The Greatcoat by Helen Dunmore

another cylinder in the car. He needed ephedrine too – I’ll have to have a word with the district nurse – Anyway, young Walker filled up the boot while I was asleep.’
    Isabel got out of bed, wrapped her dressing gown around her and went into the kitchen.
    ‘I don’t care if you’ve had two hours’ sleep or not, I’m going to cook you some breakfast and then you’re going to bed. You can’t live like this.’
    But she knew already that he wouldn’t listen, lit up as he was with fatigue and success. Those dour, wordless farmers had thanked him. He was part of their lives.
    She broke eggs into the frying pan and beat them with a wooden spoon while his toast browned under the grill. She would feed him at least, if he wouldn’t sleep. Behind her, the logs were already flaring. He’d used firelighters, which usually he wouldn’t countenance.
    ‘Look at this! They’re apple wood, and it’s seasoned,’ he said. ‘They cleared out the old orchard last year.’
    His face was eager as a boy’s. He was happy with his life, she thought. They wouldn’t have had this fire, but for him. Old man Walker would still be gasping for breath if Philip hadn’t known what to do for him. It was typical of Philip to carry a spare oxygen cylinder in the car. No, she thought, ‘happy’ wasn’t exactly the word. It was more that Philip belonged in his own life … Well, she’d known that before. It had struck her because she so often seemed to be on the outside of her life, looking in, not sure whether she wanted to enter it or not.
    ‘Come and get warm, Is,’ he called.
    ‘I’m not cold,’ she said, and was surprised to discover that this was true.
    ‘You’re always cold.’
    She buttered his toast, slid the eggs onto it and carried his plate through to the living room. She saw that he was reluctant to leave his fire, but he went to the table and as soon as he sat down began to wolf the eggs and toast, as if he had just discovered how hungry he was. His eyes were on the textbook which she’d pushed to the side of the table. He always kept a book there so he could absorb information at odd moments. She knew he wanted to pick it up now and make use of the time, but was holding back for her sake. She went over to the fire and spread her hands to the blaze. The smoky sweetness of the wood made her eyes sting.
    Philip was already getting up from the table. He would have a strip-wash in the cold cloakroom, a clean shirt, and then he would be on his way to morning surgery.
    ‘I’ve made your sandwiches. They’re in the meat-safe,’ she said, rising from the fireside.
    ‘Thanks. What are you up to today, Is?’
    ‘I’m going for coffee with Janet Ingoldby,’ she said quickly, to shield her empty day from him, and then wished she hadn’t. He might mention it to Dr Ingoldby. ‘At least I think I am. But you know how hopeless I am with dates.’
    ‘That’s nice.’
    ‘And I’m going to make a steak-and-kidney pudding for tonight. You will be home in time, won’t you?’
    ‘Ought to be. Where’s my shaving soap, Is?’
    ‘On the chest of drawers. And there’s hot water in the kettle.’
    When he was gone she would pile the fire high. It wouldn’t matter for once. She would make herself busy all day; it would probably take most of it for her to achieve the steak-and-kidney pudding. After that she would measure the chairs and work out how much fabric it would take to re-cover them. She would read a chapter of
Lettres de mon moulin
, to keep her hand in.
    By midday, Isabel was deep in flour. She’d rolled out the suet pastry, but it wouldn’t make a smooth sheet as it did in the book; it kept crumbling. Perhaps she hadn’t used enough suet. Her hair slipped forward and she pushed it back behind her ears.
    The doorbell rang. Isabel moved quickly, to forestall the landlady. Mrs Atkinson always tried to answer the flat’s doorbell as well as her own. But this time there was no one on the stairs or in the hall.