Oliver.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Matcham. “Elephants don’t forget. That’s the old saying.”
CHAPTER VIII Mrs. Oliver At Work
Mrs. Oliver entered the premises of Williams & Barnet, a well-appointed chemist’s shop also dealing with various cosmetics. She paused by a kind of dumbwaiter containing various types of corn remedies, hesitated by a mountain of rubber sponges, wandered vaguely toward the prescription desk and then came down past the well-displayed aids to beauty as imagined by Elizabeth Arden, Helena Rubinstein, Max Factor and other benefit providers for women’s lives.
She stopped finally near a rather plump girl of thirty-five or so, and inquired for certain lipsticks, then uttered a short cry of surprise.
“Why, Marlene—it is Marlene isn’t it?” “Well, I never. It’s Mrs. Oliver. I am pleased to see you. It’s wonderful, isn’t it? All the girls will be very excited when I tell them that you’ve been in to buy things here.” “No need to tell them,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Oh, now I’m sure they’ll be bringing out their autograph books!” “I’d rather they didn’t,” said Mrs. Oliver. “And how are you, Marlene?” “Oh, getting along, getting along,” said Marlene.
“I didn’t know whether you’d be working here still.” “Well, it’s as good as any other place, I think, and they treat you very well here, you know. I had a rise in salary last year and I’m more or less in charge of this cosmetic counter now.” “And your mother? Is she well?” “Oh, yes. Mum will be pleased to hear I’ve met you.” “Is she still living in her same house down the—the road past the hospital?” “Oh, yes, we’re still there. Dad’s not been so well. He’s been in hospital for a while, but Mum keeps along very well indeed. Oh, she will be pleased to hear I’ve seen you. Are you staying here by any chance?” “Not really,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I’m just passing through, as a matter of fact. I’ve been to see an old friend and I wonder now—” she looked at her wrist watch. “Would your mother be at home now, Marlene? I could just call in and see her.
Have a few words before I have to get on.” “Oh, do do that,” said Marlene. “She’d be ever so pleased.
I’m sorry I can’t leave here and come with you, but I don’t think—well, it wouldn’t be viewed very well. You know, I can’t get off for another hour and a half.” “Oh, well, some other time,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Anyway, I can’t quite remember—was it Number Seventeen or has it got a name?” “It’s called Laurel Cottage.” “Oh, yes, of course. How stupid of me. Well, nice to have seen you.” She hurried out plus one unwanted lipstick in her bag, and drove her car down the main street of Chipping Bartram and turned, after passing a garage and a hospital building, down a rather narrow road which had quite pleasant small houses built on either side of it.
She left the car outside Laurel Cottage and went in. A thin, energetic woman with gray hair, of about fifty years of age, opened the door and displayed instant signs of recognition.
“Why, so it’s you, Mrs. Oliver. Ah, well, now. Not seen you for years and years, I haven’t.” “Oh, it’s a very long time.” “Well, come in then; come in. Can I make you a nice cup of tea?” “I’m afraid not,” said Mrs. Oliver, “because I’ve had tea already with a friend, and I’ve got to get back to London. As it happened, I went into the chemist for something I wanted and I saw Marlene there.” “Yes, she’s got a very good job there. They think a lot of her in that place. They say she’s got a lot of enterprise.” “Well, that’s very nice. And how are you, Mrs. Buckle? You look very well. Hardly older than when I saw you last.” “Oh, I wouldn’t like to say that. Gray hairs, and I’ve lost a lot of weight.” “This seems to be a day when I meet a lot of friends I knew formerly,” said Mrs. Oliver, going into the house and being led into a small, rather overclustered sitting room. “I don’t know if you remember Mrs. Carstairs–Mrs. Julia Carstairs.” “Oh, of course I do. Yes, rather. She must be getting on.” “Oh, yes, she is, really. But we talked over a few old days, you know. In fact, we went as far as talking about that tragedy that occurred. I was in America at the time so I didn’t know much about it. People called Ravenscroft.” “Oh, I remember that well.” “You worked for them, didn’t you, at one time, Mrs. Buckle?” “Yes. I used to go in three mornings a week. Very nice people they were. You know, really military lady and gentleman, as you might say. The old school.” “It was a very tragic thing to happen.” “Yes, it was, indeed.” “Were you still working for them at that time?” “No. As a matter of fact, I’d given up going there. I had my old Aunt Emma come to live with me and she was rather blind and not very well, and I couldn’t really spare the time any more to go out doing things for people. But I’d been with them up to about a month or two before that.” “It seemed such a terrible thing to happen,” said Mrs.