‘Right.’
‘And clear these things away, Jones,’ she said, and went away to her office.
‘Certainly, Mrs Gandell,’ and Jones piled the tray and went off to the kitchen. He hoped the day would go well, he hoped she wasn’t going to have another mood, wasn’t going to preach at him about being so late, coming back empty-handed. Mrs Gandell was far too occupied even to remember the night before, her morning had turned out to be as sharp as a razor blade, the unexpected having turned up, right out of the blue. Sat in her office, mountainous over her ledger, she could hear Jones busy in the kitchen. The pages of the ledger she turned ceaselessly to and fro, as she read, as she remembered. The Decent Hotel had actually had its good days. Her eye would suddenly light on a name, a date, and it buoyed her up. Backwards and forwards she went, always perusing, remembering, sometimes smiling. Yes, there had been some good times at the hotel. All was not yet lost. Day dreaming. It helped to rid her mind of a quite leaden moment, when, coming downstairs she had found the letter under the door, and was still glad that Jones had not got there first. This letter, unopened, she had hastily thrust into the ledger, where it still lay hidden between the last two pages. She was mindful of this, it must not accidentally fall out, with Jones in sight. She had not expected it. She had not wanted it. The name of the sender was in bold black on the flap, and it sent a slither of ice down the Gandell spine. Midland Bank. Why open it? Why read? She had had them before. There was a neat little pile upstairs, safe in the locked draw of her bureau. She knew the message inside it, it seared her mind. And again she breathed a sigh of relief that Jones had not seen it.
‘I suppose I shall have to go and see him.’
She heard Jones open the front door, got up and followed him out.
‘All the windows, Jones,’ she said, as she watched him prop up the ladder, and begin to ascend with his bucket. ‘But be careful.’
‘Will be careful, Mrs Gandell,’ Jones said, and reached the top.
‘How long?’ she asked.
He looked down at her and replied, ‘Three hours, I’d say, since you want them all cleaned.’
She called up, ‘The whole place must be cleaned out, Jones. We’ll do it after lunch.’
‘Very well,’ and then she went back to the office, and the ledger. She thought of the bank, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Only the fact that two guests were arriving in a few days’ time, lightened the moment. She took out the letter, opened it, and read: ‘Dear Mrs Gandell, Going through your account yesterday, it occurred to me that it might be a good opportunity for us to meet again, and perhaps to our mutual advantage. I would suggest Friday morning about ten o’clock. Please write and confirm, or telephone, if you must. Yours faithfully, Cledwyn Griffith.’
‘If you must.’ The three words sounded like threats. She crushed the letter into a tiny ball, and thrust it deep into the pocket of her overall. ‘I haven’t seen Griffith in a whole year.’ But her ambassador extraordinary, Jones, had done his duty there some six months previous. It made her remember so clearly that she could already see Mr Griffith’s very comfortable office, with its big mahogany desk, and the thick red carpet. She even saw the cigar box, though he only filled his office with their splendid aroma, for very special clients. She closed the ledger, went to the kitchen, and there dropped the letter into the stove, after which she went upstairs, opened the top drawer of the bureau, and took out four letters from the bank, marked Private. They were still unopened. On Friday she would remember them all the way to the bank, lead to her feet. She couldn’t ask Jones again, daren’t.
‘God Almighty! Why did it have to come today, of all days. I can’t be in the red again, I simply can’t.’ She picked up the calendar on the bureau, studied it, exclaimed, ‘Thank God.’ Forty-eight hours would kill February, and the sun must be somewhere around, and it was. She could see it now, shining on hillside and mountain, hear the singing water in the streams, hear the march of feet from England. She went to the cupboard and helped herself to a glass of gin, lit a cigarette, sat back in her chair, and made an imaginary voyage into the days that were warm, and the light bright. Even the sound of those distant voices was sudden music to her. Sometimes she had despaired, sometimes decided to go, to give it all up, but now, no, not now. The thoughts were already lessening the distance to the bank, even bringing a faint smile from Mr Griffith’s thin face, she could actually see him smiling. And she smiled herself, puffed vigorously at her cigarette, enjoyed her slow sipping of the gin. When the clock struck half past eleven she got up and went downstairs to inspect the results of Jones’s industrious endeavour. He was still at the top of the ladder, busy on the corner windows when she went out.
‘Nearly finished, Jones?’
Jones was very definite. ‘Quite finished, Mrs Gandell,’ and came slowly down the ladder, put down the bucket and drew back to pavement edge, and looked up. He even offered her a smile.
‘Shining like eyes, Mrs Gandell. Lovely.’
‘I’ll be in the dining-room,’ she said.
‘Yes, Mrs Gandell,’ and Jones departed dutifully with ladder and bucket and cloths.
‘I thought he’d never get done. Haven’t been done for months.’ She reminded him of this when he came in.
‘And the bloody rain hammering them night and day for the past month, Mrs Gandell. What a waste of energy.’
‘You can have a drink, Jones,’ she said, and he followed her upstairs.
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed, ‘Ah! Totally unexpected, makes the morning change colour.’
She flung him a cigarette. ‘First of March Friday,’ she said.
Jones clapped hands, cried, ‘Hurrah!’ then wished her good health.
‘And think of it. Mr Prothero and friend coming at the weekend.’
Jones hurrahed again, it was like fireworks, gay lights, all the days before kicked into the sea and forgotten.
‘You’ve been so patient, Mrs Gandell,’ he said. ‘So patient.’
‘I want to talk to you about some idea I have, Jones,’ she said, and he sat forward at once.
‘Yes, Mrs Gandell?’
She finished her drink, got up, and said, ‘Come along now,’ and Jones did his duty and came along, and they went from one room to the other. ‘I’d like to have new wallpaper in both those rooms, Jones.’
‘I know’ he said, dragging it, and wondered ‘when, how?’
They came to Miss Vaughan’s attic room. She opened the door, but did not step inside. Jones smiled, and stepped in.
‘Holy of Holies,’ he said. And then she followed him in.
There was a large book lying open on the bed, and she picked it up and studied it, idling through the pages, pausing to look at an illustration or two.
‘What is this?’
‘Welsh,’ he said.
‘But what is it?’
‘Mabinogion,’ Jones said, and took it from her, and glanced at the opened pages.
‘Oh.’
‘Fairy tales,’ he said, ‘and if you happen to like that sort of thing, very nice indeed. Very nice.’
