The Blue Bedroom: & Other Stories
Rosamunde PilcherThe author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Preface by Lee Quarfoot
Toby
Home for the Day
Spanish Ladies
Miss Cameron at Christmas
Tea With the Professor
Amita
The Blue Bedroom
Gilbert
The Before-Christmas Present
The White Birds
The Tree
The House on the Hill
An Evening to Remember
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by Rosamunde Pilcher
An Outpouring of Praise for the Fiction that has Touched the World
Copyright
Preface
In 1976 I read my first Rosamunde Pilcher story. I read it with interest and pleasure. Then I read it again with admiration and respect. Here was an author who could move me from laughter to tears with one sentence, who could touch my heart through her characters’ charm and wit and wisdom. Best of all, here was an author who would make my job easy.
As a fiction editor at Good Housekeeping magazine, I see scores of stories every month, and from that first encounter, I knew Rosamunde Pilcher’s work was special. What I didn’t know was how long and distinguished her association with Good Housekeeping would be, or how, in 1987, she would achieve international acclaim with her bestselling novel, THE SHELL SEEKERS, and become loved by millions of readers throughout the world. In those earlier days of Rosamunde Pilcher’s career, I did not recognize the extent of her magic. Yet the signs were there, for each time Good Housekeeping acquired a new Pilcher story, rare and wonderful events occurred.
Illustrators were inspired. Editors and artists and page designers were in accord. There were no conflicts, no compromises, no revisions. Some of the artwork won awards. Magazines in the Netherlands and Australia contacted us with a most unusual request: to reprint stories with our original art. Clearly, the talent of the author’s words evoked the talent in the artists’ hands. The illustrations captured the essence of the fiction—the warmth, the beauty, the honest emotion.
And the mail! Letters filled with gratitude poured into our offices. As her many fans have come to know, when Rosamunde Pilcher writes about people, in crisis or at peace, falling in or out of love, discovering new life or accepting death, readers see themselves … or their children … or their parents. And when Rosamunde Pilcher writes about seasons of the year, seasons of the heart, or seasons of life, readers see, too, through her eyes, the simple joy and glory of being alive.
It’s never too soon to discover Rosamunde Pilcher. To all who do so with this fine collection: be alert. Her work may bestow unforeseen blessings.
Lee Quarfoot
Fiction Editor
Good Housekeeping
Toby
On a cold spring day, just before Easter, Jemmy Todd, the postman, walked into the Hardings’ kitchen, laid the morning’s mail on their breakfast table, and told them that Mr. Sawcombe, their neighbour, had died, early that morning, of a heart attack.
There were four Hardings sitting at the table. Toby, eight years old, was in the process of eating cornflakes. Now, hearing about Mr. Sawcombe, he could feel the cornflakes in his mouth, soggy and crunchy all at once, but there was no way to get rid of the mouthful, because it seemed that he had forgotten how to chew, and as well a lump began to grow in his throat, making it impossible to swallow.
The only good thing was that the rest of his family seemed to be equally shocked and dumbfounded. His father, dressed for the office and just on the point of getting up from the table and leaving for work, laid down his coffee cup and sat back in his chair and stared at Jemmy.
“Bill Sawcombe? Dead? When did you hear?”
“Vicar told me first thing, just as I was starting my round. Met him coming out of the church.”
Toby looked at his mother and saw that her eyes were bright with tears. “Oh, dear.” He could not bear her to cry. He had seen her cry once before, when her old dog had had to be put down, and the sensation that his world was falling to pieces had stayed with him for days. “Poor Mrs. Sawcombe. What a dreadful shock for her.”
“He had a heart attack a couple of years ago, remember,” said Jemmy.
“But he got over it. And he’d been keeping so well, enjoying his garden, and having a bit of time to himself after all those years of running his farm.”
Vicky, who was nineteen, suddenly found her voice. “I can’t bear it. I simply don’t think I can bear it.”
