How Sunny Ridge1 had come by its name would be difficult to say. Therewas nothing prominently ridgelike about it. The grounds were flat, whichwas eminently2 more suitable for the elderly occupants. It had an ample,though rather undistinguished garden. It was a fairly large Victorian man-sion kept in a good state of repair. There were some pleasant shady trees,a Virginia creeper running up the side of the house, and two monkeypuzzles gave an exotic air to the scene. There were several benches in ad-vantageous places to catch the sun, one or two garden chairs and asheltered veranda3 on which the old ladies could sit sheltered from the eastwinds.
Tommy rang the front doorbell and he and Tuppence were duly admit-ted by a rather harassed-looking young woman in a nylon overall. Sheshowed them into a small sitting room saying rather breathlessly, “I’ll tellMiss Packard. She’s expecting you and she’ll be down in a minute. Youwon’t mind waiting just a little, will you, but it’s old Mrs. Carraway. She’sbeen and swallowed her thimble again, you see.”
“How on earth did she do a thing like that?” asked Tuppence, surprised.
“Does it for fun,” explained the household help briefly4. “Always doingit.”
She departed and Tuppence sat down and said thoughtfully, “I don’tthink I should like to swallow a thimble. It’d be awfully5 bobbly as it wentdown. Don’t you think so?”
They had not very long to wait however before the door opened andMiss Packard came in, apologizing as she did so. She was a big, sandy-haired woman of about fifty with the air of calm competence6 about herwhich Tommy had always admired.
“I’m sorry if I have kept you waiting, Mr. Beresford,” she said. “How doyou do, Mrs. Beresford, I’m so glad you’ve come too.”
“Somebody swallowed something, I hear,” said Tommy.
“Oh, so Marlene told you that? Yes, it was old Mrs. Carraway. She’s al-ways swallowing things. Very difficult, you know, because one can’t watchthem all the time. Of course one knows children do it, but it seems a funnything to be a hobby of an elderly woman, doesn’t it? It’s grown upon her,you know. She gets worse every year. It doesn’t seem to do her any harm,that’s the cheeriest thing about it.”
“Perhaps her father was a sword swallower,” suggested Tuppence.
“Now that’s a very interesting idea, Mrs. Beresford. Perhaps it would ex-plain things.” She went on, “I’ve told Miss Fanshawe that you were com-ing, Mr. Beresford. I don’t know really whether she quite took it in. Shedoesn’t always, you know.”
“How has she been lately?”
“Well, she’s failing rather rapidly now, I’m afraid,” said Miss Packard ina comfortable voice. “One never really knows how much she takes in andhow much she doesn’t. I told her last night and she said she was sure Imust be mistaken because it was term time. She seemed to think that youwere still at school. Poor old things, they get very muddled7 up sometimes,especially over time. However, this morning when I reminded her aboutyour visit, she just said it was quite impossible because you were dead. Ohwell,” Miss Packard went on cheerfully, “I expect she’ll recognize youwhen she sees you.”
“How is she in health? Much the same?”
“Well, perhaps as well as can be expected. Frankly8, you know, I don’tthink she’ll be with us very much longer. She doesn’t suffer in any waybut her heart condition’s no better than it was. In fact, it’s rather worse. SoI think I’d like you to know that it’s just as well to be prepared, so that ifshe did go suddenly it wouldn’t be any shock to you.”
“We brought her some flowers,” said Tuppence.
“And a box of chocolates,” said Tommy.
“Oh, that’s very kind of you I’m sure. She’ll be very pleased. Would youlike to come up now?”
Tommy and Tuppence rose and followed Miss Packard from the room.
She led them up the broad staircase. As they passed one of the rooms inthe passage upstairs, it opened suddenly and a little woman about five foothigh trotted9 out, calling in a loud shrill10 voice, “I want my cocoa. I want mycocoa. Where’s Nurse Jane? I want my cocoa.”
A woman in a nurse’s uniform popped out of the next door and said,“There, there, dear, it’s all right. You’ve had your cocoa. You had it twentyminutes ago.”
“No I didn’t, Nurse. It’s not true. I haven’t had my cocoa. I’m thirsty.”
“Well, you shall have another cup if you like.”
“I can’t have another when I haven’t had one.”
They passed on and Miss Packard, after giving a brief rap on a door atthe end of the passage, opened it and passed in.
“Here you are, Miss Fanshawe,” she said brightly. “Here’s your nephewcome to see you. Isn’t that nice?”
