Cathy came up from the mists of sleep wondering what sound had wakened her. It went on and on, sharp and persistent. Then she realised that it was her grandmother’s bell echoing through the house. Why did no one answer? She got out of bed and ran along the passage in her nightdress. The sound of the bell still pealed as Cathy knocked on Mrs Ludlow’s door and opened it.
“Where is everybody? Can no one find time to attend to a poor old lady?” demanded her grandmother in an angry voice, to the accompaniment of a thumping sound.
Cathy went in. The old lady was sitting up in bed wearing a chiffon nightcap over her short white hair, furiously working the bell-push with one hand and banging on the floor with her silver-headed stick in the other.
“What’s the matter, Gran?” asked Cathy.
“Where’s my breakfast? That’s what I want to know,” cried Mrs Ludlow. “Look at the time, it’s almost nine. I’m hungry.”
At eight o’clock on weekdays and at half-past eight on Sundays, Mrs Ludlow’s tray of tea, toast and a soft-boiled egg punctually appeared in her room.
“Oh heavens!” exclaimed Cathy. What could have happened? Mrs Mackenzie must have overslept, though she never remembered such a thing happening before. “I’ll go down and see if it’s ready,” she said.
“You can’t walk about the house like that, child. Put your dressing-gown on,” ordered Mrs Ludlow.
“All right, Gran. I won’t be long,” said Cathy. She hurried back to her room, put on her old blue woollen dressing-gown, then went back along the landing to the top of the stairs. Aunt Phyllis’s door was closed, but she had gone to church; she often went early on Sundays unless Grandmother had decided to make one of her increasingly rare appearances at matins. In any case, she should be back soon.
Cathy pattered lightly down the stairs in her bare feet, crossed the hall and went into the kitchen. It was empty.
“What a joke! Fancy Mrs Mack oversleeping!” she marvelled. Well, she had better set to and make her grandmother’s breakfast; there would be still more of a delay if she woke Mrs Mack first. All the household knew well enough what Mrs Ludlow ate. Cathy put the kettle on, and a pan for the egg. The tray was already laid with the special Crown Derby china always used for Mrs Ludlow, and covered with a spotless cloth. While she waited for the water to boil, Cathy went into the garden and plucked a rose to put on the tray, an action she had read about in one of the novels Aunt Phyllis so much enjoyed. Under the soles of her bare feet the paved slabs of the garden path were already warm in the sun.
The kettle had begun to sing when she went back into the house. She watched the toast and timed the egg carefully; Gran would soon make a fuss if the crusts were not neatly cut, or the bread were too pale or too dark, or if her egg had been boiled too long. Soon it was all ready, and she went up with the tray, travelling in the lift this time in case she spilled the tea.
“This should be all right, Gran,” she said optimistically, after she had got out the bed-table and set it across Mrs Ludlow’s knees. It was quite a business, settling her with her back-rest in position. Cathy felt sure that her aunt or Mrs Mackenzie usually got her grandmother washed and tidied before breakfast, but this was a daunting task that she was reluctant to undertake.
“Hm, hm, let me see. What have you forgotten? Toast, egg, butter, tea. Yes, child. How long did you cook the egg?”
“Three minutes, Gran.” Everyone knew that this was the time allowed.
“Very well, very well.”
“Shall I take the top off for you?” Cathy offered.
“Certainly not. I’m not quite helpless yet,” said Mrs Ludlow tartly. She took up the teaspoon and cracked the egg, then peeled the pieces of shell away, exposing the quivering white.
“I always decapitate mine with a knife,” Cathy volunteered, watching her grandmother’s gnarled hands at work. They were quite steady, and considering how swollen and lumpy they were, remarkably deft.
“How vulgar,” said Mrs Ludlow. “Well, why was I forgotten?”
“You weren’t, Gran. But Aunt Phyl must have gone to church, and I suppose Mrs Mackenzie’s overslept. I’d better wake her up.”
“Phyllis should be back by now. Let her go,” said Mrs Ludlow.
“She isn’t back. I don’t expect she’ll be long,” Cathy said.
“Well, you go and get dressed. Then come back and see if I’ve finished. I don’t like being left with my tray.”
“All right, Gran,” said Cathy.
“You may pour out my tea before you go,” said Mrs Ludlow. She picked up the rose that Cathy had put on her tray and sniffed it; slowly her features bent into what was, for her, a smile, but she made no comment. Cathy poured out her tea, and as she left the room she heard her grandmother start to mutter away under her breath.
Phyllis did not get back from church until nearly half-past nine, much later than her usual time. She hurried into the house and went upstairs to take off her hat. She could hear the sound of voices from her mother’s room, and hurried along the landing. Inside, she found Cathy standing by the window while Mrs Ludlow finished her second cup of tea.
“You’re late, Phyllis,” said the old lady, without preamble.
“Yes, I’m sorry. The vicar delayed me. He asked me to thank you for your note, Mother, and said he’d come and see you tomorrow. He seemed overwhelmed. What did you write to him about?”
“That’s my affair,” said Mrs Ludlow. “And I don’t want to see him. Ring him up and tell him so. I’ll send for him when I want him.”
“Very well, Mother,” said Phyllis. “You’re a long time finishing your breakfast this morning. Was Mrs Mackenzie late?”
“She’s overslept,” said Cathy, giggling. “Isn’t it a hoot? I got Gran’s breakfast.”
“Overslept? Good heavens, she’ll never have lunch ready,” said Phyllis. “Go and wake her at once, Cathy.”
“Don’t send the child. You go, Phyllis,” said Mrs Ludlow, but Cathy had already left the room. Phyllis moved her mother’s tray and folded up the table; then she began her preparations for the old lady’s morning toilet.
Suddenly Cathy was back. Her face was green. Phyllis, at the dressing-table collecting brush and hand-mirror, saw her reflection in the looking-glass and turned sharply.
“Aunt Phyl, can you come?” said Cathy. “Come quickly.” She said no more but hurried out of the room. Phyllis put down the brush and followed at once.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” she said.
Cathy made signs indicating that her grandmother should not overhear. With her hand to her mouth she led her aunt along the passage and stopped outside Mrs Mackenzie’s bedroom door.
“Mrs Mack’s ill,” she said, and gulped. “I think she’s dead.”