Vicky was home for Easter from London, where she had a job and a flat that she shared with two other girls. When she was on holiday Vicky never dressed for breakfast, but came downstairs in her bathrobe, which was made of white towelling and had blue stripes. The blue stripes were the same blue as Vicky’s eyes and she had long pale hair and sometimes looked very pretty and sometimes very plain. She looked plain now. Distress made her plain, pulling down the corners of her mouth as though she was about to burst into tears, accentuating the peaky contours of her bony little face. Their father was always telling Vicky that she was much too thin, but as she ate like a ploughman, nobody could accuse her of anything except, possibly, greed.
“He was such a nice man. We shall miss him.” His mother’s eyes turned to Toby, still sitting there with his cheeks full of unchewed cornflakes. She knew—they all knew—that Mr. Sawcombe had been Toby’s best friend. She leaned across the table and laid a hand over his own. “We’ll all miss him, Toby.”
Toby did not reply. But with his mother’s hand over his own he found that it was possible to swallow the last of the cornflakes. His mother, understanding, gently removed the half-empty bowl that stood on the table in front of him.
“One thing,” said Jemmy, “there’s Tom there to take on the farm. It’s not as though Mrs. Sawcombe’s on her own.”
Tom was Mr. Sawcombe’s grandson. Tom was twenty-three. Toby and Vicky had known him all their lives. In the old days when they were much younger, Vicky and Tom used to go to parties together, to Pony Club dances, and to gymkhana camps in the summer. But then Tom went away, to Agricultural College, and Vicky grew up too and learned how to be a secretary, and she went to London, and somehow, now, they didn’t seem to have very much in common.
Toby thought this was a shame. Vicky made lots of new friends, and sometimes brought them home. But Toby didn’t think any of them was as nice as Tom Sawcombe. There had been one, called Philip, who had come to spend New Year with the Hardings. He was very tall and fair, and drove around in a car that looked like a shiny black torpedo, but somehow he didn’t fit properly into the fabric of ordinary family life, and, what was more disturbing, when he was there Vicky didn’t fit in either. She talked in a different way; she laughed in a different way.
On New Year’s Eve, they had a small party, and Tom was invited, but Vicky behaved in an offhand and casual way towards him, and Tom was obviously very hurt. Toby thought her behaviour sickening. He was very fond of Tom and could not bear to see him so cast down, and when the uncomfortable evening was over, he told his mother so.
“I know just how you feel,” his mother said, “but we must let Vicky lead her own life and make her own decisions. She’s grown up now, she can choose her own friends, make her own mistakes, go her own way. That’s what being a family is all about.”
“I don�
t want to be a family with Vicky if sheâs going to be so horrid.â
âPerhaps thatâs how you feel just now, but she is your sister.â
âI donât like that Philip.â
* * *
The dreaded Philip, however, mercifully faded out of Vickyâs life. She did not invite him home again, and gradually his name in her conversation was replaced by other names. Vickyâs family breathed a sigh of relief and things returned to normal, but not so with Tom. Since that evening, communications between himself and Vicky appeared to have broken down, and now, if she was home, Tom never came near the house.
âNo, Mrs. Sawcombeâs certainly not on her own,â said Mr. Harding. âSheâs got a good boy there.â He looked at his watch and got up from the table. âI must be off. Thank you for telling us, Jemmy.â
âSorry to be the bearer of sad news,â Jemmy replied, and went away in his little red post van to spread the tidings around the rest of the parish. Tobyâs father departed in the big car for the office. Vicky went upstairs to get dressed. Toby and his mother were left alone, sitting at the table.
He looked at her and she smiled, and he said, âIâve never had a friend who died before.â
âIt happens to everybody, sooner or later.â
âHe was only sixty-two. He told me so, the day before yesterday. Thatâs not old.â
âHeart attacks are funny things. And at least he wasnât very ill or infirm. He would have hated to be bedridden, or dependent on his familyâa nuisance to anybody. When people die, Toby, you have to think of good things, remember good times. And be glad for them.â
âIâm not glad Mr. Sawcombeâs dead.â
âDeath is part of life.â
âHe was only sixty-two.â
âWhy donât you have some bacon and eggs?â
âI donât want bacon and eggs.â
âThen what do you want to do?â
âI donât know.â
âWhy donât you go down to the village and see if David would like to play with you?â David Harker was Tobyâs holiday friend. His father ran the village pub, and sometimes David was good for a free fizzy drink or a packet of crisps.