In a bed near the window an elderly lady sat up abruptly11 on her raisedpillows. She had iron-grey hair, a thin wrinkled face with a large, high-bridged nose and a general air of disapprobation. Tommy advanced.
“Hullo, Aunt Ada,” he said. “How are you?”
Aunt Ada paid no attention to him, but addressed Miss Packard angrily.
“I don’t know what you mean by showing gentlemen into a lady’s bed-room,” she said. “Wouldn’t have been thought proper at all in my youngdays! Telling me he’s my nephew indeed! Who is he? A plumber12 or theelectrician?”
“Now, now, that’s not very nice,” said Miss Packard mildly.
“I’m your nephew, Thomas Beresford,” said Tommy. He advanced thebox of chocolates. “I’ve brought you a box of chocolates.”
“You can’t get round me that way,” said Aunt Ada. “I know your kind.
Say anything, you will. Who’s this woman?” She eyed Mrs. Beresford withan air of distaste.
“I’m Prudence13,” said Mrs. Beresford. “Your niece, Prudence.”
“What a ridiculous name,” said Aunt Ada. “Sounds like a parlourmaid.
My Great-uncle Mathew had a parlourmaid called Comfort and the house-maid was called Rejoice-in-the-Lord. Methodist she was. But my Great-aunt Fanny soon put a stop to that. Told her she was going to be called Re-becca as long as she was in her house.”
“I brought you a few roses,” said Tuppence.
“I don’t care for flowers in a sick room. Use up all the oxygen.”
“I’ll put them in a vase for you,” said Miss Packard.
“You won’t do anything of the kind. You ought to have learnt by nowthat I know my own mind.”
“You seem in fine form, Aunt Ada,” said Mr. Beresford. “Fighting fit, Ishould say.”
“I can take your measure all right. What d’you mean by saying thatyou’re my nephew? What did you say your name was? Thomas?”
“Yes. Thomas or Tommy.”
“Never heard of you,” said Aunt Ada. “I only had one nephew and hewas called William. Killed in the last war. Good thing, too. He’d have goneto the bad if he’d lived. I’m tired,” said Aunt Ada, leaning back on her pil-lows and turning her head towards Miss Packard. “Take ’em away. Youshouldn’t let strangers in to see me.”
“I thought a nice little visit might cheer you up,” said Miss Packard un-perturbed.
Aunt Ada uttered a deep bass14 sound of ribald mirth.
“All right,” said Tuppence cheerfully. “We’ll go away again. I’ll leave theroses. You might change your mind about them. Come on, Tommy,” saidTuppence. She turned towards the door.
“Well, goodbye, Aunt Ada. I’m sorry you don’t remember me.”
Aunt Ada was silent until Tuppence had gone out of the door with MissPackard and Tommy followed her.
“Come back, you, said Aunt Ada, raising her voice. “I know you per-fectly. You’re Thomas. Red-haired you used to be. Carrots, that’s the colouryour hair was. Come back. I’ll talk to you. I don’t want the woman. Nogood her pretending she’s your wife. I know better. Shouldn’t bring thattype of woman in here. Come and sit down here in this chair and tell meabout your dear mother. You go away,” added Aunt Ada as a kind of post-script, waving her hand towards Tuppence who was hesitating in thedoorway.
Tuppence retired15 immediately.
“Quite in one of her moods today,” said Miss Packard, unruffled, as theywent down the stairs. “Sometimes, you know,” she added, “she can bequite pleasant. You would hardly believe it.”
Tommy sat down in the chair indicated to him by Aunt Ada and re-marked mildly that he couldn’t tell her much about his mother as she hadbeen dead now for nearly forty years. Aunt Ada was unperturbed by thisstatement.
“Fancy,” she said, “is it as long as that? Well, time does pass quickly.”
She looked him over in a considering manner. “Why don’t you get mar-ried?” she said. “Get some nice capable woman to look after you. You’regetting on, you know. Save you taking up with all these loose women andbringing them round and speaking as though they were your wife.”
“I can see,” said Tommy, “that I shall have to get Tuppence to bring hermarriage lines along next time we come to see you.”
“Made an honest woman of her, have you?” said Aunt Ada.
“We’ve been married over thirty years,” said Tommy, “and we’ve got ason and a daughter, and they’re both married too.”
“The trouble is,” said Aunt Ada, shifting her ground with dexterity16, “thatnobody tells me anything. If you’d kept me properly up to date—”
Tommy did not argue the point. Tuppence had once laid upon him a ser-ious injunction. “If anybody over the age of sixty-five finds fault with you,”
she said, “never argue. Never try to say you’re right. Apologize at once andsay it was all your fault and you’re very sorry and you’ll never do itagain.”
