sharing a house with a man. âIâve never remarried,â she would state proudly to uninterested bus queues, post office counter staff, and anyone else whoâd listen, when Heather was a little girl. âIt wouldnât be right,â meaning it wouldnât be convenient, unconsciously way ahead of her time in deciding men were nuisances round the house, making the lavatories smell, folding the newspapers the wrong way and polishing their shoes with the newly-washed dusters.
âAnd if he
did
get better, who is there to look after him?â Delia went on. âI canât, Iâve done my best, visiting him on and off, and bringing him pies and casseroles. The best I could do was get him into this clinic.â She looked at Heather, appealingly. âItâs what your father would have wanted for him, Iâm sure.â
Kate, feeling there was an issue here worth wrestling with, couldnât let it go. âHave I got this right? You mean heâs going to die because heâd be a problem if he lived? And because heâs old heâs not allowed to make his own decisions about treatment? Is that it?â
Delia thought for a moment and then squared up to Kate with the defiance of long experience, âYes, if you put it that way, thatâs about the size of it. And you know, one day youâll be saying all this about me. I shanât mind.â A note of challenge was rising in her voice.
âUncle Edward might though,â Suzy said quietly.
Heather, rather hot from her shower, opened her bedroom window wide to the late night sounds and the soft cool air. Out on the river, ducks and moorhens scuttled, splashed and squawked gently, settling and roosting. âStay safe,â she whispered to them, fearful of prowling foxes and hungry water rats stealthily creeping up on the floating nests, vulnerable among the reeds and bank-grasses.
âWhat are you gazing at out there?â Tom asked, coming quietly into the room. She listened to him fussing about behind her, unpacking his ever-present flight bag. It occurred to Heather that he had clothes that seemed to be permanently in transit, either between continents or between the bag and the washing machine. At least the clothes didnât get jet-lag, she thought, remembering Tom on his last trip home: he had decided it was high noon at 3 a.m., just the moment for cooking a much-missed full English breakfast, complete with toast burnt enough to set off the smoke alarms. She wondered if she should worry that, for her, Tom occasionally resembled a rather difficult house guest. Perhaps, though, it was a good sign that, so far, she wanted to resist that feeling. The thought of what it would have been like still being married to Iain crossed her mind. Presumably he had, as he had then, an office wherever he was living, so that, in a sense, heâd always be âhomeâ. Sheâd never get to sleep blissfully alone, never have to deal completely by herself with frozen pipes, blocked drains, garage mechanics who tried to con her that it would cost her at least
this
much for new brake pads. How peculiarly alien such cramped togetherness would seem.
âIâm not really looking, just listening,â she told Tom. âI can hear family life out on the river â the wildfowl kind, not human, though somehow it doesnât sound that much different. Parents worrying about their childrenâs safety, the getting comfortable for a peaceful night, if theyâre lucky.â
Tom went into the bathroom to make space on the shelves for the contents of his sponge bag. Mrs Gibson always reshuffled everything during his absences, spreading toiletries over the shelf-space as if he was unlikely ever to return. There followed the sounds of brushing teeth, the downpour of the shower and the loo flushing, and still Heather leaned on the window frame, inhaling honeysuckle scent. Lucky plant, she thought, to be blessed with
âAnd if he
did
get better, who is there to look after him?â Delia went on. âI canât, Iâve done my best, visiting him on and off, and bringing him pies and casseroles. The best I could do was get him into this clinic.â She looked at Heather, appealingly. âItâs what your father would have wanted for him, Iâm sure.â
Kate, feeling there was an issue here worth wrestling with, couldnât let it go. âHave I got this right? You mean heâs going to die because heâd be a problem if he lived? And because heâs old heâs not allowed to make his own decisions about treatment? Is that it?â
Delia thought for a moment and then squared up to Kate with the defiance of long experience, âYes, if you put it that way, thatâs about the size of it. And you know, one day youâll be saying all this about me. I shanât mind.â A note of challenge was rising in her voice.
âUncle Edward might though,â Suzy said quietly.
Heather, rather hot from her shower, opened her bedroom window wide to the late night sounds and the soft cool air. Out on the river, ducks and moorhens scuttled, splashed and squawked gently, settling and roosting. âStay safe,â she whispered to them, fearful of prowling foxes and hungry water rats stealthily creeping up on the floating nests, vulnerable among the reeds and bank-grasses.
âWhat are you gazing at out there?â Tom asked, coming quietly into the room. She listened to him fussing about behind her, unpacking his ever-present flight bag. It occurred to Heather that he had clothes that seemed to be permanently in transit, either between continents or between the bag and the washing machine. At least the clothes didnât get jet-lag, she thought, remembering Tom on his last trip home: he had decided it was high noon at 3 a.m., just the moment for cooking a much-missed full English breakfast, complete with toast burnt enough to set off the smoke alarms. She wondered if she should worry that, for her, Tom occasionally resembled a rather difficult house guest. Perhaps, though, it was a good sign that, so far, she wanted to resist that feeling. The thought of what it would have been like still being married to Iain crossed her mind. Presumably he had, as he had then, an office wherever he was living, so that, in a sense, heâd always be âhomeâ. Sheâd never get to sleep blissfully alone, never have to deal completely by herself with frozen pipes, blocked drains, garage mechanics who tried to con her that it would cost her at least
this
much for new brake pads. How peculiarly alien such cramped togetherness would seem.
âIâm not really looking, just listening,â she told Tom. âI can hear family life out on the river â the wildfowl kind, not human, though somehow it doesnât sound that much different. Parents worrying about their childrenâs safety, the getting comfortable for a peaceful night, if theyâre lucky.â
Tom went into the bathroom to make space on the shelves for the contents of his sponge bag. Mrs Gibson always reshuffled everything during his absences, spreading toiletries over the shelf-space as if he was unlikely ever to return. There followed the sounds of brushing teeth, the downpour of the shower and the loo flushing, and still Heather leaned on the window frame, inhaling honeysuckle scent. Lucky plant, she thought, to be blessed with
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