Toby considered this. It was, perhaps, better than nothing. âAll right.â He pushed back his chair and stood up. There was a horrible clamped sort of feeling in his chest as though somebody had hurt his heart.
â⦠and donât be too sad about Mr. Sawcombe. He wouldnât want you to be too sad.â
* * *
He went out of the house and down the lane. Between the lane and the cow pasture that was part of Mr. Sawcombeâs farm was a small paddock where Vicky used to keep her pony. But the pony had long since departed, and Tobyâs father had let the grazing to Mr. Sawcombe for Mrs. Sawcombeâs four Jacob ewes. They were her pets, horned and spotted, and had old-fashioned names like Daisy and Emily. One cold morning at the end of October, Toby had come down to see the sheep and had found a mighty horned ram in with the girls. The ram had stayed for a bit, and then had been manhandled home by his owner, bundled ignominiously into the back of a ramshackle van.
But he had done his stuff. Already three pairs of twin lambs had arrived, and now only Daisy was awaiting her time. Toby leaned over the fence and called to her, and she came slowly and with dignity, to fondle his hand with her noble nose, to let him scratch the wooly poll between her proud, curved horns.
Toby eyed her professionally, as Tom eyed her. She was enormous, her bulk made more huge by her fleece of long, soft wool.
âAre you going to have your twins today?â he asked her.
Daisy has twins too, Mr. Sawcombe had said, only a day or so ago, and weâll have a two hundred percent lambing, Toby. Two hundred percent. Thatâs the best any sheep farmer can ask for. Iâd like that to happen. For Mrs. Sawcombeâs sake, Iâd like that to happen.
Impossible to accept that he would never speak to Mr. Sawcombe again. Impossible to accept that he had gone; that he simply wasnât there. Other people had died, but never a person so close to Toby as Mr. Sawcombe. Tobyâs grandfather had died, but so long ago that Toby didnât even remember him. There was only a photograph beside Grannyâs bed, and stories that Granny told him. After his grandfather had died, Granny had stayed on in the old, empty house until it became too much for her to cope with, and then Tobyâs father had turned the back wing of the Hardingsâ house into a Granny flat. So now Granny lived with them. And yet not with them, for the flat was quite separate, and she had her own kitchen and bathroom and cooked her own meals and you had to knock on the dividing door before you could go and see her. Tobyâs grandmother said it was important always to knock, because bursting in on Granny, unheralded, would be an invasion of her privacy.
* * *
He left Daisy and went on towards the village, still deep in thought. He knew other people who had died. Mrs. Fletcher who kept the village shop and post office had died, and Tobyâs mother had put on a black hat and gone to Mrs. Fletcherâs funeral. But Mrs. Fletcher had not been a friend. In fact, Toby had always been rather afraid of her, so old was she, so ugly, sitting, selling stamps like a great black spider. By the time Mrs. Fletcher had passed on, her daughter Olive had taken over the running of the shop, but right up to the end Mrs. Fletcher was there, a brooding presence, munching on her dentures, knitting socks, and keeping a beady eye on everything that took place. No, he had not loved Mrs. Fletcher. He had not missed Mrs. Fletcher. But already he was missing Mr. Sawcombe.
He thought of David. Go and play with David, his mother had suggested, but all at once Toby knew that he was not in the mood for being an astronaut, or going to look for fish in the muddy stream that ran along the bottom of the garden at the back of the pub. He would go and call on another of his friends, Willie Harrell, the village carpenter. Willie was a gentle, slow-speaking man who wore old-fashioned bib-and-brace overalls and a baggy tweed cap. Toby had first made friends with him when Willie came to the house to fit new cupboards in the kitchen, and after that one of his favourite ploys on empty holiday mornings was to walk down to the village and have a few words with Willie in his workshop.