It occurred to Tommy at this moment with some force that that wouldcertainly be the line to take with Aunt Ada, and indeed always had been.
“I’m very sorry, Aunt Ada,” he said. “I’m afraid, you know, one doestend to get forgetful as time goes on. It’s not everyone,” he continued un-blushingly, “who has your wonderful memory for the past.”
Aunt Ada smirked18. There was no other word for it. “You have somethingthere,” she said. “I’m sorry if I received you rather roughly, but I don’tcare for being imposed upon. You never know in this place. They let inanyone to see you. Anyone at all. If I accepted everyone for what they saidthey were, they might be intending to rob and murder me in my bed.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s very likely,” said Tommy.
“You never know,” said Aunt Ada. “The things you read in the paper.
And the things people come and tell you. Not that I believe everything I’mtold. But I keep a sharp lookout19. Would you believe it, they brought astrange man in the other day—never seen him before. Called himself Dr.
Williams. Said Dr. Murray was away on his holiday and this was his newpartner. New partner! How was I to know he was his new partner? He justsaid he was, that’s all.”
“Was he his new partner?”
“Well, as a matter of fact,” said Aunt Ada, slightly annoyed at losingground, “he actually was. But nobody could have known it for sure. Therehe was, drove up in a car, had that little kind of black box with him, whichdoctors carry to do blood pressure—and all that sort of thing. It’s like themagic box they all used to talk about so much. Who was it, Joanna South-cott’s?”
“No,” said Tommy. “I think that was rather different. A prophecy ofsome kind.”
“Oh, I see. Well, my point is anyone could come into a place like this andsay he was a doctor, and immediately all the nurses would smirk17 andgiggle and say yes, Doctor, of course, Doctor, and more or less stand to at-tention, silly girls! And if the patient swore she didn’t know the man,they’d only say she was forgetful and forgot people. I never forget a face,”
said Aunt Ada firmly. “I never have. How is your Aunt Caroline? I haven’theard from her for some time. Have you seen anything of her?”
Tommy said, rather apologetically, that his Aunt Caroline had been deadfor fifteen years. Aunt Ada did not take this demise20 with any signs of sor-row. Aunt Caroline had after all not been her sister, but merely her firstcousin.
“Everyone seems to be dying,” she said, with a certain relish21. “No stam-ina. That’s what’s the matter with them. Weak heart, coronary throm-bosis, high blood pressure, chronic22 bronchitis, rheumatoid arthritis23—allthe rest of it. Feeble folk, all of them. That’s how the doctors make theirliving. Giving them boxes and boxes and bottles and bottles of tablets. Yel-low tablets, pink tablets, green tablets, even black tablets, I shouldn’t besurprised. Ugh! Brimstone and treacle24 they used to use in my grand-mother’s day. I bet that was as good as anything. With the choice of gettingwell or having brimstone and treacle to drink, you chose getting wellevery time.” She nodded her head in a satisfied manner. “Can’t really trustdoctors, can you? Not when it’s a professional matter—some new fad—I’mtold there’s a lot of poisoning going on here. To get hearts for the surgeons,so I’m told. Don’t think it’s true, myself. Miss Packard’s not the sort of wo-man who would stand for that.”
Downstairs Miss Packard, her manner slightly apologetic, indicated aroom leading off the hall.
“I’m so sorry about this, Mrs. Beresford, but I expect you know how it iswith elderly people. They take fancies or dislikes and persist in them.”
“It must be very difficult running a place of this kind,” said Tuppence.
“Oh, not really,” said Miss Packard. “I quite enjoy it, you know. Andreally, I’m quite fond of them all. One gets fond of people one has to lookafter, you know. I mean, they have their little ways and their fidgets, butthey’re quite easy to manage, if you know how.”
Tuppence thought to herself that Miss Packard was one of those peoplewho would know how.
“They’re like children, really,” said Miss Packard indulgently. “Only chil-dren are far more logical which makes it difficult sometimes with them.
But these people are illogical, they want to be reassured25 by your tellingthem what they want to believe. Then they’re quite happy again for a bit.
I’ve got a very nice staff here. People with patience, you know, and goodtemper, and not too brainy, because if you have people who are brainythey are bound to be very impatient. Yes, Miss Donovan, what is it?” Sheturned her head as a young woman with pince-nez came running downthe stairs.
