Chapter 26 Chapter Twenty-Five

In an instant, we passed each other.I continued up the steps, and then stopped under the gable to take shelter from the rain.I watched the crowd make their way to the car.People helped him get into the car first.I could see how weak he was.He couldn't bend over, and he couldn't touch the ground with one foot.They had to lift him to the seat.The door on the other side of the car has been opened for Laura. She straightened her body and got in extremely quickly. I watched the Rolls car drive away gradually and merged into the traffic flow.I walked into the hall.Seeing them, my heart is very heavy.I try not to think about it, not to feel it.I'm busy enough today.I went to the storage room to deposit my bag, and happily exchanged good morning with the staff. At this time, I was still thinking about Laura's healthy body.There is a rule in this museum that everyone must take the elevator to the reading room.As far as I am concerned, the elevator space is cramped and small talk is a must.When I said the weather was terrible, but it was bound to improve over the weekend, I couldn't help thinking about my encounter with the Marshalls outside.This encounter is about a fundamental question of health: I may outlive Paul Marshall, but Laura will outlive me.The consequences of this situation are clear.We've had this problem for years.As my editor puts it, publication and litigation are synonymous.But now I can hardly face that fact.There are enough things I don't want to worry about.I'm here to be busy.

I chatted with the data custodian for a while.I handed him a bundle of Mr. Nettle's letters to me about the Rout at Dunkirk - which he accepted with great gratitude.These letters will be kept with other materials I have given away.The conservators found me an old Air Force colonel in a remote rescue helicopter and a helpful amateur historian.He has read the relevant account in my typescript and has faxed his proposal.Thank God, his advice was sharp but helpful.I read it intently. "British soldiers will never say 'On the double' when issuing the command 'quick walk', only American soldiers will say 'On the double'. The correct usage is 'At the double'."

I love the little tricks, his pointillist approach to verisimilitude, and the great satisfaction of his anticipation. "Nobody says 'twenty-five-pounder', or 'twenty-five-pounder', or 'twenty-five-pounder'. Your usage sounds outlandish Anyone who isn't in the Royal Artillery feels that way. We're like police in a search party, jumping through hoops and crawling toward the truth." "You put a beret on the RAF lad. I don't think so. There were no berets in the Army in 1940, except for tankmen. I think you'd better put him in a cap."

Finally, the colonel showed impatience with my gender.He begins his letter by addressing me as "Miss Tallis".Anyway, what are we folks doing with these things? "Ma'am (three lines under it) - it is impossible for a Stuka dive bomber to carry a 'single kiloton bomb'. Did you know that a Navy frigate is not that heavy? Suggest you For verification." Just a typo.I originally meant to type "pounds".I recorded these corrections one by one and wrote a thank you letter to the colonel.I sorted out the materials in order, paid off the cost of copying, returned the books I had been using to the front desk, and threw away the scattered paper scraps.The place of work has been cleaned of all traces of me.Saying goodbye to the conservators, I learned that the Marshall Foundation would fund the museum.I shook hands with the rest of the staff and I promised to thank the entire department for their help in the future.Then they called a handyman to take me downstairs, the little girl in charge of the storage kindly called a taxi for me, and a teenage doorman helped me carry my bag and put it on the sidewalk.

As I drove north home, I thought about the Colonel's letter, or rather, I pondered the pleasure these small revisions gave me.If I had really paid much attention to the facts, I should have written a very different book.But things have come to this point, the book has been finalized.That's what I thought as we drove into the old tram tunnel beneath Aldwich.Then I drifted off to sleep.The car was parked outside my flat in Regent's Park when I was woken up by the driver. I sorted out the books I brought back from the library, made a sandwich, and packed my clothes into a short-haul suitcase.I walked back and forth from familiar rooms, knowing that my days of self-reliance were coming to an end.I have a framed photo on my desk that my husband Sely took in Marseilles two years before his death.Maybe, one day, I will keep asking who he is.I consoled myself by dawdling in picking out an outfit for a birthday party.This process really makes people feel rejuvenated.I am much thinner than I was a year ago.I forgot the diagnosis for several minutes as my fingers fumbled on the shelf.I decided on a dove gray cashmere shirtdress.Then it was easy: a white satin scarf lined with Emily's embossed brooch, patent leather loafers—low-heeled, of course—and a black shawl.I closed the suitcase and carried it into the hall.I was really surprised at how light the box seemed.