The workshop itself was a magic place, sweet smelling and littered with ringlets of shaven wood. Here Willie constructed farm gates and barn doors as well as window frames and joists and beams. And here, too, from time to time, Willie made coffins, for he was the undertaker as well as the joiner. In this role, he became a totally different person, bowler-hatted and dark-suited, and assuming, with his sombre attire, a hushed and respectful voice and expression of pious gloom.
His workshop door, this morning, stood open. His little van was parked in the littered yard. Toby went to the door and looked inside. Willie was leaning against his workbench drinking a mug of tea from a thermos.
âWillie.â
He looked up. âHello there, young Toby.â He smiled. âWhat are you up to, then?â
âI thought Iâd just come and talk.â He wondered if Willie knew about Mr. Sawcombe. He went over to Willieâs side and leaned against the workbench and picked up a screwdriver and began to fiddle with it.
âGot nothing to do?â
âNothing much.â
âSaw young David a moment ago, out on his bicycle, wearing a cowboy hat. Not much fun playing cowboys on your own.â
âI donât feel like playing cowboys.â
âWell, I canât stop and talk to you today. Iâve got a job to do. Got to get up Sawcombeâs back of eleven oâclock.â
Toby did not say anything to this. But he knew what it was all about. Willie and Mr. Sawcombe had been friends all their lives, partners in the bowling team, church wardens together on Sundays. Now Willie was going to have to ⦠Tobyâs mind shied from what Willie was going to do.
âWillie.â
âWhat is it?â
âMr. Sawcombeâs dead.â
âI thought you knew,â said Willie sympathetically. âCould tell by your face, the moment you walked in.â He set down his tea mug an
d laid a hand on Tobyâs shoulder. âYou mustnât grieve. Youâll miss him, I know, but you mustnât grieve. Weâll all miss him, come to that,â he added, sounding suddenly forlorn.
âHe was my best friend.â
âI know.â Willie shook his head. âFunny thing, friendship. You a little chap, how old are you? Eight years old. And yet you and Bill Sawcombe got on like a house on fire. We always thought it was because you was so much on your own, being so much littler than Vicky. Like an afterthought. Little afterthought, Bill and I used to call you. Hardingâs little afterthought.â
âWillie ⦠are you going to make a coffin for Mr. Sawcombe?â
âI expect so.â
Toby thought of Willie making the coffin, choosing the wood, planing the surface, tucking his old friend up in its warm, scented interior, as though he were tucking him up in bed. It was an oddly comforting image.
âWillie?â
âWhat is it now?â
âI know that when a person dies, you put them in a coffin and carry them to the graveyard. And I know that when people are dead they go to Heaven to be with God. But what happens in between?â
âAh,â said Willie. He took another draught of tea, emptying his mug. Then he laid his hand on Tobyâs head and gave it a little shake. âPerhaps thatâs a secret between God and me.â
He still did not want to play with David. When Willie had departed for Sawcombeâs in his little van, Toby set off for home because he couldnât think of anything else to do. He took a shortcut through the sheep paddock. The three ewes who had already lambed were out in the middle of the field, with their children about them. But Daisy had taken herself off into a corner, to the shade and privacy of a tall Scotch pine, where she was sheltered from the wind and the blinking spring sunshine. And beside her, teetering on wobbly legs, tiny as a puppy, stood a single lamb.
Toby knew better than to go near her. He watched her for a little, saw the baby nuzzling the huge woolly body for milk, heard Daisyâs gentle voice as she spoke to her baby. He found that he was torn between pleasure and disappointment. Pleasure because the lamb had arrived safely, and disappointment because it was not twins and now Mrs. Sawcombe would not have her two hundred percent lambing. Daisy, after a little, lay cumbrously down. The lamb collapsed beside her. Toby went on up the field, climbed the fence, and went into the house to tell his mother. âDaisyâs had her lamb. Thatâs the last one.â