A Month of Sundays

by Liz Byrski

  They all laugh with relief, Judy hardest of all.

  ‘Well,’ she says, ‘after I read Sacred Country, I was longing to be there, but there was no way I could afford the time or the money. So I decided to knit my hometown. It’s taken me a very long time but I’ve almost finished it.’

  She hands the iPad to Ros, who is sitting beside her.

  Ros puts on her glasses and studies the screen. ‘This?’ she says in amazement. ‘You mean you’ve knitted all this?’

  Simone and Adele both get up to look over her shoulder.

  ‘Good heavens,’ says Simone, ‘a knitted town. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘How big is this, Judy?’ Adele asks.

  ‘Well, it occupies the whole of my spare bedroom. It’s on a big board, on trestles, and there is just enough space on all four sides for me to squeeze around it to put new bits in place.’

  ‘This is extraordinary,’ Ros says. ‘I mean, I’ve seen stuff about men setting up and making huge war scenarios or even train sets that occupy whole rooms, but I’ve never seen – never imagined I would see – a knitted town.’

  ‘Look,’ Simone says, ‘there’s Stitch, sewing on his bench.’

  ‘And this must be Beattie Hindmarsh,’ Adele says, ‘you can see her wild hair and . . . you knitted all these people and their houses. How big are the figures?’

  ‘They’re bigger than toy soldiers, about the size of finger dolls, that you’d give to a small child.’

  ‘But the detail . . .’ Ros says. ‘It’s so beautiful. And are you there, Judy?’

  ‘Yes, look,’ Adele says, ‘in the corner, Judy and her little brother and their parents.’ She points to where two adults and two children are standing on green knitted grass, their faces turned to the sky. ‘See, they’re in the garden staring upwards, to see their prayers for the king going up to heaven.’

  *

  ‘I think our first discussion was a remarkable success,’ Ros says at dinner that evening.

  ‘But we didn’t talk much about the book,’ Judy says.

  ‘No, but the book did exactly what Adele suggested,’ Ros says. ‘It told us more about you. Or rather, you told us through the framework of the book. We’ve learned more about you than we would otherwise have known. It’s not a book I would have thought I’d want to read. But I am so glad I have. And now, because of what you’ve told us, I’ll read it again.’

  ‘I enjoyed it,’ Adele says, ‘although I got a bit fed up with some of the characters, and some of the more gritty bits. But I did like Mary/Martin’s story. It was very poignant that when Martin finally goes back he knows he no longer belongs there and that’s because he has changed in so many ways while the place itself and so many of the people are just the same. That might be how it would feel if you went there, Judy?’

  ‘You know, Judy,’ Simone says, ‘I don’t think I can actually talk about this as we might ordinarily discuss a book, because I can’t separate it from you. I feel we’re talking about your life, and what you valued in that place and what you didn’t like.’

  Ros is about to make some sharp remark about Simone going all touchy-feely when she realises that Simone is saying exactly what she herself feels. She clears her throat and sits back, listening.

  ‘It’s become very personal since you explained your rationale for choosing it,’ Simone continues. ‘I admire your honesty, and your willingness to put yourself on the line with us, especially going first, given the way you were feeling a few days ago. It was a real act of trust.’

  Ros is again immediately tempted to come back with some sharp or funny remark but again she manages to stop herself. Why do I always want to do that? she wonders. Simone is quite right, so why do I feel so embarrassed and awkward when she goes all earnest like this? She’s genuine. What’s wrong with me that I can’t be comfortable with hearing that without trying to make a joke of it? She shakes her head and looks up.

  ‘Me too,’ she says. ‘It’s that thing about a novel being a demonstration of the human condition, telling us who we are. I know that I’ve learned something about you in reading and discussing it, and I’m starting to feel I’ve learned something about myself from it too.’

  Simone picks up on this and continues to talk about it, but Ros feels herself slipping away from the conversation. What she feels, but isn’t yet able to say aloud, is that she, like Judy, has in some way failed herself. By not going back to England, to the spot where James died, she has cut herself off from his death. And so that imaginative recollection of their life together remains incomplete.

