the leaf.
Chapter 6
Silvana clutched a child’s exercise book with a flower motif against her breast. ‘You think I am foolish,’ she said.
He thought that the way she had pulled her auburn hair back into a ponytail suited her extremely well, and he thought she was young, and he thought she was very kind to be visiting him in hospital, and kinder still to have driven up his car and brought his suitcase all the way into the room where he now lay. ‘Not at all. I was willing to let you become my teacher, remember?’
‘You hadn’t met me.’ She looked at him appraisingly. ‘You don’t seem the type who’d go in for Bach Flowers therapy.’
‘No. I am not. But it was either that or yoga or religion. And I am not flexible enough for the other two. But thank you for the suitcase. Where did you get my car keys?’
‘From the doctor. He came down with them and asked me to drive it up, so you could have your suitcase too. Wasn’t that kind of him?’
‘It was kind of you,’ Blume conceded.
‘The keys are in your suitcase now. Your car is almost as dilapidated as my father’s Fiat.’
‘I like my car.’
‘It does not look loved.’
‘It’s complicated,’ said Blume. ‘We have had a long-term relationship.’
Silvana laid the exercise book at the foot of the bed, then made to sit down next to it. ‘Do you mind?’
Blume magnanimously waved at his own feet, and she sat down on the bed, ignoring the chair next to him.
‘I’m not sure about remembering how to love,’ said Blume as he felt the toes of his left foot sink almost imperceptibly a millimetre beneath the weight of her leg. She probably did not even realize that was his foot down there. ‘More remembering how to talk, drive, and tie my shoelaces.’ Now he was being self-pitying. And confessional. And gruffly facetious. It was impossible to talk to a woman so young and . . .
Silvana blushed, leaned forward, and laid her hand on his knee for a moment. ‘You poor man. Why is no one visiting you?’ As she sat back, his foot beneath the blankets became a little more pleasantly trapped beneath her weight.
‘You are,’ he gave her leg a gentle nudge with his foot as he said ‘you’.
‘I mean others. Even a colleague from work?’
‘I would have to tell them first. Anyhow, I’ll be out the day after tomorrow.’
‘We’ll ask Doctor Bernardini if it’s OK for you to take an infusion of agrimony and perhaps some crab apple. I am sure he’ll say yes. I can make them up for you.’
‘What do they do?’
‘Agrimony is a lovely yellow flower. Its yellow is . . . oh, it’s difficult to describe the exact hue and tone, delicate, pale, yet deep and strong and pronounced. Yellow like . . .’
‘A banana?’ offered Blume.
She gave him an absent-minded smile, as if she had hardly heard him, her mind being too busy searching for a suitable simile. Eventually she smiled, and said, ‘The sun: early morning in the winter. Yes, that’s it.’
Blume playfully flexed his toes. She stayed where she was.
‘It cures mental torment and it’s especially good for people who like to put a brave face on it, but are suffering inside,’ said Silvana.
‘I’m not putting a brave face on it.’
‘Oh, but you’re suffering inside! And yet, I can see you don’t really believe in any of this.’
‘Any of what?’
‘Herbs, Bach Flowers, star signs, the essential goodness of people.’
Blume shook his head in exaggerated weariness. ‘I am now of an age where everything confirms my prejudices.’
‘I might surprise you.’
Silvana, he decided, would be lovely just to watch. Ideally, from behind a pane of perfectly clear and completely soundproof glass, because when it came to conversation, he felt his insides cringe in embarrassment. Then, again, no one else was there. No one would ever see him pretending to take her seriously, nodding at her wise little pronouncements, looking impressed at her poetic flourishes. He might
Chapter 6
Silvana clutched a child’s exercise book with a flower motif against her breast. ‘You think I am foolish,’ she said.
He thought that the way she had pulled her auburn hair back into a ponytail suited her extremely well, and he thought she was young, and he thought she was very kind to be visiting him in hospital, and kinder still to have driven up his car and brought his suitcase all the way into the room where he now lay. ‘Not at all. I was willing to let you become my teacher, remember?’
‘You hadn’t met me.’ She looked at him appraisingly. ‘You don’t seem the type who’d go in for Bach Flowers therapy.’
‘No. I am not. But it was either that or yoga or religion. And I am not flexible enough for the other two. But thank you for the suitcase. Where did you get my car keys?’
‘From the doctor. He came down with them and asked me to drive it up, so you could have your suitcase too. Wasn’t that kind of him?’
‘It was kind of you,’ Blume conceded.
‘The keys are in your suitcase now. Your car is almost as dilapidated as my father’s Fiat.’
‘I like my car.’
‘It does not look loved.’
‘It’s complicated,’ said Blume. ‘We have had a long-term relationship.’
Silvana laid the exercise book at the foot of the bed, then made to sit down next to it. ‘Do you mind?’
Blume magnanimously waved at his own feet, and she sat down on the bed, ignoring the chair next to him.
‘I’m not sure about remembering how to love,’ said Blume as he felt the toes of his left foot sink almost imperceptibly a millimetre beneath the weight of her leg. She probably did not even realize that was his foot down there. ‘More remembering how to talk, drive, and tie my shoelaces.’ Now he was being self-pitying. And confessional. And gruffly facetious. It was impossible to talk to a woman so young and . . .
Silvana blushed, leaned forward, and laid her hand on his knee for a moment. ‘You poor man. Why is no one visiting you?’ As she sat back, his foot beneath the blankets became a little more pleasantly trapped beneath her weight.
‘You are,’ he gave her leg a gentle nudge with his foot as he said ‘you’.
‘I mean others. Even a colleague from work?’
‘I would have to tell them first. Anyhow, I’ll be out the day after tomorrow.’
‘We’ll ask Doctor Bernardini if it’s OK for you to take an infusion of agrimony and perhaps some crab apple. I am sure he’ll say yes. I can make them up for you.’
‘What do they do?’
‘Agrimony is a lovely yellow flower. Its yellow is . . . oh, it’s difficult to describe the exact hue and tone, delicate, pale, yet deep and strong and pronounced. Yellow like . . .’
‘A banana?’ offered Blume.
She gave him an absent-minded smile, as if she had hardly heard him, her mind being too busy searching for a suitable simile. Eventually she smiled, and said, ‘The sun: early morning in the winter. Yes, that’s it.’
Blume playfully flexed his toes. She stayed where she was.
‘It cures mental torment and it’s especially good for people who like to put a brave face on it, but are suffering inside,’ said Silvana.
‘I’m not putting a brave face on it.’
‘Oh, but you’re suffering inside! And yet, I can see you don’t really believe in any of this.’
‘Any of what?’
‘Herbs, Bach Flowers, star signs, the essential goodness of people.’
Blume shook his head in exaggerated weariness. ‘I am now of an age where everything confirms my prejudices.’
‘I might surprise you.’
Silvana, he decided, would be lovely just to watch. Ideally, from behind a pane of perfectly clear and completely soundproof glass, because when it came to conversation, he felt his insides cringe in embarrassment. Then, again, no one else was there. No one would ever see him pretending to take her seriously, nodding at her wise little pronouncements, looking impressed at her poetic flourishes. He might
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