Margaret Harrison a Harwood Lathom
15, Whittington Terrace, Bayswater
20.10.29
¡Oh, Petra, querida mía, mi propia querida al fin!
When I heard your voice on the phone this morning, telling me what had happened, I didn’t know how to believe it. It all seemed so strange. And when I hung the receiver up, I had to pinch myself to be sure it wasn’t a dream. I went upstairs, and there was the girl in her dressing-gown on the landing. She must have been hanging over the stairs, for she said, “Oh, ma’am. Whatever’s happened? I heard the telephone a-ringing and looked out and heard you talking. Has there been an accident, ma’am?” I said, “Yes; a dreadful accident. Mr. Harrison’s dead.” She stared at me, and I said, “He’s poisoned himself with eating some of those nasty toadstools.” She began to cry, “I knew he would! Oh, ma’am, what an awful thing. Such a nice gentleman as he was.” That seemed to make it real, somehow. “A nice gentleman”—well, she wasn’t married to him. She couldn’t know how I was feeling. That was just as well, wasn’t it, Petra? She hung about and brought me some tea, sniffing and sobbing over it. I couldn’t say anything, but that was all right. She thought I was stunned with grief, I suppose.