The Last Collection
Irene had been waiting for her sister -in-law to leave so that she could write to her husband. She had a difficult letter to write, and she did not want Beryl there to distract her. Beryl, however, was unwilling to leave until the letter had been written.
“I’ve been waiting for you to write it so that I can post it for you on my way home,” she said.
“I can go out and post it myself,” said Irene. “There’s a letterbox just round the corner.”
“It’s no trouble to me,” Beryl insisted.
Irene knew that she could not object without giving her further cause for complaint. To make things worse, she could no longer delay writing the letter without missing the last collection. Reluctantly, she sat down at the table to write it in Beryl’s presence.
She could not make up her mind how to begin. There were a number of things she had to say to her husband, and she was unable to organise them in her mind. She thought about the opening whilst she was writing her address and the date at the top of the first sheet of paper. Then she wrote “Darling.” Then she paused.
In order to give herself a little longer to think about it, she turned to addressing the envelope. With that finished, she could put off writing the opening no longer. She began, hesitantly:
“I hope you won’t be angry that I haven’t written before. I’ve been meaning to write to you, but I’ve been so busy that I haven’t been able to get on with it. Really, you mustn’t think that I’ve just not bothered. Beryl will probably say I just didn’t bother, but it was her that should have written to you in the first place.”
She hunched herself over the letter, fearing that her sister-in-law might come and stand behind her to read over her shoulder. She was relieved when Beryl sat down on the settee with a woman’s magazine. She tried to concentrate upon the letter, but at the end of each sentence found it difficult to decide upon the next one. She felt distinctly resentful towards her sister-in-law, whose earlier reproaches remained on her mind.
“I know she’s upset, and it’s not that I wouldn’t help her, but she foisted the job onto me, just because she didn’t have the address, and now she’s come round accusing me of not putting myself out, but it’ s not true!”
She did not like what she had written, and wondered whether she should alter it, or even begin afresh; but she could not see how she could improve it. She did not like writing letters at the best of times.
“I didn’t want to spoil your holiday. I know how much you’ve been looking forward to it. I know you think I didn’t want you to go away, but it’s not true. I’m not too mean to spend money on a holiday. You need to have a holiday to forget about work. It doesn’t matter about me. You’re entitled to spend your money as you want to.”
As she wrote, she felt the letter taking a course of its own, and she did not resist it. She was writing more quickly now, though she was still uneasy about it. She had to get the letter finished quickly. Then she would not have to worry about it any more.
“I’d like to go on holiday too when we’re better off. It’s only that we need to save the money at the moment. When we get a car it will be different. We can go touring in Wales or Scotland. That would be much nicer than staying with friends.”
She had forgotten about Beryl, but was uncomfortably aware that she had little time left before the collection was due. She therefore went on with it hastily, writing each sentence as it came to mind.
“Not that there is anything wrong with staying with Michael. I’m not saying there is. I don’t want you to think I’m running him down. There’s nothing I’d like better than to be there with you. I don’t like to be parted from you like this. I miss you ever so much. It’s not as though I had children to look after. I’ll be ever so happy when I see you again.”
She was suddenly distracted by Beryl, who made a movement on the settee, and said “Haven’t you finished yet? You’re taking a long time.”
“I’m just finishing it now,” said Irene, giving her as little attention as possible.
She wanted to go on writing, for she was sure that there were still a number of things she had to say to him; but they were very confused, and she hesitated to continue. Beryl had obstructed her. She no longer found the letter absorbing. She could not even think of an appropriate ending. Impatiently, she wrote: “Love, Irene.”
There! It was finished. She would not have to worry about it any more. It did not matter if it was not a very good letter. She had finished it in time for the last collection. She folded it. When she looked up at Beryl she became aware that something was wrong.
At first it was only a vague feeling, and she did not know the cause of it. As it became more intense, she was astonished to realise what had happened.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Oh, dear!”
“What’s the matter?” asked Beryl.
Irene was speechless. She did not know what to do. She could not explain it to Beryl, for fear of more reprehension. In writing the letter she had somehow forgotten her purpose. She had failed to mention the most important thing of all.
“I can’t send it,” she said. “I’ll have to start it again.”
“Oh, really: “ said Beryl. “What’s the matter now? I knew I shouldn’t have left it to you. Look at the time!”
“I’ll have to send a telegram,” said Irene, indecisively.
“I don’t see why you couldn’t have done that in the first place! It’s only because you’re so mean! I should have sent one myself. I knew I couldn’t trust you to do it. You didn’t even buy the right paper!”
“You mind your own business!” said Irene, bitterly. “I’m not having you tell me what to do! Who do you think you are?”
She was on the point of reconciling herself to sending a telegram when she had an inspiration. Had it not been for Beryl’ s reproachful manner, she might even then have decided upon a telegram. As it was, she disregarded Beryl for a moment, opened the letter, and wrote at the end of it:
“P.S. Your mother died yesterday. Beryl has arranged everything.
The funeral is Tuesday afternoon.”
To the astonishment of her sister-in-law, who had come over to the table, she hastily folded the letter again.
“It’s all very well for you to say send a telegram,” she said. “I notice you didn’t offer to pay for it.”
Even so, it was not without misgivings that she sealed the envelope.
Page(s) 51-53
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