have lunch with him the next day and asked if this would be all right and if I could borrow her car. She was, as I had known she would be, perfectly agreeable, so I went off to the kitchen and poured her a glass of restoring wine, and then I made scrambled eggs and we ate them in front of the fire.
After that, although it was only half past eight, she decided that she would go to bed, so I helped her upstairs and switched on the electric blanket and drew the curtains against the chilly darkness. When I left her, cosy in her huge bed, she was reading a book by the light of the bedside lamp, but as I shut the door and took myself downstairs, I knew that very soon she would be asleep.
Chapter Four
Next morning I was out of bed before she could be, and downstairs. It was too early for Lily Tonkins, so I laid a tray for Phoebe's breakfast, made coffee and toast, and carried the lot upstairs. She was already awake, watching through her open window the sun climb the sky. When I appeared through the door, she turned her head on the pillow and saw the tray and said, with all her usual energy, "You are an idiot, Prue; you know I never have breakfast in bed."
"You are this morning." She pulled herself up on her pillows, and I laid the tray across her knees and went to close the window.
"Red sky at morning, shepherd's warning. I suppose it's going to rain today."
"Don't be so gloomy. You haven't brought a coffee cup for yourself."
"I thought you'd like to be left in peace."
"I hate being left in peace. I like chatting over breakfast. Go and get a mug." She took the lid off the coffee pot and peered inside. "You've made enough for ten people; you'll have to help me drink it."
In bed, which was about the only place she did not wear one of her dashing hats, she looked different: feminine; older, perhaps; vulnerable. Her thick, wiry hair hung in a plait over one shoulder, and she was wrapped in a fleecy shawl. She looked so comfortable that I said, "Why don't you stay there for the morning? Lily Tonkins can cope with everything, and there's not much that you can do to help with only one arm."
"I might," said Phoebe, not committing herself. "I just might do that. Now go and get a mug before the coffee gets cold."
I fetched not only a cup but a bowl of cereal as well, and ate it sitting on the edge of the great, carved pine bed that Phoebe and Chips had shared for all those happy, sinful years. She had once told me that everything she really enjoyed in life was either illegal, immoral, or fattening, and then had roared with laughter.
But somehow they had got away with it, she and Chips. Even in this small, parochial village, they had ridden out the inevitable storm of prejudice by sheer strength of character coupled with their disarming charm. I remembered Chips playing the organ in church when the regular organist had flu, and Phoebe busily baking enormous, lopsided cakes for the Women's Institute tea.
She cared for everybody, and yet for no person's opinion. I looked at her eating toast and marmalade and loved her. She caught my eye. She said, "How nice that you're having lunch with Daniel. What time are you meeting him?"
"Half past twelve at the Ship Inn in Porthkerris. But I won't go unless you promise me that you'll be all right."
"For heaven's sake, I'm not in a wheelchair. Off you go. But I shall want to hear all about it when you get back. Blow-by-blow descriptions." Her eyes twinkled, her cheeks bunched up in wicked laughter, and she was so obviously back to her normal good spirits that I started to tell her about the previous evening and our encounter with Mrs. Tolliver.
". . . And it was very embarrassing, because I thought Daniel was just behind me, and I said something stupid like, 'I want you to meet my friend,' and when I turned round, he wasn't there. Disappeared. Bolted to the bar."
"Did Mrs. Tolliver see him?"
"I've no idea." I thought about this. "Does it make any difference?"
"No-o-o . . ." said
After that, although it was only half past eight, she decided that she would go to bed, so I helped her upstairs and switched on the electric blanket and drew the curtains against the chilly darkness. When I left her, cosy in her huge bed, she was reading a book by the light of the bedside lamp, but as I shut the door and took myself downstairs, I knew that very soon she would be asleep.
Chapter Four
Next morning I was out of bed before she could be, and downstairs. It was too early for Lily Tonkins, so I laid a tray for Phoebe's breakfast, made coffee and toast, and carried the lot upstairs. She was already awake, watching through her open window the sun climb the sky. When I appeared through the door, she turned her head on the pillow and saw the tray and said, with all her usual energy, "You are an idiot, Prue; you know I never have breakfast in bed."
"You are this morning." She pulled herself up on her pillows, and I laid the tray across her knees and went to close the window.
"Red sky at morning, shepherd's warning. I suppose it's going to rain today."
"Don't be so gloomy. You haven't brought a coffee cup for yourself."
"I thought you'd like to be left in peace."
"I hate being left in peace. I like chatting over breakfast. Go and get a mug." She took the lid off the coffee pot and peered inside. "You've made enough for ten people; you'll have to help me drink it."
In bed, which was about the only place she did not wear one of her dashing hats, she looked different: feminine; older, perhaps; vulnerable. Her thick, wiry hair hung in a plait over one shoulder, and she was wrapped in a fleecy shawl. She looked so comfortable that I said, "Why don't you stay there for the morning? Lily Tonkins can cope with everything, and there's not much that you can do to help with only one arm."
"I might," said Phoebe, not committing herself. "I just might do that. Now go and get a mug before the coffee gets cold."
I fetched not only a cup but a bowl of cereal as well, and ate it sitting on the edge of the great, carved pine bed that Phoebe and Chips had shared for all those happy, sinful years. She had once told me that everything she really enjoyed in life was either illegal, immoral, or fattening, and then had roared with laughter.
But somehow they had got away with it, she and Chips. Even in this small, parochial village, they had ridden out the inevitable storm of prejudice by sheer strength of character coupled with their disarming charm. I remembered Chips playing the organ in church when the regular organist had flu, and Phoebe busily baking enormous, lopsided cakes for the Women's Institute tea.
She cared for everybody, and yet for no person's opinion. I looked at her eating toast and marmalade and loved her. She caught my eye. She said, "How nice that you're having lunch with Daniel. What time are you meeting him?"
"Half past twelve at the Ship Inn in Porthkerris. But I won't go unless you promise me that you'll be all right."
"For heaven's sake, I'm not in a wheelchair. Off you go. But I shall want to hear all about it when you get back. Blow-by-blow descriptions." Her eyes twinkled, her cheeks bunched up in wicked laughter, and she was so obviously back to her normal good spirits that I started to tell her about the previous evening and our encounter with Mrs. Tolliver.
". . . And it was very embarrassing, because I thought Daniel was just behind me, and I said something stupid like, 'I want you to meet my friend,' and when I turned round, he wasn't there. Disappeared. Bolted to the bar."
"Did Mrs. Tolliver see him?"
"I've no idea." I thought about this. "Does it make any difference?"
"No-o-o . . ." said
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