“It’s Mrs. Lockett again, Miss Packard. She says she’s dying and shewants the doctor called at once.”
“Oh,” said Miss Packard, unimpressed, “what’s she dying from thistime?”
“She says there was mushroom in the stew26 yesterday and that theremust have been fungi27 in it and that she’s poisoned.”
“That’s a new one,” said Miss Packard. “I’d better come up and talk toher. So sorry to leave you, Mrs. Beresford. You’ll find magazines and pa-pers in that room.”
“Oh, I’ll be quite all right,” said Tuppence.
She went into the room that had been indicated to her. It was a pleasantroom overlooking the garden with french windows that opened on it.
There were easy chairs, bowls of flowers on the tables. One wall had abookshelf containing a mixture of modern novels and travel books, andalso what might be described as old favourites, which possibly many ofthe inmates28 might be glad to meet again. There were magazines on atable.
At the moment there was only one occupant in the room. An old ladywith white hair combed back off her face who was sitting in a chair, hold-ing a glass of milk in her hand, and looking at it. She had a pretty pink andwhite face, and she smiled at Tuppence in a friendly manner.
“Good morning,” she said. “Are you coming to live here or are you visit-ing?”
“I’m visiting,” said Tuppence. “I have an aunt here. My husband’s withher now. We thought perhaps two people at once was rather too much.”
“That was very thoughtful of you,” said the old lady. She took a sip29 ofmilk appreciatively. “I wonder—no, I think it’s quite all right. Wouldn’tyou like something? Some tea or some coffee perhaps? Let me ring thebell. They’re very obliging here.”
“No thank you,” said Tuppence, “really.”
“Or a glass of milk perhaps. It’s not poisoned today.”
“No, no, not even that. We shan’t be stopping very much longer.”
“Well, if you’re quite sure—but it wouldn’t be any trouble, you know.
Nobody ever thinks anything is any trouble here. Unless, I mean, you askfor something quite impossible.”
“I daresay the aunt we’re visiting sometimes asks for quite impossiblethings,” said Tuppence. “She’s a Miss Fanshawe,” she added.
“Oh, Miss Fanshawe,” said the old lady. “Oh yes.”
Something seemed to be restraining her but Tuppence said cheerfully,“She’s rather a tartar, I should imagine. She always has been.”
“Oh, yes indeed she is. I used to have an aunt myself, you know, whowas very like that, especially as she grew older. But we’re all quite fond ofMiss Fanshawe. She can be very, very amusing if she likes. About people,you know.”
“Yes, I daresay she could be,” said Tuppence. She reflected a moment ortwo, considering Aunt Ada in this new light.
“Very acid,” said the old lady. “My name is Lancaster, by the way, Mrs.
Lancaster.”
“My name’s Beresford,” said Tuppence.
“I’m afraid, you know, one does enjoy a bit of malice30 now and then. Herdescriptions of some of the other guests here, and the things she saysabout them. Well, you know, one oughtn’t, of course, to find it funny butone does.”
“Have you been living here long?”
“A good while now. Yes, let me see, seven years—eight years. Yes, yes itmust be more than eight years.” She sighed. “One loses touch with things.
And people too. Any relations I have left live abroad.”
“That must be rather sad.”
“No, not really. I didn’t care for them very much. Indeed, I didn’t evenknown them well. I had a bad illness—a very bad illness—and I was alonein the world, so they thought it was better for me to live in a place likethis. I think I’m very lucky to have come here. They are so kind andthoughtful. And the gardens are really beautiful. I know myself that Ishouldn’t like to be living on my own because I do get very confused some-times, you know. Very confused.” She tapped her forehead. “I get confusedhere. I mix things up. I don’t always remember properly the things thathave happened.”
“I’m sorry,” said Tuppence. “I suppose one always has to have some-thing, doesn’t one?”
“Some illnesses are very painful. We have two poor women living herewith very bad rheumatoid arthritis. They suffer terribly. So I think per-haps it doesn’t matter so much if one gets, well, just a little confused aboutwhat happened and where, and who it was, and all that sort of thing, youknow. At any rate it’s not painful physically31.”
“No. I think perhaps you’re quite right,” said Tuppence.
The door opened and a girl in a white overall came in with a little traywith a coffee pot on it and a plate with two biscuits, which she set down atTuppence’s side.
“Miss Packard thought you might care for a cup of coffee,” she said.
“Oh. Thank you,” said Tuppence.
The girl went out again and Mrs. Lancaster said,“There, you see. Very thoughtful, aren’t they?”