My secretary will be here tomorrow before I get back.I left a note with a list of things I wanted her to do, and I got a book, made a cup of tea, and sat in an armchair by the window.Outside the window is the park.All the while, I've tried to lock away the things that really upset me and not think about them.But I was too excited to even read the book.What I have long yearned for is to go to the countryside, have dinner with my family, and renew the family bond there.However, I conduct a typical interview with a doctor.I should be depressed.To paraphrase a fashionable phrase, have I betrayed my relatives? It doesn't help to think about it.It will take another half an hour for the car to arrive.I became a little uneasy.I got up and walked up and down the room several times.If I sit too long, my knees get sore.I can't forget Laura, her old face with heavy makeup but a haggard look, without a smile, she strode forward in dangerous high heels; she quickly got into the Rolls car, It's all running around in my head.Am I testing her when I walk on the rug between the fireplace and the low-backed settee? I've always thought that high-society luxury and cigarettes would kill her.Even when we were in our fifties, I thought so, but in her octogenarian years, she had a hungry, knowing look.Her pretentious older sister was always one step ahead of me, but I ended up being one step ahead of her on the most important thing, even though she would live to be 100.I can't tell the public in my lifetime.

The Rolls must have affected my mood, as I was disappointed by being fifteen minutes late.Things like that don't usually mess with my mood.It was a dusty mini-cab with a back seat covered in zebra-striped nylon faux fur.But the driver Michael is a hearty West Indies young man.He helped me carry my suitcase and politely pushed the front seat forward for me.He was annoyed that I couldn't stand the loud music coming from the speakers on the stand behind my head, but he calmed down quickly.After that, we got along well along the way and talked about our respective families.He never knew who his father was, his mother was a doctor at Middlesex County Hospital, and he himself graduated law from the University of Leicester and was going to the London School of Economics to write a doctoral dissertation on law and poverty in the third world.As we drove out of London on the gloomy Western Front, he gave me the outline of the thesis: Without property law, there is no capital and no wealth.

"Lawyers are talking so much," I said, "you're trying to get yourself a business." He smiled politely, though he must have thought I was being silly.These days, it's nearly impossible to infer a person's education level from their conversation, their clothes, or their taste in music, so the safest bet is to assume that anyone you meet is a big-name intellectual. Twenty minutes later, we had nothing to say.When the car hit the highway, the engine kept humming.Then I fell asleep again and woke up on a country road with a tense pain in my forehead.I took three aspirins out of my handbag, chewed them up, and swallowed them.What part of my mind, my memory, hit me a little bit in my sleep? I'll never know.That's when, in the back seat of that tiny car, I got my first taste of despair.The word panic may be too strong, maybe there is a little bit of claustrophobia, that is, in the process of decay, I feel helpless, out of sight, and cowering.I tapped Michael on the shoulder and told him to turn up the music.He thought that I was being kind and accommodating him, because we were almost at the destination, so he refused, but I insisted on asking him to drive, just like that, the sound of the heavy bass plucking sounded again, and at the same time There came a soft baritone voice, singing in Caribbean dialect to the rhythm of nursery rhymes.Sometimes I sang the jingle of skipping rope on the playground. The singing helped me a lot and gave me fun.Even though the tune sounds childish, I think it speaks of something terrifying.I didn't ask him to translate.

The music was still playing as we turned into the Tilney Hotel.Twenty-five years have passed since I was last here for Emily's funeral.The first thing I noticed was that the trees in the park were gone, I thought the big elms had been infested, and the remaining oaks had given way to the golf course.We slowed down to let the golfers and caddies walk through.I can't help but see them as transgressors.The woods surrounding Grace Turner's old bungalow are still there.The car passed the last beech, and the mansion came into view.Nothing to miss - it's always been an ugly place.But from a distance, its appearance is abrupt and unobstructed.Perhaps to protect the walls, the ivy had been removed, which would have softened the crimson color of the facade.We quickly reached the first bridge.I discovered that the lake no longer exists.We stood on the bridge, suspended over a grassy field, as you sometimes see in old moats.If you don't know what it used to look like, you don't find it so uncomfortable in itself.In the old days, there were sedges, ducks, and giant carp, and two hikers grilled fish by the island's temple before feasting on a hearty meal.All this has become a thing of the past.Today, there is a wooden bench and a garbage basket there.Of course, the island is not what it used to be. Today it is a long mound, covered with flat green grass, like a huge barrow, overgrown with rhododendrons and other bushes.There is also a winding stone path, with many benches and street lamps for spherical gardens scattered here and there.I have no time to guess where I sat and comforted young Lady Laura Marshall as we crossed the second bridge and drove slowly into the asphalted car park.The parking lot is as big as the house.

