by Lucy Dillon
Joyce didn’t say anything. She closed her eyes, and her face seemed to slacken with exhaustion. It was completely unlike her to submit so easily, and it chilled Lorna.
Sam looked at her over Joyce’s head, and gestured towards the car. She nodded, and hurried down the path to put Bernard in the back and open up the passenger door, ready.
Standing by the car, Lorna watched Sam carrying Joyce, talking inaudibly but gently to distract her, and she knew – for all his faults, for all the things he’d said and done lately – she loved him. This was the Sam she’d fixed as her ideal man for so many years: strong and gentle, a man who’d organise afternoon tea for an old lady. But Sam hadn’t loved her this way back then; he didn’t now. It made her ache.
She moved out of the way as he lowered Joyce into the passenger seat, and did up her belt. Then he stepped back, away from the car and dropped his voice.
‘She should be fine, but I’d get her home quickly. Do you want me to call the GP out?’
‘Her community nurse is calling in tonight.’ Lorna hesitated. If he hadn’t guessed how Joyce was, surely he could see now. ‘Thank you for this afternoon. You know it’s not … done for any other reason than to make her happy. She’s … She’s not well.’
‘I guessed. And I know you’re not after her fortune, Lorna.’ He reached for her hand and squeezed it. His fingers were warm, and so were his eyes.
I love you. The words ran across her mind like a ribbon streaming behind a plane in a blue sky, or a ticker tape rattling out. I love you. I love you.
Was that what Sam was thinking? His eyes were locked on hers, searching her face, but Lorna couldn’t speak. Sam had made a decision to move on; she’d look a fool, yet again.
Bernard barked in the car. It was time to go.
Before September cooled into October, Lorna’s flower storm had taken over the kitchen, the bedrooms and most of the gallery storage space. It had also taken over Lorna’s brain. Every flower she passed in window boxes, in the park or on a café table, she automatically saw as a knitted bloom, or photographed to show Joyce, who’d sketch it and give it to Caitlin to be turned into a pattern. And then the bobbly two-ply version would appear on the kitchen table. She’d never felt so effortlessly creative: colour and shape seemed to be everywhere.
She’d never felt so much of a team leader either. Longhampton, as one, had fallen in love with the idea of community knitting. Customers called into the gallery with bags of wool and requests to ‘donate’ a floral area to relatives, or sick friends, so their coverage map of the town spread even further: red and pink and yellow from the railway station to the dog park. Mary and Tiff were the main organisers of the volunteer programme, and Joyce spent her days sitting in the back room, creating petals and tortoiseshell butterfly wings and offering advice on colours. Caitlin was their chief cheerleader; she was staying with her sister-in-law just outside Longhampton, and she came by most days with Eva and the children. They sat on the carved toadstools looping miles of stem on the Knitting Nancies, while Eva – who’d been married to an actor and had connections everywhere – posted photos on Instagram and started some social media buzz for them. Rudy, in his long striped jumper, slowly became the children’s new best pal, and a reluctant Instagram star.
‘Of course, now you’ve got your KnitCam going, all you need is some celebs to drop in and start purling,’ Eva pointed out as her Instagram photo of the sunflowers started racking up likes.
‘Don’t remind me about KnitCam,’ groaned Lorna. ‘It’s the reason I can’t get anywhere near the bathroom most days, everyone doing their hair before they make their appearance.’
Calum had sent a council IT intern round to set up a webcam in the back room so people could watch the flowers under construction, and dropped in himself for updates – even though he could watch from his own desk.
‘He likes you,’ Tiff observed after Calum called by with some real flowers for Lorna, ostensibly as a thank you from the council for the traffic KnitCam was drawing to their site. ‘When are you going to admit you like him too?’
Lorna said nothing. She had the feeling he did too. Calum was great company, and there had been times when, with one more glass of wine, she might have let a casual kiss go further. He was funny and he knew a lot about modern art. He just wasn’t Sam. But maybe that was a good thing. Maybe that was the whole point.
Joyce hadn’t changed her opinion of Calum. She still referred to him as ‘that strange boy with the waistcoats’, but now at least she let him call her Joyce.
