55. ALL THINGS MUST PASS

More years have passed, and Ursula has heartbreaking news.

“It was fun having a toy boy,” Ursula told Primrose, referring to her years with Ian. She was at Brumpton General Hospital by her daughter’s bedside, “you’ll have to try it one day!”

“You know I won’t be around to do that, mum,” sighed Primrose, “but I’m happy for you if you’re happy.”

“Come off it, darling, they can work miracles these days!” Ursula told her, “they’ll have you back on your feet and fighting fit sooner than you can say ketchup!”

“And why would I want to say ketchup, mum?” asked Primrose.

“You always liked it, darling,” murmured Ursula, but despite every effort to stop it there was a tear in one eye and it threatened to run down her face. “Remember how, when you were little, you tried to put some on an ice-cream?”

“Have you and your detective definitely finished, then?” asked Primrose, changing the subject.

“It was never going to be a permanent thing, though it did last five plus years,” Ursula reminded her, “and while it lasted it was fun. That end of the century party where we all dressed up as millennium bugs was unforgettable.”

The years had rolled on since the disastrous premiere of the film of her book, not that the public had been quite as scathing as the critics. But after a short while it had disappeared out of sight and not even made it to DVD, so it never ended up in the bargain bin at a bargain shop. But all good things must end, they say, and even though she was still friends with Ian Brougham, he had stopped staying for the night once a week or so and was mostly only ever at the end of a phone line when they wanted to exchange thoughts. As a romance it was over, and the positive was the undoubted fact that she was in her eighties and glad of the respite.

“You will help Graham if he needs it?” asked Primrose, and her voice was weaker than Ursula had ever known it. She looked at the woman. In her sixties, only just, and dying. It was so wrong, so very wrong.

“You’ll be able to do that yourself, darling, when you’re better,” assured Ursula.

But she knew that she was lying. Primrose had been attacked by a particular cruel form of cancer and despite surgery and chemotherapy it had returned with a viciousness that beggared belief. Ursula knew in her heart that her daughter was dying. And the doctors, usually optimistic, had intimated that it might be soon.

“I’m going home tomorrow, then we’ll see,” she murmured.

“I’ll put the flags out,” smiled Ursula, “and we’ll dance the night away!”

But she never did get to put any flags out or do any dancing because, for Primrose, tomorrow never came.

When they told Ursula early next morning, by telephone, that her daughter had passed away quietly in the night Ursula couldn’t cry. She was angry, but tears would have to wait until she’d got that anger out of her system.

She called on Graham, but he’d already gone to Brumpton on his own, to say his goodbyes to a wife he’d cherished over many years. David was there, mute, unsure of what to say and equally struck by grief. Ursula didn’t stay long. She had goodbyes of her own to say.

After visiting the mortuary in Brumpton, and saying a heartfelt goodbye to her lovely daughter, she returned home and, on her own, she telephoned Greendale on a number she’d barely used in decades, though over those same decades he’d fortunately kept the same number. After all, Greendale was the girl’s father and if she was going to weep in front of anyone it should be in front of him.

“Your daughter passed away,” she told him briefly. She didn’t want to be hurtful, but what else could her broken heart say?

“I know,” he said.

“You do?”

“Of course. I’m her father, aren’t I?”

“Why didn’t you say you knew?”

“I considered you had enough on your plate without being bothered by me,” he replied, and she knew that was the way he was.

“I’m going to the pub,” she said, and hung up.

And so she did the least Ursula-ish thing she’d ever done and went to the Crown and Anchor intending to drown her sorrows. It was quiet, still being short of noon, and she was grateful for that quietness. The last thing she wanted was to be surrounded by friends and acquaintances who said how sorry they were to hear of her loss. So she sat on a high stool at the bar and stared at the rows of bottles on the shelves opposite.

“All things must pass,” said a creaking voice in her ear.

She turned round slowly, for fear of painful twinges from her hip if she spun like a refugee from youth. Who would say such a thing? Who could offer philosophy of sorts at a time like this?

“Who are you?” she asked of the elderly lady, certainly older than her own eighty years, who stood just behind her with a sprightly look on her ancient face.

“You know me, dearie,” came the reply, “for you came to me for help once upon a time. Entwhistle’s the name: Griselda Entwhistle.”

“Oh, the tonic … for Greendale?” she asked.

“The same,” nodded the ancient woman, “and don’t forget that all things must pass. Sorrow reigns supreme for a time, and then it mellows to become fond memories and then moves on to odd moments, and then you learn to smile again...”

“Thank you,” murmured Ursula, less irritated than she thought she might have been, “now if you’ll excuse me...”

“You’re expecting company?”

“No. I just want to be alone.”

“Ah, but company will come! I’ll bid you farewell, then. And don’t forget: all things must pass.” And with those words still hanging in the air the ancient Griselda Entwhistle shuffled off to a seat in a far corner of the lounge and sat down.

And then, with the barman polishing glasses at the far end of the bar and the old crone sitting as far from her part of the room as it seemed she could get, Ursula was alone.

And then when she was alone she realised in reality that was the very last thing that she wanted. Solitude concentrated her sorrow. It made her think of a multitude of things she might have told her daughter, how she’d always treasured every moment of her precious life, how grateful she was for the hours spent typing her ridiculous novel for publication, how sorry she was that the foul disease had found her… Being alone was no help at all.

“Then I’d better join her mother,” said a voice she had recognised ages ago, and had loved when a vicious war had started killing the youth of Europe for the second time in a blighted century.

“I needed to sign some papers...” she said, “It’s Greendale, isn’t it?”

“You said you’d go to the pub,” he said.

“It’s only right. Primrose’s father at the end as he was at the beginning,” she confirmed.

And yes, he was … he was Primrose’s father...”

She looked at him, so old now, almost shrivelled, not the young man with a bashful smile and active loins. But she was old too, old and not the pretty girl she’d been, and she had been pretty, she had photographs to prove it, photographs best not looked at too often when she was near a mirror!

“Do you remember how I loved you then,” she whispered, “when the war was raging and we deliberately created our Primrose out of wedlock, before you went to fight the foe? And came back broken… I loved you so much, and I do believe, it must be true, I almost think I love you again now at this sad ending of things… Thank-you for coming.”

“Of course I came.”

There was a pause.

“Primrose should have known...”

“What?

Another pause.

“How much her mother loved her father.”

A final pause.

“And her father loved her mother.”

© Peter Rogerson 03.09.18