Isobel on the Way to the Corner Shop by Amy Witting Page A

the wide mouth untouched. She had about her an air of privilege which she owed as much to her casual manner as to her expensive silk shirt and loose-fitting but well-cut suit of burgundy red wool. Her handbag and her low heeled shoes were made from the skin of a reptile. She wore wealth as carelessly as she wore age.
    ‘Hullo. I’m Rose Delaney and I’ve come to be your friend in need. I’ve heard you could use one. What can I do for you?’
    She took a small notebook and a slender silver pencil out of the reptilian handbag and sat waiting.
    ‘It’s a lot to ask.’
    ‘It’s what I’m here for. Speak up.’
    ‘Well, I need someone to pack my belongings and close my room for me. The rent’s paid to the end of the week. I don’t think they’ll worry about short notice.’
    ‘Address?’
    She wrote down the stark address without raising her eyebrows.
    ‘Got any idea how much stuff you have to move? And how much luggage do you have?’
    ‘The things that really matter are my typewriter, my folders, any pages with writing on them, my books. Oh, and a shoebox with my embroidery. And my topcoat and my suit. They’re hanging in the corner behind the curtain.’
    Thank Heaven she had emptied that bucket. How close she had come to utter degradation!
    She had, on the contrary, achieved esteem. Mrs Delaney had detected the presence of the Muse, and was smiling as she nodded in understanding.
    ‘What about luggage?’
    ‘A suitcase and a duffle bag. It won’t be enough. I can buy something. I do have some savings. If you could go to the bank for me. I have forty pounds.’
    ‘We’ll make the money go as far as we can. There’ll be things to buy if you go into the sanatorium, which looks likely.’
    ‘Do I have any choice about this? I mean, nobody’s asked me.’
    Mrs Delaney considered this.
    ‘In theory I suppose you have, but in practice, no. You would have to prove that you were living in conditions that didn’t endanger others, I think. There would be so many difficulties that in the long run you would have to agree. But they are being a bit highhanded, I suppose.’
    ‘It would be nice sometimes to be included in the conversation. I feel like a parcel being handed around.’
    Mrs Delaney laughed.
    ‘You’re not the only one. I always feel like that if I’m unlucky enough to fall into their hands, believe me. Is there anything from the room you want straight away?’
    ‘Some knickers and my nightdress, please. And, if you wouldn’t mind, there are three paperback books of poetry, Auden and Donne and Gerard Manley Hopkins.’
    ‘You’re just like my daughter Sara. She loves poetry too. I’ll get them for you. Now you’ll have to give me a letter of authority to show to the manager. I didn’t think of that. Um. I’ll go and get some notepaper from the desk. I’ll probably have to buy an old tin trunk or some such, for storage. I’ll look around the secondhand shops if I can’t scrounge one somewhere. I’ll scrounge what I can.’
    At the prospect of scrounging she brightened and looked more juvenile than ever.
    She added as an afterthought, ‘You don’t mind, do you? You don’t object to taking handouts?’
    ‘Am I in a position to mind?’ asked Isobel, but she was grateful for the courtesy.
    ‘Well, I’ll fetch the notepaper, you can give me the authority, and we’ll be in business.’
    After her departure, Isobel thought how painful this conversation might have been, and how comfortable she had found it. What a rare talent, to give charity without giving offence.
    Mrs Delaney returned with a writing pad of small pages bearing the printed name and address of Saint Ursula’s Hospital. Isobel wrote to her dictation:
    I give authority to the bearer Mrs Rose Delaney to remove my possessions from Room 14B and to bring them to me at the above address.
    Isobel Callaghan
    ‘And I’ll want your key, of course.’
    Isobel handed it over, knowing for certain now that she would never see the