The doctor had found no serious cause for her ‘funny turn’, and Joyce put it down to the emotion of the visit. Lorna could well believe that.
Everything seemed to be going smoothly for a while, when one morning Lorna brought the dogs back in from their early walk to find Joyce already sitting at the kitchen table, with an unreadable expression on her face.
‘I’ve had a letter, Lorna.’
‘Oh, really? Do you need another blood test?’ Joyce had had her mail redirected to the gallery, and she allowed Lorna to read the various communications from the hospital. The type, she said, with a flick of her hand, was ridiculously small.
‘No. It’s not from the hospital.’ Joyce passed her the envelope; it had a handwritten address on the front, and Lorna wondered for a second if it was some family member – Keir had started to make discreet enquiries about any family Joyce might have left.
Ms Joyce Rothery, c/o The Maiden Gallery, Longhampton. She didn’t recognise the writing.
‘You can read it,’ said Joyce, evenly.
‘No, not if it’s private, Joyce.’
‘I think you should.’
Lorna slid the letter out, but what she read made her heart stop in her chest. It was one folded piece of A4 paper, with just two sentences on it. Ask Lorna about Betty. Signed, A Well-Wisher.
He’d actually put ‘Signed, A Well-Wisher’. Who else but Gabe?
‘So,’ said Joyce, raising an eyebrow. ‘Who’s Betty? And why should I know about her?’
The moment stretched out between them, and Lorna’s head filled with white noise. What could she say?
Lorna heard Betty Dunlop’s impatient tut in her mind. If there was one thing Betty had given her, it was a reminder to be brave, even in the face of losing something precious.
She pushed herself from the table, and went over to the framed medal on the wall, lifted it down and set it down in front of Joyce.
‘Betty Dunlop, Rudy’s owner. She didn’t have any family other than him, and she spent her last weeks in the hospice I used to visit. When she died she left me this in her will. It’s her George Medal. We talked a lot about her courage in the war. She saved two people in an air raid.’
‘Remarkable,’ said Joyce. ‘And valuable.’
‘Yes.’ Was that pointed? ‘She also left me Rudy, and some money to look after him. I didn’t want the money, I’d happily have taken Rudy on, but she willed the money in a trust, for insurance and food. And that’s what I spend it on. Insurance, and food. Nothing else, I swear.’
‘Who would think otherwise?’
Lorna sighed, and told her who.
‘Sam’s own brother assumes you’re looking after me with a view to inheriting my hidden fortune?’ She curled her lip.
‘Yes. But I’m not .’
Joyce raised her hand. ‘Why should I think you would, when it was me who made the deal in the first place? I’ve no hidden fortune to leave you, in any case. My dear, I would like to write back to this disgusting man and put him straight.’ Her eyes were alive with an energy Lorna hadn’t seen for several days. ‘I’ll enjoy that. I may have to get you to type it.’
The medal lay on the table between them, shining on its red satin bed. Lorna tipped it up. ‘I don’t deserve this.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because I wasn’t brave. I should have been with Betty at the end,’ she said. ‘My mum died alone, and I’ve always wished I could have b
een with her. I saw a counsellor who suggested I volunteer at the hospice and sit with people as they passed away, if they didn’t have anyone else.’ She bit her lip. ‘It’s why I had Betty’s medal framed and hung where I could see it. To remind me that I had no right to be scared of anything, really.’
Joyce didn’t respond at once, and Lorna knew what she was thinking. She was thinking it too.
‘I have made a plan for my death, Lorna,’ she said. ‘No, don’t shrink from that word. It’s going to happen sooner or later. I don’t want to be alone, but I’m determined that it won’t be a frightening place for anyone else. I want my departure to be my last creative act.’ She managed a smile. ‘My very last beautiful thing, if you like.’
Tears sprang into Lorna’s eyes. She had so much more to talk to Joyce about, so many more conversations to have, more projects to discuss, more advice to file away for later. The way Joyce was talking suggested she knew time was running out.
