Hazel Holt - The Shortest Journey

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Copyright 2010 by Hazel Holt

Published by Coffeetown Press

PO Box 95462 Seattle, WA 98145

Contact: info@coffeetownpress.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book maybe reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or anyinformation storage and retrieval system, without permission inwriting from the publisher.

Cover design by Sabrina Sun

Copyright 2010 by Hazel Holt

ISBN: 978-1-60381-055-5 (Paper)

ISBN: 978-1-60381-057-9 (ePub)

ISBN: 978-1-60381-056-2 (Cloth)

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Is a good family, Mrs Jankiewicz said, but thereis no title.

She was silent for a moment, contemplating thisinsurmountable flaw and I said quickly, But Sophie is very happywith him.

Oh, happy. Mrs Jankiewicz shrugged.

And, I pursued, he is Polish and a RomanCatholic.

Is true, she admitted. Zofia she gave herdaughters name its proper pronunciation is a good Polish girl.She would not marry a foreigner.

We both sat quietly drinking our tea. It was aconversation we had had many times. Zofia Jankiewicz (now ZofiaBorowska) was no longer a girl she was my contemporary and I wasnow in my middle fifties and she had been married for twentyyears. But to the elderly no topic of conversation is ever quitefinished; it can be brought out again and again, and each time alittle more can be added to it.

His father was a captain with General Zajac inTehran. His uncle was an attach in London. Was a good family.

She was silent again and I looked round the room withmy customary feeling of sadness. It was quite a good-sized room andhad a nice view of the sea (that was one of the pleasant featuresof West Lodge, which made it superior to the other nursing homes inTaviscombe) but it was woefully inadequate to house all the objectsthat Mrs Jankiewicz had brought with her from her large house inPark Walk. Mrs Wilmot, the Matron, had tried to protest as, underMrs Jankiewiczs brisk supervision, ornamental rugs were nailed upon the walls, large pieces of ornately carved furniture were heavedinto place and a multiplicity of heavy silver objects wasdistributed about the room. But such was the force of the oldladys personality (although half-blind with cataracts andpractically crippled with arthritis) that she was allowed to createaround her in this unpromising setting a sort of littlePoland-in-miniature. True, the staff muttered a little as theymoved the objects to dust but they did so under their breath,since Mrs Jankiewicz held autocratic views on domestic staff andthey were all decidedly in awe of her.

Do you want some more tea, Sheila? she asked. Iwill ring for the girl. Alas, I cannot give you proper tea in thisplace.

We both turned our heads and looked at the silversamovar sitting on a small table. That had been one battle she hadnot won. I regarded the samovar with affection. When I was a girland had gone to tea with Sophie we had been at school together it had always seemed to me the most glamorous object imaginable.Indeed, the whole household was so different and so much moreexciting than any other I had ever known. Dr Jankiewicz was adelightful man, quiet and agreeable, amused, I thought, by hisexuberant wife, whose exotic conversation and foreign waysfascinated me. Sophie was simply my friend. English at school anda good Polish girl at home, she led two lives, as allsecond-generation refugees seemed to do.

But now Dr Jankiewicz was dead, and Sophie, who hadalso become a doctor, was married and living in Canada with herhusband. Sophie had wanted her mother to go to Canada with them,but Mrs Jankiewicz had been firm.

Not another country. she said. First was Poland,then Siberia, then Persia, then Lebanon, then England. I stay inEngland.

With her usual resolute practicality she had sold herhouse, forced a large number of objects upon a reluctant Sophie(Honestly, Sheila, its going to cost more to ship them out toNova Scotia than all our fares put together! And where on earth arewe going to put them in our apartment?) and settled herself in atWest Lodge. Here she rapidly gained ascendancy, so that after onlya few months she was recognised as Chief Resident and both theother residents and the staff were, on the whole, proud of her,rather as one might be of a cumbersome but rare and valuable pieceof furniture whose prestige compensates for its awkwardness.

I was very fond of her, not only because I hadreached the age when I valued things and people connected with myyouth, but also for her own unique blend of warmth andeccentricity.

Mr Williamss son came yesterday. she said. Is abad man, not good to his father. He comes only when he wantssomething money, of course, for that business of his. But isthrowing the good money after the bad he will never make it paybecause he does not work hard. Is wrong to give him more and I tellMr Williams this, but he not listen to anyone, even to me.

Mrs Jankiewicz had channelled her still considerableenergy into evolving an information system that made MI5 look likepitiful amateurs. She called it taking an interest. But hers was abenevolent autocracy; she was always on the look-out for wrongsdone to any of the other old people.

Someone must see to their rights, she would say.Is only me; their children do not care. They were not brought upwell, like my Zofia.

Yes, I said. I saw Mr Williamss son the last timehe came to see the old man. He struck me as a nasty piece of work,smarming round Matron and saying how lovely everything was.

Mrs Jankiewicz snorted. He cannot have seen the dustin his fathers room. I went in there last week to tell him to comedown to dinner with me and it was terrible. Was thick, everywhere.Is that girl Glenda, lazy, only thinking about boys! I have to tellher many times about the dust.

For someone with a sight problem Mrs Jankiewicz hadan apparently miraculous ability to spot dust, grimy paintwork orthe wrong shade of blue in a bed-jacket purchased at her command byone of the staff.

I sought to change the subject to one lesscontroversial. What lovely flowers! Those chrysanthemums are sucha beautiful shade of dusky pink.

Her face softened. Are pretty from Mrs Rossiter.She went shopping yesterday and bought them for me for a present tocheer me up, she said, because today is ten years since my poorStanislas is dead. Mrs Rossiter is a kind person. You are kind,too, she said, taking my hand in hers. You come to see me becauseyou remember.

He was such a dear man, I said. I was so fond ofhim. And I know that one never stops missing them.

I too am a widow. My husband, Peter, died three yearsago.

I do not think Mrs Rossiter misses her husband. MrsJankiewicz said. That man was not a nice person at all.

I thought of Colonel Rossiter, a cold, unfriendly,ill-tempered man, and said, No, he was horrid; she was well rid ofhim. I did think that after he died she might have managed to havea more enjoyable life, but then she developed this hearttrouble...

Mrs Jankiewicz snorted again. Is not trouble, shesaid. She is quite able to do things but they do not let her. If Ihave no more than that wrong with me then I would not be in thisplace but in my own home.