‘Children?’ asked Mrs Gandell.
‘Grown-up children also, Mrs Gandell.’
‘Have you read it, Jones?’
‘Yes.’
She walked out, and Jones closed the door after him. And then back to their own room, the ugly furniture, the wallpaper and the sad faded birds and flowers; back to the tight, unchanging life of this room, in which both of them felt safe, secure, close, bound. They shared everything with each other. They shared the winter, the ritual of their ordinary days. Jones rose at the exact time each morning, and, after hasty ablutions rushed down to make the early morning tea, made the usual inspection of the dining-room, carefully examining the tables. There were no crumbs, and nobody had stolen anything. Whilst the kettle sang he went and collected the morning papers, and any mail that lay under the door. Mrs Gandell received little mail, and Jones always went carefully through it, just in case. But there was never any letter for him, and he was never disappointed. Christmas was the exception when Mrs Gandell would send him a card. He appreciated that. Having made the tea he went upstairs and served Mrs Gandell, and then himself. After which the curtains were drawn, a cursory glance at the morning sky, and then the morning paper, which neither of them ever read. Mrs Gandell lay back in bed whilst Jones opened the paper, rushed through all the headlines until he came to the page where the day’s fortunes were told. He would then read out her fortune for that day, and then his own. The paper was then folded up and added to the fire kindling pile. He then switched on the transistor and they listened to the weather forecast, and after that, the news. They never discussed the news. He took the transistor down and put it on the sideboard, where it remained for the convenience of any guest. Miss Vaughan had not, to date, made any request to listen to either the weather or the news. Miss Vaughan, living inside Miss Vaughan, liked it that way, and she was kept busy enough. Now, seated opposite each other, and looking relaxed and at ease, Mrs Gandell even smiled at Jones, and he was always prompt.
‘Yes, Mrs Gandell?’
‘Nothing, Jones. Just thinking.’
His voice oozed satisfaction, self-praise. ‘I think we’ve done a very good job this morning, Mrs Gandell. Don’t you.’
But already her thoughts were drawing her away from the room, nearer to the Midland Bank, and she said very quietly, ‘Yes, you did an excellent job.’
‘The hotel has a bright new face, Mrs Gandell.’
She nodded her approval, held on to the uncomfortable thoughts.
‘I think it might be a good thing, Jones, if you went in to Davies today. Get it done with. And you had better take in a sample sheet, since I want exactly the same kind.’
‘Very well,’ he said.
‘Then get off, Jones, get off.’
‘Yes, Mrs Gandell,’ and he hurried from the room.
Mr Griffith’s communication still seemed to her rather abrupt.
‘Surely, I can’t be in the red again?’
She heard Jones coming out of the other room. He popped his head in, saying, ‘I’m off now, Mrs Gandell. Anything else you want whilst I’m in town?’
She shook her head. No. She wanted nothing. She heard him down the stairs, and a few minutes later the front door banged. He had gone. Immediately she got up and went down to her office.
‘“Or phone, if you must”.’
She looked at the telephone so rarely used, picked it up and dialled the bank and asked for the manager.
‘Mr Griffith?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Oh,’ and a very long oh, and then, ‘Good morning,’ and then waiting.
‘Yes, Mrs Gandell?’
‘I hope you don’t mind, Mr Griffith, but this is the only morning I have free,’ and would have liked to add, ‘I’m so busy this week.’
‘At the time stated?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Very well,’ followed by a loud ahem. ‘Half past ten it is, and I look forward to seeing you.’
Unlike Mr Griffith, Mrs Gandell at this moment, did not. She went to her room and changed, surveyed the Gandell countenance in the powder-misted mirror. ‘I’ll be glad when its over,’ she thought. She picked up her umbrella in the hall, took one look upstairs, and opened the front door. She was certain of one thing. Nobody would call during her absence, and nobody would ring. Until the end of a dreadful February nobody would have the slightest interest in Cartref. She gave a little sigh as she turned the corner, and hoped for the best.
Hers was an unwanted, unasked for journey. She smiled but the once, the name Prothero coming into her mind, popping up like a fugitive. She hoped nothing would go wrong.
At the bank, Mr Griffith sat and waited for her, from time to time glancing at his watch. He cared about time, and was as punctual and precise as the clock on the wall. Sitting back in his chair, reading The Times, he suddenly went to the back page, and once more went through the obituary column. This was a daily duty to do, and he ran his eye down the column. He had missed nothing. Mr Griffith often thought about an aged aunt, oceans away in Australia, whom he hadn’t seen for years, and whilst she lived, he hoped. He folded up the paper, thought about Mrs Gandell. Almost a year since he had seen her. He was both knowledgeable and calculating, and there was little concerning the human condition of his clients that did not seep through the stout doors of the bank. He had a certain admiration for Mrs Gandell, a woman that refused to be beaten by the odds against her. He also thought her a somewhat foolish woman, since he had advised her on more than one occasion that her hotel would not pay. But then, she was English, from Yorkshire, and as stubborn as granite. Still, he admired her, and often enough wondered why she had ever come to the town, a complete stranger. Cartref went cheaply enough. Perhaps that was the answer.
‘Its last two owners had never made it pay.’ He ought to know. He thought her rather naive, since she seemed at all times optimistic, even about uncertainties. It seemed to him a long way to come in order to go through an inevitable process. The Griffith eye and ear missed nothing. On impulse he decided to receive her in a room reeking of cigar, and at once lighted one, after which he pressed the bell on his desk.
‘Come in,’ and his faithful ledger clerk entered and placed the Gandell account on his desk.
‘Thank you, Jenkins,’ and the clerk went out. He called him back.
‘Yes sir?’
‘How healthy?’
‘Eighty-nine pounds seventeen shillings and eightpence, Mr Griffith.’
‘Right.’
He looked at his watch again, at the clock on the wall.