  The other three are still talking. Ros leans forward and the wineglass in her hand shakes, splashing a little wine onto the table. Quickly she grasps the stem of the glass with the other hand, lowers it to the table with both hands, and reaches out with her napkin to blot up the wine, hoping that no one noticed. She gets to her feet and heads for the kitchen.

  In the kitchen she puts her hands flat on the marble bench top and leans forward to look more closely at them. They are wrinkled, speckled with age spots, but at least they are still now. I used to love my hands, she reminds herself, but now they keep betraying me. She looks up suddenly and sees Simone in the doorway.

  ‘Just getting some water,’ Ros says.

  Simone walks over to her and puts her right hand on top of Ros’s. ‘Parkinson’s?’ she asks.

  Ros feels her breath stop, while Simone’s hand stays warm and somehow reassuring on hers. She nods. ‘Did you see it just now?’

  ‘Yes. Actually, I already saw it the afternoon we arrived, and a few times since, but you didn’t say anything, so I didn’t either.’

  Ros nods, draws a deep breath. ‘Thank you. I haven’t felt ready to talk about it yet, although it’s one of the things I came here to do.’

  ‘Of course,’ Simone says, ‘and you don’t have to anyway if that’s what you want.’

  ‘But it’s clearly more obvious than I realised.’

  ‘Not necessarily. I teach yoga to seniors – a couple of them have Parkinson’s, and a couple of others have late onset multiple sclerosis, so I’m used to looking out for what’s happening.’

  ‘I haven’t told anyone yet,’ Ros says. ‘I’m still trying to get to grips with the fact that this is happening to me.’

  ‘What about the cello? Can you still play?’

  ‘Sometimes. But I can’t rely on it. And I feel terrible because for years I’ve played with a quartet and I haven’t been able to make myself tell them yet. Telling them I won’t be able to play with them anymore will be the end of something that’s very special to all four of us.’

  Simone nods. ‘This must be so hard.’

  ‘It is. Please don’t say anything to the others yet.’

  ‘Of course not. But you know that Adele asked me to teach her some yoga, and we’re practising every morning in the games room? Think about coming to join us. A lot of people with Parkinson’s find it helpful, physically and mentally. You don’t have to explain it to Adele, just come on down and join in.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Ros says, ‘maybe I will,’ although she’s thinking, No, I probably won’t.

  Together they head back to the table.

  ‘Time to pick the next book,’ Adele says, holding out the black velvet bag of marbles to Judy. ‘You’d better do this, Judy. The odds are shorter today because you’re not in the draw.’

  Judy takes the bag. ‘Who wants to go first?’

  Ros is suddenly short of breath; she is not ready for this, just as she knows Judy was not ready last Sunday.

  ‘Ros?’ Judy holds the bag out to her.

  She reaches into the bag and pulls out green and is so relieved that she barely worries that the marble slips from her shaking fingers into the deep pile of the carpet.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Simone says, as Judy bends to retrieve Ros’s drop
ped marble. She reaches in and draws the white marble. ‘Okay. Another lamb to the slaughter. I’ll go and get the books.’

  Ros stares into the fire as they wait. So, Simone knows what’s happening to her, but what about the others? Somehow Simone knowing seems okay. She didn’t make a big fuss about it, accepted it as a fact of life, but at the same time Ros had felt that she grasped the enormity of it, the way it hangs over everything she does. She dreads telling Leah, who will be devastated; who will try to make her feel better, try to manage things, who will worry herself sick about it. More than ever now Ros believes she has done the right thing in giving herself time to learn how to talk about it, with people to whom she is not any sort of mother-figure: not the woman who rescued a talented teenage violinist from an abusive, alcoholic father and a helpless mother, and gave her a home. Far better to talk about it first with someone unaffected by their love for her.

  ‘So this is the book,’ Simone says, handing out the copies, ‘Truth and Beauty, by the American writer Ann Patchett. It’s a memoir, not a novel. Ann Patchett’s best friend was Lucy Grealy, who was a poet and died quite young. This is the story of their friendship. It’s also about writing, love, ambition and a whole lot more.’