“Yes indeed.”
Tuppence poured out her coffee and began to drink it. The two womensat in silence for some time. Tuppence offered the plate of biscuits but theold lady shook her head.
“No thank you, dear. I just like my milk plain.”
She put down the empty glass and leaned back in her chair, her eyeshalf closed. Tuppence thought that perhaps this was the moment in themorning when she took a little nap, so she remained silent. Suddenly how-ever, Mrs. Lancaster seemed to jerk herself awake again. Her eyes opened,she looked at Tuppence and said,
“I see you’re looking at the fireplace.”
“Oh. Was I?” said Tuppence, slightly startled.
“Yes. I wondered—” she leant forward and lowered her voice. “—Excuseme, was it your poor child?”
Tuppence slightly taken aback, hesitated.
“I—no, I don’t think so,” she said.
“I wondered. I thought perhaps you’d come for that reason. Someoneought to come some time. Perhaps they will. And looking at the fireplace,the way you did. That’s where it is, you know. Behind the fireplace.”
“Oh,” said Tuppence. “Oh. Is it?”
“Always the same time,” said Mrs. Lancaster, in a low voice. “Always thesame time of day.” She looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece. Tup-pence looked up also. “Ten past eleven,” said the old lady. “Ten past el-even. Yes, it’s always the same time every morning.”
She sighed. “People didn’t understand—I told them what I knew—butthey wouldn’t believe me!”
Tuppence was relieved that at that moment the door opened andTommy came in. Tuppence rose to her feet.
“Here I am. I’m ready.” She went towards the door turning her head tosay, “Goodbye, Mrs. Lancaster.”
“How did you get on?” she asked Tommy, as they emerged into the hall.
“After you left,” said Tommy, “like a house on fire.”
“I seem to have had a bad effect on her, don’t I?” said Tuppence. “Rathercheering, in a way.”
“Why cheering?”
“Well, at my age,” said Tuppence, “and what with my neat and respect-able and slightly boring appearance, it’s nice to think that you might betaken for a depraved woman of fatal sexual charm.”
“Idiot,” said Tommy, pinching her arm affectionately. “Who were youhobnobbing with? She looked a very nice fluffy32 old lady.”
“She was very nice,” said Tuppence. “A dear old thing, I think. But un-fortunately bats.”
“Bats?”
“Yes. Seemed to think there was a dead child behind the fireplace orsomething of the kind. She asked me if it was my poor child.”
“Rather unnerving,” said Tommy. “I suppose there must be some peoplewho are slightly batty here, as well as normal elderly relatives with noth-ing but age to trouble them. Still, she looked nice.”
“Oh, she was nice,” said Tuppence. “Nice and very sweet, I think. I won-der what exactly her fancies are and why.”
Miss Packard appeared again suddenly.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Beresford. I hope they brought you some coffee?”
“Oh yes, they did, thank you.”
“Well, it’s been very kind of you to come, I’m sure,” said Miss Packard.
Turning to Tommy, she said, “And I know Miss Fanshawe has enjoyedyour visit very much. I’m sorry she was rude to your wife.”
“I think that gave her a lot of pleasure too,” said Tuppence.
“Yes, you’re quite right. She does like being rude to people. She’s unfor-tunately rather good at it.”
“And so she practises the art as often as she can,” said Tommy.
“You’re very understanding, both of you,” said Miss Packard.
“The old lady I was talking to,” said Tuppence. “Mrs. Lancaster, I thinkshe said her name was?”
“Oh yes, Mrs. Lancaster. We’re all very fond of her.”
“She’s—is she a little peculiar33?”
“Well, she has fancies,” said Miss Packard indulgently. “We have severalpeople here who have fancies. Quite harmless ones. But—well, there theyare. Things that they believe have happened to them. Or to other people.
We try not to take any notice, not to encourage them. Just play it down. Ithink really it’s just an exercise in imagination, a sort of phantasy they liketo live in. Something exciting or something sad and tragic34. It doesn’t mat-ter which. But no persecution35 mania36, thank goodness. That would neverdo.”
“Well, that’s over,” said Tommy with a sigh, as he got into the car. “Weshan’t need to come again for at least six months.”
But they didn’t need to go and see her in six months, for three weekslater Aunt Ada died in her sleep.
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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plumber
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| n.(装修水管的)管子工 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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smirked
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lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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demise
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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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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arthritis
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treacle
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reassured
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stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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fungi
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inmates
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sip
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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