she could, bought groceries and some sweet-scented stocks to bring fresh life to a house that felt tainted. She turned her mind away from thoughts of her mother alone again there, working as usual in her garden study among a drift of papers and cigar ash. She would be fine. She was a strong woman. It was astonishing that any burglar had got the better of her. Her mother …
But her mother, for the first time in Jane’s life, had become vulnerable and the idea left her confused and anxious, half afraid, half irritated. How dare she? she thought, moving into the centre lane and picking up speed. How dare she do this to me?
The piano plinked out its jazz, faultless, confident. The memory of her father blinded her with unexpected tears.
Ten
“Can she see me?”
The nurse hesitated.
“Can she hear me?”
“She may … hearing is the … yes, she may.”
“Hearing is the what? What?”
Alarm flickered on her face.
Max Jameson had shouted. He was angry. He had spoken as if it was the nurse’s fault and it was not, but he could not apologise. “What? Please don’t pretend to me.”
“Hearing is the last sense to go, that was all I was going to say. So she may hear you … always assume that she can. That’s the best way.”
But when he looked at Lizzie, who might hear him or might not, he could think of nothing to say.
Lizzie. Already this was not Lizzie.
He saw that the nurse was looking at him with such sweetness, such concern, that he wanted to lay his head on her breast, take her comfort. She wiped Lizzie’s forehead with a cloth dipped in cool water.
“Can she feel that?”
“I don’t know.”
“I have to go outside. Can I go into the garden?”
“Of course. It’s lovely there. Peaceful.”
“I don’t want peace.”
He stood in the hot little dying room trying to speak, but only breath came. He stumbled to the door.
It had been three days and three nights and terrible to watch and still his wife would not die. Lizzie.
He sat on a bench. He wished he smoked. That would have been a good excuse. “I need to get out for a cigarette,” not “I need to get away from her dying.”
There was no one else outside. On the right, the new extension building was being finished, the windows still glassless, like eye sockets.
“Can she see?”
It occurred to Max that if he could have known the future, when her illness had begun, he would have killed her then, that it would have been kinder to have killed. His love for her was so great that he could have done it.
The air smelled sweet, of earth and cooling grass, but the next moment, of cigarette smoke. A man had come to sit next to him on the bench. He proffered the packet.
“No, thanks,” Max said.
“No. Well, I didn’t. Gave it up years back. Only you reach for it, you know, first thing you need.”
Don’t talk to me, Max thought, don’t ask and don’t tell.
“Hardest bit, this, isn’t it? Waiting. You feel guilty, like … wishing it was over, dreading it.”
Something flooded through him … Relief? Fear?
“It’s not right. You’ve done everything for them then suddenly you can’t do a bloody thing.”
“Yes.”
“Your mother or what?”
Max stared at the dark ground beneath his feet. His lips felt thick and numb. “Wife,” he heard himself say. “My wife. Lizzie.”
“Fuck it.”
“Right.”
“Daughter, me. Two smashing kids, everything to live for. I’d get into that bed and die for her if I could.”
“Yes,” Max said.
“Cancer?”
“No.”
“Right. Generally is, that’s all.”
“Yes.”
The man put his hand briefly on to Max’s shoulder as he stood up. Said nothing. Went.
It would have been better if he had never met Lizzie, never loved her, never been happy.
Better.
He knew he ought to go back to her.
He sat on alone in the dark garden.
Eleven
Cat Deerbon switched on her torch. The block had a concrete staircase but several of the lights had failed and it was the same along the
But her mother, for the first time in Jane’s life, had become vulnerable and the idea left her confused and anxious, half afraid, half irritated. How dare she? she thought, moving into the centre lane and picking up speed. How dare she do this to me?
The piano plinked out its jazz, faultless, confident. The memory of her father blinded her with unexpected tears.
Ten
“Can she see me?”
The nurse hesitated.
“Can she hear me?”
“She may … hearing is the … yes, she may.”
“Hearing is the what? What?”
Alarm flickered on her face.
Max Jameson had shouted. He was angry. He had spoken as if it was the nurse’s fault and it was not, but he could not apologise. “What? Please don’t pretend to me.”
“Hearing is the last sense to go, that was all I was going to say. So she may hear you … always assume that she can. That’s the best way.”
But when he looked at Lizzie, who might hear him or might not, he could think of nothing to say.
Lizzie. Already this was not Lizzie.
He saw that the nurse was looking at him with such sweetness, such concern, that he wanted to lay his head on her breast, take her comfort. She wiped Lizzie’s forehead with a cloth dipped in cool water.
“Can she feel that?”
“I don’t know.”
“I have to go outside. Can I go into the garden?”
“Of course. It’s lovely there. Peaceful.”
“I don’t want peace.”
He stood in the hot little dying room trying to speak, but only breath came. He stumbled to the door.
It had been three days and three nights and terrible to watch and still his wife would not die. Lizzie.
He sat on a bench. He wished he smoked. That would have been a good excuse. “I need to get out for a cigarette,” not “I need to get away from her dying.”
There was no one else outside. On the right, the new extension building was being finished, the windows still glassless, like eye sockets.
“Can she see?”
It occurred to Max that if he could have known the future, when her illness had begun, he would have killed her then, that it would have been kinder to have killed. His love for her was so great that he could have done it.
The air smelled sweet, of earth and cooling grass, but the next moment, of cigarette smoke. A man had come to sit next to him on the bench. He proffered the packet.
“No, thanks,” Max said.
“No. Well, I didn’t. Gave it up years back. Only you reach for it, you know, first thing you need.”
Don’t talk to me, Max thought, don’t ask and don’t tell.
“Hardest bit, this, isn’t it? Waiting. You feel guilty, like … wishing it was over, dreading it.”
Something flooded through him … Relief? Fear?
“It’s not right. You’ve done everything for them then suddenly you can’t do a bloody thing.”
“Yes.”
“Your mother or what?”
Max stared at the dark ground beneath his feet. His lips felt thick and numb. “Wife,” he heard himself say. “My wife. Lizzie.”
“Fuck it.”
“Right.”
“Daughter, me. Two smashing kids, everything to live for. I’d get into that bed and die for her if I could.”
“Yes,” Max said.
“Cancer?”
“No.”
“Right. Generally is, that’s all.”
“Yes.”
The man put his hand briefly on to Max’s shoulder as he stood up. Said nothing. Went.
It would have been better if he had never met Lizzie, never loved her, never been happy.
Better.
He knew he ought to go back to her.
He sat on alone in the dark garden.
Eleven
Cat Deerbon switched on her torch. The block had a concrete staircase but several of the lights had failed and it was the same along the
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