a hope!” said Mr. Beresford.
“I know,” agreed Tuppence. “It’s just that these sort of ideas come to onesometimes.”
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1
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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lipstick
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| n.口红，唇膏 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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onlooker
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| n.旁观者，观众 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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plumber
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| n.(装修水管的)管子工 | |
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integration
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| n.一体化，联合，结合 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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indigent
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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complemented
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| 有补助物的，有余格的 | |
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arthritis
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| n.关节炎 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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foisted
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| 强迫接受，把…强加于( foist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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treks
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| n.远距离行走 ( trek的名词复数 )；长途跋涉，艰难的旅程（尤指在山区）v.艰苦跋涉，徒步旅行( trek的第三人称单数 )；（尤指在山中）远足，徒步旅行，游山玩水 | |
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primrose
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troublemaker
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| n.惹是生非者，闹事者，捣乱者 | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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affinities
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| n.密切关系( affinity的名词复数 )；亲近；（生性）喜爱；类同 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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