I read this really touching short story by Celia Fremlin yesterday, and like it so much I’ve re-written it out.. Christ pass me the vino ploise..
There’s a lovely buzz in Montmatre today.
Paris is back, busy again and everyone is finished Le Grand Vacance which lasts for the month of August. It’s noticably busier everywhere, and all of the re-opening parties are begining right …….. now.
Last Day of Spring
Even thought her eyes were closed, Martha Briggs knew that the sun was shining. The warmth was creeping slowly, gloriously across the blankets, and any minute now it would reach her face, bathe her in lovely, lovely heat. And after that it wold creep across the pillow to Thomas’s side of the bed, and wake him too. Now that he couldn’t get out of the bed any more, it was a shame that the sun didn’t get to his side first; He should have had it all, every scrap – she would have pushed her own share over to him, if she could! Old though she was, the thought made Martha giggle a little; and the thin dry sound coming from her lips roused her a little further. But she wouldn’t open her eyes yet. No, this was the loveliest bit of the whole day, lying here with Thomas, waiting for the sun to reach her face. Strange how the sun seemed to shine every morning now that she was nearly ninety years old. Such lovely sun, too – it must be spring, day after day. If only she could get Thomas into his chair by the window; but he was too heavy, she couldn’t lift him any more.
Thomas… What was it that was worrying at the back of her mind, spoiling this lovely lying still in the sunshine? Then she remembered. Of course! It was Thursday. This was the day when that Welfare woman with the clumping shoes was going to come and take Thomas away.
Take Thomas away, indeed! Martha had never heard of such nonsense. As if she couldn’t look after Thomas herself while he was ill! Hadn’t he ever been ill before during their sixty years together, and hadn’t she nursed him then, Of course she had – and before this clumping woman had been born or thought of, too!
She tried her hardest to remember what the creature had said. For a little while she could only remember the great shoes; and the snorting, breathy sort of voice that was so difficult to hear. Then slowly the woman’s words came back to her;
“It isn’t that we’re criticising you, Mrs Briggs, not for one moment. We know doing your very, very best – you’ve done wonders for your age, I know you have. But you see – well, I’m sure you’ll agree with me really – it isn’t right, is it, that he should be lying like this at past midday, not been attended to, not even had his breakfast yet! And the room…! You do see, don’t you Mrs Briggs? It simply is too much for you – it’s you we’re considering really, you know, just as much as him. And he’ll be quite happy, I promise you, he’ll have every attention…”
On and on went the voice in Martha’s mind, and she almost smiled at the absurdity of it all. As if she and Thomas couldn’t have their breakfast when it suited them! If they liked to lie like this in the sun for a little while first, whose business was it but their own?
Still, perhaps it would be a good idea, this morning, to teach that creature a lesson. She’d get up early and cook a good breakfast. Now, what would they have? An egg. Of course. She would fry an egg for Thomas. He would love that, with a bit of fried bread. She knew there was an egg somewhere, and he should have it. Then she would scrub the floor until the board shone white in the sunlight; she would wash the curtains – she could almost see them now, billowing clean and lovely on the line. She would polish the chest of drawers; and rub the window till it shone. Too much for me, indeed! thought Martha: I’ll show her!
But the sun was right on her face now, in all it’s glory. It would be a shame to get up at this minute, just while it was like this. She would lie and enjoy it for a minute or two longer…
Martha woke with a start. How tiresome! She must have dozed off, and now would have to hurry to get everything done before that woman arrived. She climbed stiffly out of bed and fumbled about for her dress. Where could it have got to, Then she remembered: of course, she had to sit quite still on the edge of the bed for a bit in the mornings, then things sort of straightened themselves out.
Her head was dropped a little forward, and she could see lots and lots of floor. It was quite true, it was dirty. And what was worse, now that she was up all her enthusiasm for scrubbing it had drained away. The vision of sunlit, white scrubbed boards was gone, and she could think only of the backbreaking weight of the pail, and the ever more perilous feat of getting down onto one’s knees and then, somehow, getting back up again…
But at least she had found her dress. At least that woman would find her up and dressed this time, and Thomas with a good breakfast in front of him. She made her way into the kitchen and set about preparing the meal.
But how had the fat in the frying-pan managed to burn black and smoking in just that moment or two it had taken her to find the egg? How tiresome things were! She poured the blackened mess away and started again, and this time it was wonderful. The egg was fried plump and golden, a little crisp round the edges, just the way Thomas like it, and the fried bread was delicately brown. That’s what he needed to build up his strength, a good breakfast like this every morning. It would be quite a job to buy an egg every day out of her tiny pension, but she’d managed it this time, and she’d manage it again. Oh yes, it would be worth it, to watch her Thomas grow strong and well again with good food inside him.
Now to get it into the bedroom. Slowly – oh, so slowly, because the boards had grown so uneven and treacherous of late – she carried it across the landing and into the bedroom. First she must put it down while she got Thomas propped up comfortably on his pillows.
But when she tried to put it down on the chest of drawers she found to her annoyance that there was no room there. It was all cluttered up with stuff – what was all this rubbish? She looked more carefully – and a dull bewilderment gripped her. For on the chest of drawers already was a plate with a fried egg on it – ice cold and congealed. And another, and another… each with its loathsome wrinkled egg, staring at her like ancient eyes. Something, half a memory, half a fear, made her turn slowly, slowly, to look at the bed. Yes, it was empty. Stark, staring empty. Thomas was gone.
She knew she must sit down on the edge of the bed and think this out. There was something – something she half remembered – something that made sense of all this. Of course! That was it! It was the wrong Thursday! That woman had already come on some other Thursday – last Thursday? – the Thursday before? – and had taken Thomas away!
Taken Thomas away! The import of the words slowly sank into her. How could she have let it happen? She, who had defended her family against all corners; she who in her time had stood up to rent collectors, probation officers, school-attendance officers, bailiffs, all the lot of them- how could she have let this flat-footed woman take her Thomas away?
She must think, think. When did they take him? Where did that woman say?
The hospital. Of course, Thomas was ill; it must have been the hospital. She would go there right now and fetch him, fetch him home herself, and when she got there and sat down at last on the hard bench, how they did talk! One after another of them, flashing about in front of her, snapping out questions like firecrackers.
“No record of it.” “No such admission” – the senseless words kept tossing about among them like paper balls – like little girls playing ball in a unlit garden…
Sister spoke a little louder, still patiently:
“Do you understand? You must go to the Enquiry desk, and they’ll give you a form. You must fill in the patent’s name and address, the date of admission..”
But Martha Briggs was no longer listening to her. Because right now at the far end of the shadowy stone corridor she could see Thomas. How well he looked! and- why – he was running, actually running towards her, with his dear, grey hair all rumpled and his arms outstretched!
“Thomas!” she cried, in joy and anxiety, “Thomas, my darling, you mustn’t run! – your heart…!”
She drew one breath of sweet, cool air, and then somehow seemed not to need another; for now she too was running, lightly, lightly, like a bird, her feet skimming over the stone. How wonderful it was to run, and run to meet your love.
“Will you please go to the Enquiry desk…” Sister’s voice broke off suddenly. A less expert eye than hers would have scarcely noticed the slight change as the old woman’s head dropped a little further towards her chest and the faint breathing stopped.
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