He was at school. It was the little girl, and another little girl who’d come to play with her that afternoon. Ah, well, I can’t remember the details now. It’s so long ago. There was a lot of talk about it. There was some as said, you know, as it wasn’t her at all. They thought it was the ayah that had done it, but the ayah loved them and she was very, very upset. She wanted to take them away from the house. She said they weren’t safe there, and all sorts of things like that. But of course the others didn’t believe in it and then this came about and I gather they think it must have been whatever her name was—I can’t remember it now. Anyway, there it was.” “And what happened to this sister, either of General or Lady Ravenscroft?” “Well, I think, you know, as she was taken away by a doctor and put in some place and went back to England, I believe, in the end. I dunno if she went to the same place as before, but she was well looked after somewhere. There was plenty of money, I think, you know. Plenty of money in the husband’s family. Maybe she got all right again. But, well, I haven’t thought of it for years. Not till you came here asking me stories about General and Lady Ravenscroft. I wonder where they are now. They must have retired before now, long ago.” “Well, it was rather sad,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Perhaps you read about it in the papers.” “Read what?” “Well, they bought a house in England and then–” “Ah, now, it’s coming back to me. I remember reading something about that in the paper. Yes, and thinking then that I knew the name Ravenscroft, but I couldn’t quite remember when and how. They fell over a cliff, didn’t they?
Something of that kind.” “Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, “something of that kind.” “Now look here, dearie, it’s so nice to see you, it is. You must let me give you a cup of tea.” “Really,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I don’t need any tea. Really, I don’t want it.” “Of course you want some tea. If you don’t mind now, come into the kitchen, will you? I mean, I spend most of my time there now. It’s easier to get about there. But I take visitors always into this room because I’m proud of my things, you know. Proud of my things and proud of all the children and the others.” “I think,” said Mrs. Oliver, “that people like you must have had a wonderful life with all the children you’ve looked after.” “Yes. I remember when you were a little girl, you liked to listen to the stories I told you. There was one about a tiger, I remember, and one about monkeys–monkeys in a tree.” “Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I remember those. It was a very long time ago.” Her mind swept back to herself, a child of six or seven, walking in button boots that were rather too tight on a road in England, and listening to a story of India and Egypt from an attendant Nanny. And this was Nanny. Mrs. Matcham was Nanny. She looked round the room as she followed her hostess out. At the pictures of girls, of schoolboys, of children and various middle-aged people, all mainly photographed in their best clothes and sent in nice frames or other things because they hadn’t forgotten Nanny. Because of them, probably, Nanny was having a reasonably comfortable old age with money supplied. Mrs. Oliver felt a sudden desire to burst out crying.
This was so unlike her that she was able to stop herself by an effort of will. She followed Mrs. Matcham to the kitchen.
There she produced the offering she had brought.
“Well, I never! A tin of Tophole Thathams tea. Always my favorite. Fancy you remembering. I can hardly ever get it nowadays. And that’s my favorite tea biscuits. Well, you are a one for never forgetting. What was it they used to call you– those two little boys who came to play–one would call you Lady Elephant and the other one called you Lady Swan. The one who called you Lady Elephant used to sit on your back and you went about the floor on all fours and pretended to have a trunk you picked things up with.” “You don’t forget many things, do you, Nanny?” said Mrs.