Sea of Glass (Valancourt 20th Century Classics) Read Free Page B

confused under mental stress and, even without it, occasionally to forget the context and the company in which she was speaking.
    Very likely her excellent recovery was due to self-discipline. So far as possible, she refused to abandon any of her former habits. One of these was doing the crossword in a well-known English paper. This exertion did not turn out so well as some others, for it tended to put too much pressure on her memory. It was sad and comic to see the old lady sitting in the lounge and gnashing her teeth over some elusive clue, whilst Nurse Riordan, who had the brains of a hen, further exasperated her by making imbecile suggestions.
    One day when my aunt and I happened to be at the next table she seemed more disturbed than usual.
    ‘I know it, I know it,’ she kept on repeating. ‘Town in Central Asia. . . . Town in Central Asia. . . .’
    ‘Now me,’ said Nurse Riordan, ‘I never knew they had any towns in Central Asia. I thought it was all sand and godlessness.’
    ‘My son wrote from there . . . my son. K— and five more letters.’
    ‘Karnak,’ volunteered Nurse Riordan. ‘Kanton.’
    ‘Please remember, Nurse,’ said Mrs. Ellison crisply, ‘that it is my mind which is failing.’
    My aunt leant across to them. She knew all about Mrs. Ellison and this was an opening which she did not despise.
    ‘Could I help? I think Khotan may be the word you want.’
    The old lady was grateful, but she slightly disappointed my aunt by showing no surprise at her geographical knowledge. Some delicate angling was therefore necessary before the conversation could be moved onto the plane of personal reminiscence. But finally the transition was made.
    ‘I just happen to know a little about that part of the world because my husband was sent on a mission there, about five years ago.’
    ‘Ah,’ said Mrs. Ellison vaguely.
    ‘Rather outside the normal run of jobs in the Indian Political Service. As a matter of fact it was supposed to be very hush-hush and I wasn’t allowed to mention it for at least a year after he came back.’
    ‘But I am sure you did,’ said Mrs. Ellison.
    Never doubting that she had misunderstood, my aunt continued: ‘So naturally I was interested when I happened to overhear that your son had been there.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Ellison flatly.
    ‘So few people get a chance to penetrate into those regions . . . unless they’re archaeologists or missionaries. My husband said that both were doing magnificent work.’
    ‘They were all pests—particularly the missionaries,’ said Mrs. Ellison without hesitation.
    ‘Oh! Well . . . it depends on one’s point of view, doesn’t it? I expect your son was tied up in a lot of administrative problems . . .’
    Mrs. Ellison let the heavy white lids come down for a moment over her eyes.
    ‘Bores like a beaver,’ she said in a low sing-song voice. ‘And fat.’ I noticed Nurse Riordan frown and touch her unobtrusively on the sleeve: at which she seemed immediately to recover her sense of the distinction between speech and thought. ‘My son,’ she said, ‘sold guns to the natives so that they could fight each other.’
    ‘God forgive him his ways!’ added Nurse Riordan in a discreet undertone.
    You might think that this was a discouraging start to an acquaintance. But once my aunt had decided that somebody was worthwhile it took a great deal to choke her off. Moreover, to her honour, her mind was as large in some directions as it was small in others. She seldom wasted time resenting the fact that people did not like her; she either moved on or set about improving their opinion.
    Nevertheless contact remained at the level of formal greetings and remarks about the weather until my uncle arrived in St. Plou. He was an instant success with the old lady, and we used regularly to sit with her in the lounge. Not that my uncle made any conscious effort to charm: it simply happened to be second nature to him. Aunt Edna was the one who