Michael helped me lift the case to the reception in the old lobby.It's a whimsy that they've gone so far as to put a pinprick rug over a black and white tiled floor.Vivaldi's "Four Seasons" was gurgling from hidden speakers.I find background music always annoying, but I never really care.There is a computer and a vase of flowers on the elegant rosewood desk, and two armors are waiting on both sides.A pair of crossed halberds and a coat of arms are inlaid on the paneling, above which hangs a portrait that originally hung in the dining room and which my grandfather used to represent our illustrious family history.I tip Michael and wish him all the best for his doctoral dissertation on property rights and poverty.At the same time I was trying to retract my stupid comment about lawyers.He wished me a happy birthday, shook my hand - how softly, how humbly! And he was gone.A solemn lady in business attire behind the desk gave me the key and told me that the previous library had been reserved for the party.The few guests who had arrived had gone out for a walk.The reception is scheduled to begin at six o'clock.The porter will help me carry the suitcase upstairs.There is an elevator for my convenience.

At that time, although no one greeted me, I felt relieved.Before I became the guest of honour, I liked being alone.I took the elevator up to the second floor, passed through several glass fire doors, and walked along the corridor. The sound of my feet hitting the polished floor was so familiar.Oddly, the bedroom was locked after being numbered.Of course, my room number is seven, so there's no mystery to it, but I think I've figured out which one I'm going to sleep in.At least, I wasn't surprised when I stopped outside the door.This is not my old room, but the room where Aunt Venice used to live.This room has always been considered to have the best view, it overlooks the lake and the mountains beyond.Charles, Pierrot's grandson, reserved this room especially for me.He is the organizer of this party. As soon as I entered the door, I was overjoyed. The rooms on both sides had been combined into a large suite, and a large bouquet of flowers grown in the greenhouse was placed on the low glass table.The tall and big bed that Aunt Venice had occupied without complaint for a long time was completely gone, as were the carved cabinet and the green silk sofa used as a dowry.They are now the property of Leon's eldest son (from his second marriage), and are housed in a mansion somewhere in the Scottish Highlands.The new furniture is nice though, I like the room overall.My box has arrived.I ordered a pot of tea and hung up my clothes.I inspected the living room carefully.Here is a writing desk and a good lamp.What impressed me the most was the potpourri in the spacious bathroom and stacks of towels placed on heated racks.Old people tend to get into the habit of seeing everything as dull—I'm not that far away, and that's a relief.I stood in front of the window, admiring the golf course under the slanting sunlight, and the bare branches on the hill in the distance were shining brightly by the sunlight.The fact that the lake has dried up is not something I can accept, but maybe one day it will be back to normal.Now, as a hotel, the building itself does have more human delights than it did when I lived here. An hour later, just as I was getting dressed, Charles called.He said he would pick me up at 6:15 when everyone was here, take me downstairs, and do an entrance ceremony.Just like that, holding his arm, I walked into the L-shaped hall in a luxurious cashmere sweater, accompanied by applause, and fifty relatives toasted to bless me.As soon as I walked in, I immediately felt that I didn't know anyone.There is no familiar face! I thought to myself, do I need to taste the feeling of being at a loss first.Later, people gradually became clearer.We must be considerate of the passage of time, and the swift years make the baby in the swaddle suddenly become a jubilant and noisy ten-year-old child.Impossible to be wrong, that should be my brother, curled up sideways in his wheelchair, with a small towel tied around his throat to catch the spout of champagne that was being fed to him.I leaned in and kissed Leon, who managed to smile with the conscious half of his face.I also quickly recognized Piero, he looked shriveled, his head was shiny, I really wanted to put my hand on it and touch it.But he was still as smiling and dignified as ever.We tacitly never mentioned his sister.