Last Voyage of the Valentina(7)

“Mother…” Thomas began weakly, but Margo stalked past him.

“Lavender, it’s jolly late. Wouldn’t you be happier in bed?” She took the older woman by the elbow and began to usher her out of the room.

“Not if there’s a party. I don’t like to miss a good party.” She resisted the attempts to shift her and hobbled into the room. Thomas dithered, puffing on his cigar while Margo stood, hands on hips, shaking her head in disapproval.

Lavender sat down on the upright reading chair that Thomas used for browsing through the Sunday papers. It was large and comfortable and positioned under a bright standing lamp. “Well, is no one going to offer me a drink?” she barked.

“What about a brandy?” suggested Margo, leaving her husband hovering in the middle of the room and making her way to the drinks table.

“Goodness, no. It’s a party. A Sticky Green would hit the spot. What do you think?” She turned to Alba. “A Sticky Green!” Her cheeks glowed pink.

“What’s a Sticky Green?”

“Crème de Menthe,” muttered Thomas, frowning.

“A very common drink,” Margo huffed, and poured the old lady a brandy.

Alba, although vaguely amused by her grandmother, was anxious to tell her father about the picture. The wine had made her head light and suitably numbed her nerves. She was ready to face them, to demand the truth, and she expected to be indulged. Glancing at the large silver clock on the mantelpiece she realized that she didn’t have much time before her father and the Buffalo would wish to retire to bed.

“How long are you staying?” she asked her grandmother, not bothering to disguise her impatience.

“And who are you again?” was the icy response.

“Alba, Mother!” interjected Thomas in exasperation. Margo handed Lavender the brandy and returned to her own chair and her own drink. One of her little dogs trotted in and jumped onto her knee, where she stroked him with her large, capable hands. Lavender leaned toward Alba.

“They think I’m on my last legs, you see, so they’ve brought me home.” She heaved a sigh, contemplating The End. “This is the final station. I’ll go soon and they’ll bury me next to Hubert. Never thought I’d grow old. One never does. Nothing terribly wrong with me, though. My mind’s going a bit, but apart from that there’s fight in the old girl yet!” She knocked back her brandy. She suddenly looked shrunken and sad. “This room used to buzz with parties when Hubert and I were young. Used to fill it with friends. Of course, in those days, one had plenty of friends. They’re all dead now, or too old. No energy left for parties. When one is young one fully expects to live forever. One imagines one can conquer everything, but one cannot conquer the Grim Reaper. No, he comes and takes us all, kings and tramps alike. Still, we all go when our time is up, don’t we? Every dog has his day, Hubert used to say, and I’ve had mine. Are you married? What was your name?”

“Alba.” Alba stifled a yawn. It was sometimes hard to understand what her grandmother said; her mouth seemed to contain the entire fruit bowl, never mind the odd plum. She sounded like a grand old duchess from another century.

“A woman is nothing without a man by her side. Nothing without children. One gains a certain wisdom when one is old. I am old and wise and thankfully my children will live on after I am gone. There’s a great sense of satisfaction in that, which one can only appreciate when one is old.”

“One must also get one’s beauty sleep, don’t you think?” said Alba, draining her glass.

“Quite, my girl, quite. Though at my great age I don’t see much point in sleeping. After all, it won’t be long before I’m sleeping for eternity and goodness, I’ll grow bored of that. Too much sleep is a bad thing. Good gracious, is that the time?” She sat up abruptly, fixing her eyes on the clock. “I might not wish to sleep but my body’s a creature of habit and I no longer have the strength to fight it. It was a pleasure,” she added, extending her hand to Alba.

“I’m your granddaughter,” Alba reminded her, not unkindly but her tone was impatient.

“Good gracious, are you? You don’t look like one of us at all. Arbuckles are all fair and you’re very dark and foreign-looking, aren’t you.” Once again she peered down her nose.

“My mother was Italian,” she reminded her grandmother, and to her horror, her voice came out high-pitched and emotional. She looked up at her father, who remained in the middle of the room, puffing madly, his face flushed. The Buffalo showed nothing of her true feelings and stood up to escort her mother-in-law out of the room.