happy morning, thinking about
the walk she would have with Tess, the Sussex
spaniel, who was waiting patiently in the car. Maybe
they would drive down to Bosham and walk by the
sea, or go inland, perhaps . . .
'Lucy, my dear, how are you?' Someone bent over
her, swinging between her and the window, and she
gave a tiny cry of alarm – quickly stifled.
'Jennifer! How nice to see you. No, of course you
didn't startle me. Not really. I was miles away, that's
all.'
'You looked it. Nobody with you?' Jennifer Bryce,
who had once taught Jonah at school, indicated the
empty chair. 'May I join you?'
'Of course.' Lucy's smile hid her sense of
disappointment: her lovely moment of peace was
shattered. Now she must be polite, answer
Jennifer's questions. Quite incapable of snubbing
her or simply making some excuse to hurry away,
she sat quite still as the older woman ordered
coffee, refused cake, and then turned her large,
pale, inquisitive eyes on Lucy. It seemed to her as if
Jennifer was reading her expression eagerly, checking
it out for weakness or despair. Deliberately Lucy
schooled her face into a mask of polite nothingness,
remembering how patiently and unwaveringly
Jonah had disliked Jennifer Bryce through five
long years of geography classes.
'And how is poor Jerry?' Her voice was thick with
a treacly sympathy: a special hushed voice. 'The last
time I saw you – goodness, it must be months ago
– he'd fractured his back again and had been
re-admitted to hospital.'
'It's all to do with this ghastly lupus. Poor Jerry.
He's been on so much medication – steroids,
warfarin, morphine, you name it – and he reacts so
badly to some of them. Then, when he has to come
off them, he has terrible withdrawal symptoms.'
Lucy tried to speak lightly, unable to bring herself
to describe to this inquisitive woman the real
humiliation and anguish of Jerry's ongoing pain –
the swelling joints, constant fatigue, ulcers and the
terrible breathlessness – nor the agony of watching
someone she loved suffering so bravely.
'However do you manage, Lucy?'
Before she could answer, the waitress arrived
and Jennifer leaned back in her chair to allow
her coffee to be placed in front of her. Her square
ugly hands opened her bag and reached for her
tube of sweeteners. She dripped one into the liquid
and began to stir the coffee whilst Lucy watched
her.
However do I manage? she asked herself silently.
How do I manage when I lie beside Jerry at night
and I wake with a shock because quite suddenly he
stops breathing and begins to gasp wildly for air?
And each time I think, Is this it? Sleep apnoea, they
call it. It's frightening and exhausting. His lungs
are shrinking. We hold on tightly to each other and
make silly jokes. 'You're through, Commander Air.'
However do I manage? How does he?
'I'm not sure, to tell you the truth,' she said
aloud. 'How does anyone?' She suddenly saw
Jennifer as a gaping, ghoulish tourist, visiting her
life with Jerry, staring in at it with avid interest but
no true wish to understand. This image gave Lucy
the courage to resist her. 'Look, Tess is in the car
and I've already been far too long. It's lovely to see
you but I must dash.'
'Oh, well, if you must . . .'
Lucy willed down guilt – her natural response
to someone's disappointment or reproach – and
smiled firmly.
'I really must. Poor old Tess will be crossing her
legs.'
And now, she told herself as she went out into St
Martin's Street and headed for the car park, I
shan't be able to have a lovely browse in Between
the Lines, just in case she comes out and sees me.
And I wanted to get some cards and some candles.
Damn, damn, damn.
Tess was waiting, nose against the glass, her
tail wagging, and Lucy couldn't resist opening the
hatch for a moment and burying her face against
the soft warm dome of her head.
'What should I do without you, Tesskins?' she
murmured. 'Where shall we go?'
Briefly she felt that she was in flight: from
Jennifer, from her own
the walk she would have with Tess, the Sussex
spaniel, who was waiting patiently in the car. Maybe
they would drive down to Bosham and walk by the
sea, or go inland, perhaps . . .
'Lucy, my dear, how are you?' Someone bent over
her, swinging between her and the window, and she
gave a tiny cry of alarm – quickly stifled.
'Jennifer! How nice to see you. No, of course you
didn't startle me. Not really. I was miles away, that's
all.'
'You looked it. Nobody with you?' Jennifer Bryce,
who had once taught Jonah at school, indicated the
empty chair. 'May I join you?'
'Of course.' Lucy's smile hid her sense of
disappointment: her lovely moment of peace was
shattered. Now she must be polite, answer
Jennifer's questions. Quite incapable of snubbing
her or simply making some excuse to hurry away,
she sat quite still as the older woman ordered
coffee, refused cake, and then turned her large,
pale, inquisitive eyes on Lucy. It seemed to her as if
Jennifer was reading her expression eagerly, checking
it out for weakness or despair. Deliberately Lucy
schooled her face into a mask of polite nothingness,
remembering how patiently and unwaveringly
Jonah had disliked Jennifer Bryce through five
long years of geography classes.
'And how is poor Jerry?' Her voice was thick with
a treacly sympathy: a special hushed voice. 'The last
time I saw you – goodness, it must be months ago
– he'd fractured his back again and had been
re-admitted to hospital.'
'It's all to do with this ghastly lupus. Poor Jerry.
He's been on so much medication – steroids,
warfarin, morphine, you name it – and he reacts so
badly to some of them. Then, when he has to come
off them, he has terrible withdrawal symptoms.'
Lucy tried to speak lightly, unable to bring herself
to describe to this inquisitive woman the real
humiliation and anguish of Jerry's ongoing pain –
the swelling joints, constant fatigue, ulcers and the
terrible breathlessness – nor the agony of watching
someone she loved suffering so bravely.
'However do you manage, Lucy?'
Before she could answer, the waitress arrived
and Jennifer leaned back in her chair to allow
her coffee to be placed in front of her. Her square
ugly hands opened her bag and reached for her
tube of sweeteners. She dripped one into the liquid
and began to stir the coffee whilst Lucy watched
her.
However do I manage? she asked herself silently.
How do I manage when I lie beside Jerry at night
and I wake with a shock because quite suddenly he
stops breathing and begins to gasp wildly for air?
And each time I think, Is this it? Sleep apnoea, they
call it. It's frightening and exhausting. His lungs
are shrinking. We hold on tightly to each other and
make silly jokes. 'You're through, Commander Air.'
However do I manage? How does he?
'I'm not sure, to tell you the truth,' she said
aloud. 'How does anyone?' She suddenly saw
Jennifer as a gaping, ghoulish tourist, visiting her
life with Jerry, staring in at it with avid interest but
no true wish to understand. This image gave Lucy
the courage to resist her. 'Look, Tess is in the car
and I've already been far too long. It's lovely to see
you but I must dash.'
'Oh, well, if you must . . .'
Lucy willed down guilt – her natural response
to someone's disappointment or reproach – and
smiled firmly.
'I really must. Poor old Tess will be crossing her
legs.'
And now, she told herself as she went out into St
Martin's Street and headed for the car park, I
shan't be able to have a lovely browse in Between
the Lines, just in case she comes out and sees me.
And I wanted to get some cards and some candles.
Damn, damn, damn.
Tess was waiting, nose against the glass, her
tail wagging, and Lucy couldn't resist opening the
hatch for a moment and burying her face against
the soft warm dome of her head.
'What should I do without you, Tesskins?' she
murmured. 'Where shall we go?'
Briefly she felt that she was in flight: from
Jennifer, from her own
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