Free Blue Bedroom and Other Stories by Rosamunde Pilcher Page B

down to the kitchen and made him a cup of tea. The kitchen was in the basement, and the window had bars on it, to discourage possible intruders. Miss Cameron, waiting for the kettle to boil, looked out through the bars to the small stone area beyond. She had tried to grow geraniums there, but they had all died, and now there was nothing to be seen but a stubborn sprout of willow herb. The bars made the kitchen feel like a prison. She had never thought this before, but she thought it now, and knew that it was true. She would never get away.
    Her father lived on for another fifteen years, and she went on teaching until he became too frail to leave, even for a day. So she dutifully retired from her job, where she had been not exactly happy, but at least fulfilled, and stayed at home, to devote her time to what remained of her father’s life. She had little money of her own, and supposed that the old man had as little as herself, so frugal was the housekeeping allowance, so cautious was he with things like coal and central heating and even the most modest forms of enjoyment.
    He owned an old car, which Miss Cameron could drive, and on warm days she used sometimes to bundle him into this, and he would sit beside her, in his grey tweed suit and the black hat that made him look like an undertaker, while she drove him to the seaside or the country, or even to Holyrood Park where he could take a little stumbling walk, or sit in the sun beneath the grassy slopes of Arthur’s Seat. But then the price of petrol rocketed, and without consulting his daughter, Mr. Cameron sold the car, and she did not have enough money of her own to buy another.
    *   *   *
    She had a friend, Dorothy Laurie, with whom she had been at University. Dorothy had married—as Miss Cameron had not—a young doctor, who was now an eminently successful neurologist, and with whose cooperation she had produced a family of satisfactory children, now all grown up. Dorothy was perpetually indignant about Miss Cameron’s situation. She felt, and said, that Miss Cameron’s parents had been selfish and thoughtless, and that the old man was getting worse as he was getting older. When the car was sold, she blew her top.
    â€œIt’s ridiculous,” she said, over tea in her sunny, flower-filled drawing room. Miss Cameron had prevailed upon her daily help to stay over for the afternoon to give Mr. Cameron his tea, and make sure that he didn’t fall down the stairs on his way to the lavatory. “He can’t be as penurious as all that. Surely he can afford to run a car, for your sake, if not for his own?”
    Miss Cameron did not like to point out that he had never thought of any person except himself. She said, “I don’t know.”
    â€œThen you should find out. Speak to his accountant. Or his lawyer.”
    â€œDorothy, I couldn’t. It would be so disloyal.”
    Dorothy made a sound which sounded like “Pshaw” and which is what people used to say in old-fashioned novels.
    â€œI don’t want to upset him,” Miss Cameron went on.
    â€œDo him good to be upset. If he’d been upset once or twice in his life, he wouldn’t be such a selfish old…” She bit back what she had been going to say and substituted “… man, now.”
    â€œHe’s lonely.”
    â€œOf course he’s lonely. Selfish people are always lonely. That’s nobody’s fault but his own. For years, he’s sat in a chair and felt sorry for himself.”
    It was too true to argue with. “Oh, well,” said Miss Cameron feebly, “it can’t be helped. He’s nearly ninety now. It’s too late to start trying to change him.”
    â€œYes, but it’s not too late to change you. You mustn’t let yourself grow old with him. You must keep some part of life for yourself.”
    *   *   *
    He died at last, painlessly and peacefully, falling