“Devastated.” Louise had finished helping Emma.
“Quite devastated. She would have worked herself to death in London. But her commanding officer saw what was happening and ordered her to rest up for a month. She returned here, to the cottage, looking like a…”
“Ghost.”
“A pale ghost, a shadow of herself. Louise and I thought it would be best if we came over regularly, to sit with her and look after the garden. We didn’t like to leave her alone, you see…
“…not after the first time.”
“The first time we stopped by…” Ruth paused and her eyes widened. “My, but these seedcakes are lovely,” she said. “Did you make them yourself? Might I ask for the recipe?”
“Y-yes, of course,” I stammered, startled by the abrupt change of subject.
“I’ll copy it out for you,” Emma offered, and went into the kitchen to pull out the dog-eared cookbook. I sent a silent blessing after her.
“Oh, that is most kind of you. It is so difficult these days to find real seedcake.” For a second it looked as though Ruth might stop there, but after a sip of tea, she continued. “The first time we stopped by, we found Dimity curled up on the couch, as cold as ice, staring and staring at that lovely photograph. It didn’t seem healthy to leave it with her. We don’t think she noticed…”
“…when we took it. And she didn’t seem to miss it. We brought it home with us and kept it safe. We thought that one day…”
“…it might be precious to her.” Ruth looked up as Emma returned, recipe in hand. “Thank you so very much, dear. Tell me, are you still having trouble with your Alchemilla mollis?”
Emma was halfway through her reply before I realized they were talking about a plant. I’m not sure if Bill actually saw me gripping the edge of my seat, but he seemed to sense my agitation because he decided to lead the witness for her own good. He waited for a pause, then leaned slightly toward Ruth. “Can you tell us about Bobby?” he asked.
“So full of life,” mused Ruth in reply. “He wasn’t a local boy, you know, but he loved it here at the cottage all the same. He said that he could imagine no place more beautiful than Pouter’s Hill, and he could think of nothing more wonderful than to return there after the war. He and Dimity spent hours up there, the way young lovers do. A valiant young man, and so proud of his wings.”
“So very proud,” Louise echoed. “I believe the bluebells are out on Pouter’s Hill.” Ruth and Louise turned their bright eyes upward. “What a lovely sight.”
*
The fact that I survived the afternoon is amazing, but it’s nothing compared to the fact that the Pym sisters emerged unscathed. After the initial burst of information, their progress was sporadic at best. They’d move toward adding another tidbit about Bobby and then meander onto some wholly unrelated topic, usually having to do with food or flowers, and every time they did, I was torn between having an apoplectic seizure or committing Pymocide. Now I knew why my mother had described them as not very coherent. But Bill and Emma kept their cool and guided the conversation with admirable dexterity. By the time the Pyms took their leave—in stereo—we had learned quite a lot about the sequence of events following Bobby MacLaren’s death.
When Dimity was strong enough she’d returned to active duty, but she remained dazed, heartbroken, and inconsolable. The next time Dimity came down, a year later, it was as though a cloud had lifted from her soul. The reason became clear when she introduced them to her new friend: my mother. Seeing at once how close the two women were, the Pyms entrusted my mother with the photograph, knowing that she would give it to Dimity when the right time came.
They were worried that they might not live long enough to do it themselves. No matter how lighthearted Dimity seemed, the Pyms saw a darkness in her eyes that showed she was grieving still. Unlike the other villagers, they were not surprised by the fact that Dimity seldom came back to the cottage after coming into her fortune.
Shortly after we had pieced the story together, Emma left for home, carrying my heartfelt thanks and a selection of goodies for her family. Bill and I loaded the dishwasher, then sat in the solarium, watching the dusk settle. Reginald sat in the center of the table, his daisy chain lopsided and wilting.
“Your mother was a remarkable woman,” Bill commented. “It sounds as though she turned Dimity’s life around completely.”
“Not completely,” I said, “but enough to get her back on her feet again and moving forward. My mother was a great believer in moving forward, in looking on the bright side of things.” I plucked a red rose from a vase and leaned it between Reginald’s paws. “I suppose…”