“Listen,” she said, “perhaps I could take this up to my room?”
“Of course,” Mrs Moreland said, “I mean, it’s a bit peculiar, isn’t it? But, yes, I mean I don’t see why not—” and her face began to shine “—like a party then? Like a slumber party? How American! Yes, that could be quite fun!”
“I mean—” The thought was intolerable! Nora retreated from the kitchen hastily. “I’m a bit ill, you see. The flight.”
Mrs Moreland’s face crumpled. “Yes, I see.”
“I suppose, if you wanted?”
“No, better not.” She turned away from Nora and began to clean up the crumbs.
“Goodnight then, Mrs Moreland.”
“Goodnight, dear.”
#
Nora learned to move like a mouse. She crept through the house, kept her door closed, slept with a mask on, woke early and came in late. She spent her days in the Duke Humphrey Reading Room, pouring over sheaves of unprinted correspondences of the eighteenth century elite: there were so many of them, such debris of history to sort through, but she knew that amongst them would be something—something overlooked, missed by her senior colleagues, by Evans and his lot—that would surely do the trick.
Her eyes swam. Her back ached. Her fingers took in a deep chill that stiffened them to dull instruments of wood. But on she pressed. She enjoyed the work for all its physical discomforts, enjoyed the sense of camaraderie in sitting amongst the other researchers, each in their own separate carrel, never speaking, never needing to, but sharing in the same endeavour nonetheless.
Nora managed to avoid Mrs Moreland for three days. The old woman must be busy, she expected. The family had visited several times. Nora could tell by the great mass of teacups and side plates she found in the drying rack.
All was silent until the third night. All was perfect until then, not a worry, not a care, just the worrying at that pile of letters, sorting through, discarding, chasing down signatures. Nothing at all from Mrs Moreland.
But on the third night, Nora woke very suddenly. There had been a noise.
“Where are you, oh, where are you?”
The old woman was hollering on the stairs.
“Where are you, where are you?”
And then: “Miss Higgins!”
Nora got out of bed. She threw a robe around herself and pawed at the light switch until the room was bright. Mrs Moreland was on the stairs. Nora could hear her. Normally Mrs Moreland walked as if she weighed nothing at all, but today her feet were loud as elephants.
“Oh, where?”
Nora came out of the room. “Here,” she said. “Here I am.”
“Miss Higgins! There you are!”
Mrs Moreland’s eyes were glassy and lost. Her silver hair was flung loosely over her shoulders.
“I’m sorry, Miss Higgins, you must have been sleeping.”
“I was,” Nora said. She clutched the robe tighter about herself. The fireplace was letting in a dreadful chill. The wind knocked against the front door.
“I’m sorry, I’m so terribly sorry. I was afraid you were dead!”
Mrs Moreland did not move from the stairs. Her fist clutched along the railing, and she took a step upward.
“But, of course, it isn’t you, is it? No. It’s my Sean. Please. I’m sorry. I must have startled you, but you see I had this terrible dream that you were dead. That you had died in my house. Just expired, it was terrible, you were just cold and lifeless, lying there on the bed.”
“I’m quite all right. Can I—” Nora searched for the protocol “—make you some tea?”
“No, dear, no. I’ll just call Kitty. She said I must call her if there was a worry. I’ll do that, shall I?”
“Of course,” Nora said. She watched the old woman drift off, then turned, shivering terribly, and closed herself in the bedroom.
#
Kitty was waiting for her outside the Bodleian. Nora recognised her immediately—that pert mouth, that scowl—she had something of Mrs Moreland’s features, a faint family resemblance. She was puffing
“Of course,” Mrs Moreland said, “I mean, it’s a bit peculiar, isn’t it? But, yes, I mean I don’t see why not—” and her face began to shine “—like a party then? Like a slumber party? How American! Yes, that could be quite fun!”
“I mean—” The thought was intolerable! Nora retreated from the kitchen hastily. “I’m a bit ill, you see. The flight.”
Mrs Moreland’s face crumpled. “Yes, I see.”
“I suppose, if you wanted?”
“No, better not.” She turned away from Nora and began to clean up the crumbs.
“Goodnight then, Mrs Moreland.”
“Goodnight, dear.”
#
Nora learned to move like a mouse. She crept through the house, kept her door closed, slept with a mask on, woke early and came in late. She spent her days in the Duke Humphrey Reading Room, pouring over sheaves of unprinted correspondences of the eighteenth century elite: there were so many of them, such debris of history to sort through, but she knew that amongst them would be something—something overlooked, missed by her senior colleagues, by Evans and his lot—that would surely do the trick.
Her eyes swam. Her back ached. Her fingers took in a deep chill that stiffened them to dull instruments of wood. But on she pressed. She enjoyed the work for all its physical discomforts, enjoyed the sense of camaraderie in sitting amongst the other researchers, each in their own separate carrel, never speaking, never needing to, but sharing in the same endeavour nonetheless.
Nora managed to avoid Mrs Moreland for three days. The old woman must be busy, she expected. The family had visited several times. Nora could tell by the great mass of teacups and side plates she found in the drying rack.
All was silent until the third night. All was perfect until then, not a worry, not a care, just the worrying at that pile of letters, sorting through, discarding, chasing down signatures. Nothing at all from Mrs Moreland.
But on the third night, Nora woke very suddenly. There had been a noise.
“Where are you, oh, where are you?”
The old woman was hollering on the stairs.
“Where are you, where are you?”
And then: “Miss Higgins!”
Nora got out of bed. She threw a robe around herself and pawed at the light switch until the room was bright. Mrs Moreland was on the stairs. Nora could hear her. Normally Mrs Moreland walked as if she weighed nothing at all, but today her feet were loud as elephants.
“Oh, where?”
Nora came out of the room. “Here,” she said. “Here I am.”
“Miss Higgins! There you are!”
Mrs Moreland’s eyes were glassy and lost. Her silver hair was flung loosely over her shoulders.
“I’m sorry, Miss Higgins, you must have been sleeping.”
“I was,” Nora said. She clutched the robe tighter about herself. The fireplace was letting in a dreadful chill. The wind knocked against the front door.
“I’m sorry, I’m so terribly sorry. I was afraid you were dead!”
Mrs Moreland did not move from the stairs. Her fist clutched along the railing, and she took a step upward.
“But, of course, it isn’t you, is it? No. It’s my Sean. Please. I’m sorry. I must have startled you, but you see I had this terrible dream that you were dead. That you had died in my house. Just expired, it was terrible, you were just cold and lifeless, lying there on the bed.”
“I’m quite all right. Can I—” Nora searched for the protocol “—make you some tea?”
“No, dear, no. I’ll just call Kitty. She said I must call her if there was a worry. I’ll do that, shall I?”
“Of course,” Nora said. She watched the old woman drift off, then turned, shivering terribly, and closed herself in the bedroom.
#
Kitty was waiting for her outside the Bodleian. Nora recognised her immediately—that pert mouth, that scowl—she had something of Mrs Moreland’s features, a faint family resemblance. She was puffing
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