One’s sister comes to visit
“I say, my man,” said Desmond. “When will the 4.10 from
Worcester arrive?”
“About 4.10, sir,” said the porter. He ambled off
down the platform, scratching his armpit.
“Dammit. Everyone’s so unhelpful nowadays,” said Desmond.
“Darling, do sit down.” Daisy guided him to the nearest
bench. “You know what the doctor said about not stretching the wound.”
He was about to say something rude about the doctor in
reply, but decided to enjoy the afternoon instead. It was an early-summer
afternoon with not a cloud in the sky. Here and there a swallow flitted. The
sole other sign of activity was a small grimy tank engine that had steam up but
seemed disinclined to do anything with it.
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Édouard Vuillard (1868-1940), Woman in a Blue Cloche Hat (c1930)
At length a plume of smoke and steam appeared on the horizon. The 4.10 arrival from Worcester Shrub Hill approached with a loud, self-important whistle, the engine’s green livery resplendent in the sunshine. It hissed to a halt; few people got off. “There she is!” said Daisy. Desmond’s sister stepped slowly down. She carried The Times and The Sketch, but neither looked read. Her cloche hat was pulled down rather low across her brow, but he could see a livid bruise around her eye and on her cheekbone.
“Dammit, he’s given her a shiner,” he whispered.
The porter brought her luggage from the guard’s van on a
handcart. To Desmond’s surprise, there were several cases and a steamer trunk;
he realised that she expected to stay for some time. He tipped the porter a
florin, and kissed his sister on the cheek.
Then there was a sharp pain from the wound in his leg.
“Would you mind if I sit down? Just for a minute,” he said. He sank back onto
the bench. There was a loud hiss and the pulsing of steam as the train left the
station. The quiet of the summer afternoon returned.
“Did you have a good journey, darling?” Daisy was asking.
She spoke quickly, and was brittle. “You must be tired. We’ll go straight home.
It’s a lovely afternoon, isn’t it. Cook is laying the tea in the garden and we
can – “
Her husband interrupted her. “What on earth has happened, my
dear?” he asked his sister.
“He hit me. He was drunk,” she replied.
“The bounder!” he exclaimed.
“Not really,” she said. “I mean,
none of you are all right any more, are you?”
“No,” he said. “No, I suppose not.”
“It’s all right, dear,” said his wife. ”It’s all right.” She
sat down beside him. “Let’s go home for tea. Cook’s done a lovely Victoria
sponge and we’ve got a saddle of lamb for dinner.”
He felt the soft kid leather of her glove close around his
hand.
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