..."
"Mumma, is anything wrong?"
"No, nothing is wrong."
"Thank heavens for that. Are you ringing from the hospital?"
"No, I'm ringing from home."
" Hom e? When did you get home ?"
"At about half past two this afternoon."
"But I thought they were going to keep you in for at least a week."
"That's what they intended, but I got so bored and so exhausted. I never slept a wink at nights, and there was an old lady in the bed next to mine who never stopped talking. No, not talking. Raving, poor old soul. So I just told the doctor I couldn't stand another moment of it, and packed my bags and left."
"You discharged yourself," Olivia said, flatly, sounding resigned, but not in the least surprised.
"Exactly so. There's not a thing wrong with me. And I got a nice taxi with a dear driver and he brought me back."
"But didn't the doctor protest?"
"Loudly. But there wasn't much he could do about it."
"Oh, Mumma ," There was laughter in Olivia's voice. "You are wicked. I was going to come down this weekend and hospital visit. You know, bring you pounds of grapes and then eat them all myself."
"You could come here," Penelope said, and then wished that she hadn't, in case she sounded wistful and lonely; in case it sounded as though she needed Olivia for company.
"Well ... if you're really all right, I might put it off for a bit. I'm actually frightfully busy this weekend. Mumma, have you spoken to Nancy yet?"
"No. I did think about it, and then I chickened out. You know how she fusses. I'll call tomorrow morning, when Mrs, Plackett's here, and I'm safely dug in and can't possibly be budged."
"How are you feeling? Truthfully, now."
"Perfectly all right. Except, as I told you, a bit short of sleep."
"You won't do too much, will you? I mean, you won't plunge out into the garden and start digging trenches or moving trees?"
"No, I won't. I promise. Anyway, everything's hard as iron. You couldn't get a spade into the earth."
"Well, thank God for small mercies. Mumma, I must go, I've got a colleague here in the office with me ..."
"I know. Your secretary told me. I'm sorry I disturbed you, but I wanted you to know what was happening."
"I'm glad you did. Keep in touch, Mumma, and cherish yourself a little."
"I will. Goodbye, my darling." "Goodbye, Mumma."
She rang off, put the telephone back on the table, and leaned back in her chair.
Now, there was nothing more to be done. She discovered that she was very tired, but it was a gentle tiredness, assuaged and comforted by her surroundings, as though her house were a kindly person, and she was being embraced by loving arms. In the warm and firelit room and the deep familiar armchair, she found herself surprised by, filled by, the sort of reasonless happiness she had not experienced for years. It is because I am alive. I am sixty-four, and I have suffered, if those idiot doctors are to be believed, a heart attack. Whatever. I have survived it, and I shall put it behind me, and not talk nor think about it, ever again. Because I am alive. I can feel, touch, see, hear, smell; look after myself; discharge myself from the hospital; find a taxi, and get myself home. There are snowdrops coming out in the garden, and spring is on the way. I shall see it. Watch the yearly miracle, and feel the sun grow wanner as the weeks slip by. And because I am alive, I shall watch it all happen and be part of that miracle.
She remembered the story of dear Maurice Chevalier. How does it feel to be seventy? they had asked him. Not too bad, he had replied. When you consider the alternative.
But for Penelope Keeling it felt a thousand times better than just not too bad. Living, now, had become not simple existence that one took for granted, but a bonus, a gift, with every day that lay ahead an experience to be savoured. Time did not last forever. I shall not waste a single moment, she promised
"Mumma, is anything wrong?"
"No, nothing is wrong."
"Thank heavens for that. Are you ringing from the hospital?"
"No, I'm ringing from home."
" Hom e? When did you get home ?"
"At about half past two this afternoon."
"But I thought they were going to keep you in for at least a week."
"That's what they intended, but I got so bored and so exhausted. I never slept a wink at nights, and there was an old lady in the bed next to mine who never stopped talking. No, not talking. Raving, poor old soul. So I just told the doctor I couldn't stand another moment of it, and packed my bags and left."
"You discharged yourself," Olivia said, flatly, sounding resigned, but not in the least surprised.
"Exactly so. There's not a thing wrong with me. And I got a nice taxi with a dear driver and he brought me back."
"But didn't the doctor protest?"
"Loudly. But there wasn't much he could do about it."
"Oh, Mumma ," There was laughter in Olivia's voice. "You are wicked. I was going to come down this weekend and hospital visit. You know, bring you pounds of grapes and then eat them all myself."
"You could come here," Penelope said, and then wished that she hadn't, in case she sounded wistful and lonely; in case it sounded as though she needed Olivia for company.
"Well ... if you're really all right, I might put it off for a bit. I'm actually frightfully busy this weekend. Mumma, have you spoken to Nancy yet?"
"No. I did think about it, and then I chickened out. You know how she fusses. I'll call tomorrow morning, when Mrs, Plackett's here, and I'm safely dug in and can't possibly be budged."
"How are you feeling? Truthfully, now."
"Perfectly all right. Except, as I told you, a bit short of sleep."
"You won't do too much, will you? I mean, you won't plunge out into the garden and start digging trenches or moving trees?"
"No, I won't. I promise. Anyway, everything's hard as iron. You couldn't get a spade into the earth."
"Well, thank God for small mercies. Mumma, I must go, I've got a colleague here in the office with me ..."
"I know. Your secretary told me. I'm sorry I disturbed you, but I wanted you to know what was happening."
"I'm glad you did. Keep in touch, Mumma, and cherish yourself a little."
"I will. Goodbye, my darling." "Goodbye, Mumma."
She rang off, put the telephone back on the table, and leaned back in her chair.
Now, there was nothing more to be done. She discovered that she was very tired, but it was a gentle tiredness, assuaged and comforted by her surroundings, as though her house were a kindly person, and she was being embraced by loving arms. In the warm and firelit room and the deep familiar armchair, she found herself surprised by, filled by, the sort of reasonless happiness she had not experienced for years. It is because I am alive. I am sixty-four, and I have suffered, if those idiot doctors are to be believed, a heart attack. Whatever. I have survived it, and I shall put it behind me, and not talk nor think about it, ever again. Because I am alive. I can feel, touch, see, hear, smell; look after myself; discharge myself from the hospital; find a taxi, and get myself home. There are snowdrops coming out in the garden, and spring is on the way. I shall see it. Watch the yearly miracle, and feel the sun grow wanner as the weeks slip by. And because I am alive, I shall watch it all happen and be part of that miracle.
She remembered the story of dear Maurice Chevalier. How does it feel to be seventy? they had asked him. Not too bad, he had replied. When you consider the alternative.
But for Penelope Keeling it felt a thousand times better than just not too bad. Living, now, had become not simple existence that one took for granted, but a bonus, a gift, with every day that lay ahead an experience to be savoured. Time did not last forever. I shall not waste a single moment, she promised
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