  Ros, who for some time has felt antagonistic towards all things American, says nothing. She flicks through the pages, smothers a sigh.

  ‘I’m not an Ann Patchett fan,’ Adele says, ‘but it’ll be nice to read some non-fiction, especially about a friendship between writers.’

  ‘For several reasons I was really captivated by it,’ Simone says. ‘But did I like it? It’s odd, unusual; I both loved and hated it and since I read it it’s never let me go.’

  Ros stares down at the book on her lap, thinking about what’s been said about liking or not liking a book. ‘I suppose that this is part of the magic of books, you can read something you don’t actually like but still be impressed or moved by it. And even something that is quite distasteful can strike some profound note within you, so you still read on. That’s how I felt in the eighties when I first read The Handmaid’s Tale. I hated it but couldn’t stop reading it. Liking or not liking is not always the most important thing about a book, is it?’

  Chapter Nine

  Adele is making coffee for herself and Ros. After yesterday’s late night following the book club, she’s had a perfect start to her day. Yoga with Simone, followed by a short, treat-free walk with Clooney, followed by yoghurt and an apple in her bedroom, where she even got to spend a bit of quality time with Fran Kelly.

  ‘Have you had breakfast, Ros? I could make something – scrambled eggs, a bacon sandwich?’ she asks.

  Ros looks up at her. ‘Adele, we’re all doing our own breakfasts, remember?’

  Adele’s face goes very hot. ‘Yes, but I just thought, as you’re there . . .’

  ‘Well, don’t,’ Ros says. ‘Don’t think about making breakfast for the rest of us. Look after yourself. You kindly offered to make coffee and I accepted. That’s all. It’s wonderful that you organised all this – our coming here – everything. But you don’t need to look after us, you really don’t.’

  ‘Okay, yes, sorry,’ Adele says. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘And don’t apologise, you haven’t done anything wrong. You are a very fine person, Adele. I like you a lot, and I also admire you. If I need anything I know I can ask you. So just relax. And if I upset you it won’t be deliberate and you are welcome to say, “Shut up, Ros, you grumpy old bat.”’

  Adele is horrified; the mere thought of speaking to Ros like that makes her chest tight with anxiety. ‘Oh my god, I could never do that.’

  ‘I do need people to call me out from time to time, so you should try it, and see how you feel after you’ve done it the first time. I think you’ll find it helps.’

  ‘What helps?’ Simone asks, wandering into the kitchen.

  ‘I’m simply explaining to Adele that she might feel better if she considers saying “Shut up, you grumpy old bat” to me when I . . . well, when I’m being a grumpy old bat.’

  ‘Oh yes, I think that would be excellent,’ Simone says. ‘Take note, Adele, you may be very glad of this before too long.’

  ‘Anyone seen Judy this morning?’

  Ros shakes her head. ‘I haven’t. I tapped on her door earlier to see if she wanted a cup of tea but she didn’t answer. I think she must be sleeping in. Unless she finally managed to escape.’

  Adele starts breathing again at the change of subject. ‘Her knitting bag is on the sofa,’ she says. ‘I don’t think she’d leave without that.’

  ‘No way,’ Simone says. ‘Anyway, I think she’s pretty convinced to stay now, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes, we’re going to sit down together this afternoon and talk about the shop and I’ll see if there’s anything I can do to help.’

  ‘So do you think she’s okay?’ Ros asks. ‘That cough was pretty nasty yesterday.’

  ‘It was,’ Simone says, ‘but I think we should let her sleep a bit longer, she really needs the rest. Last night she asked me to get her something for the cough and the sore throat, so I might just pop down into town and get those, so she’ll have them when she wakes up.’

  Ros picks up the coffee Adele has made for her. ‘I’m off to do some email and pay some bills online. D’you think it’s okay to use the study, Adele? I could take my laptop in there.’

  ‘It’s fine. Brian put something about it in the house notes he left for us. Just go ahead. Would you mind if I came with you, Simone? I need to find a birthday card for my former assistant and get it in the post.’

  ‘Sure,’ Simone says, glancing at her watch. ‘Fifteen minutes okay? I just want to call Adam before we go.’

