stationery cupboard. You asked if I would care to come out and I said, ‘Thank you,’ and really I could have been saying anything. I wobbled a little with the pain inside me and you held out your hand.
‘Steady on,’ you told me. ‘No need to rush.’
It was the first time a man had touched me since the Shit in Corby. (I don’t include the young doctor who examined me while I lay on a stretcher in the hospital.) The thrill of your fingers round mine sent prickles of electricity shooting up my spine and towards my hairline. Your hand was large and warm and unwavering. If only I could have stayed like that, my hand in yours. Another time, another place, another life, I might have made a small sashay to the left and swung into your arms. But you were Harold Fry. I was Queenie Hennessy. I pulled myself free and walked away from you as fast as I could. I was almost running.
If only I’d kept going, you might say. I could have saved us all a lot of sorrow.
That night I compiled a letter to the Shit. I enclosed the money he’d pressed on me to have an abortion. There was no child, I wrote. His reputation was safe. (‘Come back,’ he’d moaned. He was slippery-facedwith tears. ‘Come back when it’s all sorted. I can’t live without you, dearest.’) I added that I never wanted to see him again. He would probably discover that he could live after all.
I lifted your handkerchief to my face and breathed in the smell of you. I felt healed again.
Can’t write any more. Hand tired. Head too. The night nurse asked if I was in pain and fetched liquid morphine in a shot glass to help me sleep.
The two blue birds wake up and take flight out of the framed print. I watch the sky at the window fill with ink. Then I see the stars and they are fizzing out there. Even the slim moon keeps shattering into splinters.
Sister Mary Inconnue says, ‘I need to replace my ribbon spool, dear one.’
That is enough for one ni—
An ultimatum
T HERE WAS NO post for me again today. I confess I was a little downhearted. The Pearly King had another of his parcels, but he didn’t open it.
‘Maybe you will get a card from Harold Fry tomorrow?’ said Sister Catherine.
‘There is no such word as tomorrow,’ said Mr Henderson.
I felt hot and weak.
Could you really walk? From Kingsbridge to Berwick-upon-Tweed? I tried to picture you strolling down a country lane, and all I could get was a man in fawn, giving hand signals to passing cars.
‘Do you have to do that?’ I asked once. You looked confused. ‘Do what?’ you said. ‘Winding down your window and waving your hand whenever you turn left or right. Isn’t that what indicators are for?’ ‘Are you suggesting I’m an old-fashioned driver?’ you said. And I did think that, only not in a critical way, so I dressed the thought up as something more anodyne and said no, you were just a very thorough driver. ‘I thought that was what Napier required,’ you said. ‘He wants me to take care of you. You’re a good accountant.’ And I felt a little burst of pleasure, because when you said those things I believed you, in the same way I felt safe when you put on your driving gloves and turned the key in the ignition. ‘Also,’ you said, still flapping your hand at oncoming traffic, ‘it helps us go faster. To be honest, Miss Hennessy, I wish you would stop sitting there like a lemon and help.’ When I stuck my hand out of the window and laughed, you suddenly smiled and Igot the impression it gave you happiness, to make another person laugh. I remember wondering whether it was the same with your wife.
But that was long ago.
In the dayroom, I imagined your arrival at the hospice. I imagined you approaching the inpatient doors. (Don’t be scared of them, Harold. It turns out they are only ordinary doors.) I imagined the nuns fetching you tea and asking about your journey. I imagined you reading my letter. But when I got to the part where you walked into the room, where I saw
‘Steady on,’ you told me. ‘No need to rush.’
It was the first time a man had touched me since the Shit in Corby. (I don’t include the young doctor who examined me while I lay on a stretcher in the hospital.) The thrill of your fingers round mine sent prickles of electricity shooting up my spine and towards my hairline. Your hand was large and warm and unwavering. If only I could have stayed like that, my hand in yours. Another time, another place, another life, I might have made a small sashay to the left and swung into your arms. But you were Harold Fry. I was Queenie Hennessy. I pulled myself free and walked away from you as fast as I could. I was almost running.
If only I’d kept going, you might say. I could have saved us all a lot of sorrow.
That night I compiled a letter to the Shit. I enclosed the money he’d pressed on me to have an abortion. There was no child, I wrote. His reputation was safe. (‘Come back,’ he’d moaned. He was slippery-facedwith tears. ‘Come back when it’s all sorted. I can’t live without you, dearest.’) I added that I never wanted to see him again. He would probably discover that he could live after all.
I lifted your handkerchief to my face and breathed in the smell of you. I felt healed again.
Can’t write any more. Hand tired. Head too. The night nurse asked if I was in pain and fetched liquid morphine in a shot glass to help me sleep.
The two blue birds wake up and take flight out of the framed print. I watch the sky at the window fill with ink. Then I see the stars and they are fizzing out there. Even the slim moon keeps shattering into splinters.
Sister Mary Inconnue says, ‘I need to replace my ribbon spool, dear one.’
That is enough for one ni—
An ultimatum
T HERE WAS NO post for me again today. I confess I was a little downhearted. The Pearly King had another of his parcels, but he didn’t open it.
‘Maybe you will get a card from Harold Fry tomorrow?’ said Sister Catherine.
‘There is no such word as tomorrow,’ said Mr Henderson.
I felt hot and weak.
Could you really walk? From Kingsbridge to Berwick-upon-Tweed? I tried to picture you strolling down a country lane, and all I could get was a man in fawn, giving hand signals to passing cars.
‘Do you have to do that?’ I asked once. You looked confused. ‘Do what?’ you said. ‘Winding down your window and waving your hand whenever you turn left or right. Isn’t that what indicators are for?’ ‘Are you suggesting I’m an old-fashioned driver?’ you said. And I did think that, only not in a critical way, so I dressed the thought up as something more anodyne and said no, you were just a very thorough driver. ‘I thought that was what Napier required,’ you said. ‘He wants me to take care of you. You’re a good accountant.’ And I felt a little burst of pleasure, because when you said those things I believed you, in the same way I felt safe when you put on your driving gloves and turned the key in the ignition. ‘Also,’ you said, still flapping your hand at oncoming traffic, ‘it helps us go faster. To be honest, Miss Hennessy, I wish you would stop sitting there like a lemon and help.’ When I stuck my hand out of the window and laughed, you suddenly smiled and Igot the impression it gave you happiness, to make another person laugh. I remember wondering whether it was the same with your wife.
But that was long ago.
In the dayroom, I imagined your arrival at the hospice. I imagined you approaching the inpatient doors. (Don’t be scared of them, Harold. It turns out they are only ordinary doors.) I imagined the nuns fetching you tea and asking about your journey. I imagined you reading my letter. But when I got to the part where you walked into the room, where I saw
Similar Books