  ‘I’ll be ready,’ Adele says. She finishes her coffee sitting at the table, thinking about the conversation with Ros. I really am going to have to try and get a grip on this, she tells herself. Ros had been kind, though Adele knew that her own fussing had really irritated her. She had seen signs of it in the others too over the last few days: seen Simone take a deep breath and turn away, seen Judy’s mouth twitch in amusement at something she’d done which was unnecessary or over the top.

  She closes her eyes. Knowing she is making fists again, she concentrates on putting her hands flat on the table just as she has seen Ros do, presumably in an attempt to stop hers from shaking.

  So this is it, Adele, Astrid whispers in her ear. They like you, they admire you, they want you as a friend. It’s all up to you now. Are you going to step into yourself or are you going to spend the rest of your life worrying, fussing, apologising, wearing yourself out in the hope that people will find you acceptable?

  ‘Shut up, Astrid, you silly old bat,’ she says aloud, standing up suddenly and taking her coffee mug to the sink. ‘Shut up and get out of my head. If I’m going to do this I have to do it on my own.’ And she walks out of the kitchen and goes upstairs to fetch her coat and boots.

  *

  It takes Ros a couple of hours to pay her bills, respond to emails, read The Guardian, and download and read the latest edition of her monthly music journal. Finally, she logs off, stands up, stretches, and gives Clooney a gentle nudge with her foot. As she pulls on her boots she notices the time: almost quarter to twelve and there is still no sign of Judy. I don’t like the look of this, she thinks. I really don’t. She goes upstairs and taps on Judy’s door.

  ‘Judy,’ she calls. ‘Judy, it’s Ros, may I come in?’

  There is a sound of movement in the room, some coughing, then, ‘Yes, come on in,’ Judy says.

  Ros opens the door. Judy is sitting upright in bed, eyes closed, her head resting against the bedhead. Her face looks grey except for her cheeks, which are a bright, feverish pink.

  ‘Oh, Judy,’ Ros says, ‘you’re really not well.’ She crosses the room and puts her hand on Judy’s forehead, which is hot and damp. ‘You�
�ve got a fever. How long have you been like this? Why didn’t you call us?’

  ‘I didn’t want to be a nuisance.’

  ‘You’re not. I’m going to find a thermometer.’

  ‘There’s one here,’ Judy says, reaching out to the bedside table. ‘I found it in the bathroom of the main bedroom earlier on. It seems a bit high, my temperature, but I can’t read it properly without my glasses.’

  Ros shakes the thermometer and puts it in Judy’s mouth. ‘Don’t you dare move from there,’ she says, picking up an empty glass from the bedside table. ‘I’m going to get you some fresh water.’ A couple of minutes later she returns with a freshly filled glass.

  ‘Okay,’ she says, taking the thermometer from Judy’s mouth and handing her the glass. ‘Drink this, but slowly.’ She puts on her glasses and reads the thermometer. It’s almost forty-two degrees. Ros goes to the bathroom, wrings out a flannel in cool water and returns to gently wipe Judy’s face.

  ‘Oh that feels good,’ Judy says, starting to cough; it’s a rough, hacking cough, punctuated by wheezes.

  ‘You need to see a doctor,’ Ros says. ‘I’m going to –’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Judy protests, ‘I’ll be okay. I’ll go when I feel better.’

  ‘You’re either going today, or I’ll get a doctor to come here. I’m going to make you some tea and I’ll ring Gwenda and ask her to recommend someone.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Please, Judy, don’t argue, you’re sick, you need a doctor.’

  Judy stares at her, stonily at first, then looks away and back again. ‘Okay,’ she says, ‘you’re probably right, I do feel pretty rough.’

  ‘Okay, so keep sipping the water and I’ll be back in a minute.’

  In the kitchen Ros picks up the house phone that has Gwenda’s number keyed into it with a little red light beside her name.

  ‘Ah, Gwenda,’ Ros says with relief, ‘thank goodness you’re there. Sorry to bother you but I need some advice about a doctor for Judy . . .’

  Fifteen minutes later Ros hears the car pull up outside the house and hurries downstairs.