‘I don’t want to be rushed off to hospital,’ Joyce went on. ‘No monitors and tubes and people panicking. Ugh. I’d like to be here with my paintings, and music, and these lovely flowers round me. If you can do that, I’ll leave you whatever you like. Sell the lot, and keep your gallery open.’
‘Joyce, I don’t want anything. It would be an honour.’
‘You’re worried about the police coming to get you? Or this blackmailer?’ She jabbed at Gabriel’s letter.
Lorna smiled through her tears. ‘No, I’m worried that you’ll think it’s the only reason I’d do it. I’ll do everything I can to make you comfortable, because I care about you. I’m glad we met. I’m sorry we’ll have to part so soon.’
She threw caution to the wind and stretched out her hand to cover Joyce’s own crooked fingers. After a second, she felt Joyce’s fingers curl around hers, and there was an answering squeeze.
‘I’ll tell you one thing I regret, Lorna,’ said Joyce. ‘It’s not telling Bernard, my husband, that I loved him the very second I realised. I wasted too much time being proud of my independence, when in reality he had me from the start.’
‘Are you making a point?’
Joyce shook her head. ‘Only if you want to take it as such, my dear.’
At half-term, Jess brought her brood down to visit, and while Tiffany herded the little ones into the frame of the KnitCam, Ryan took Hattie to the cinema for a dad–daughter afternoon, and Lorna took Jess to Cake Expectations for Black Forest gateau, their childhood treat. Once they were on the vinyl banquette, Jess gave Lorna a potted update of the past few hectic weeks in the Prothero house.
‘I phoned her up,’ she confessed. ‘Erin. I knew Hattie wouldn’t leave it alone …’
‘She is your daughter.’
‘Yeah, so I said, look, we don’t have to be friends, but if the girls want to get to know each other, wouldn’t it be heartless to stop them? Erin’s got three sisters. I think she saw the sense in it.’
‘Well, that’s great.’
‘At least this way we can keep an eye on things.’ Jess squashed cake crumbs under her fork. ‘Ryan’s set up an account for Pearl for uni fees, if she wants them. Erin won’t take any money but you never know, do you?’ She shuddered. ‘Seventeen years of back maintenance, jeez. I made him sell that fancy bike he bought himself – that’s started it off.’
‘Good for him. Least he’s facing up to it. And you two?’
‘We’re talking to a counsellor. She told us to go on dates, because we missed out first time. So we are. We got one of those cinema passes but we’ve had to upgrade because neither of us can deal with the limited leg room.’
‘Good!’
‘And Ryan was talking about going out for a drink with Sam later – he’s trying to get hold of him.’ Jess looked enquiring. ‘How are … things?’
‘With Sam? You’re way out of the loop. Sam’s virtually living in Highgate now. I’ve kind of been seeing the guy from the council, Calum.’
‘And is that going somewhere?’
‘Maybe. He’s nice. He’s here.’ Lorna jabbed her cherry on her fork. She’d been saving it for last, on a blob of cream.
Jess didn’t respond. ‘You know what the problem about saving the best till last is?’ she asked, sneaking her fork towards Lorna’s plate. ‘Sometimes it looks like you’re leaving it, rather than saving it.’
Lorna put the cherry in her mouth in one go, before Jess could snatch it.
‘That’s better,’ said Jess approvingly.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was the dogs who knew first, long before Lorna or the nurses, or maybe even Joyce herself.
Bernard lost his bounce shortly after the Protheros went home, to the point where Lorna took him up to George the vet to check he wasn’t ill.
‘This is a fine specimen of a terrier,’ George pronounced as Bernard listlessly allowed him to prod and poke him. ‘Great nick for his age.’
‘How old is he?’ Joyce didn’t know; he’d been a rescue from the kennels on the way out of town.
‘About eleven, I’d say?’ George ruffled his scruff. ‘Any upheaval at home? Sometimes they can pick up on it. Sets them back.’
Poor Bernard, she thought, wondering when his muzzle had turned so grey.
She took him home via the delicatessen at the end of the high street, and splashed out on a bag of cheeses, Parma ham, a pillowy focaccia, and a bottle of wine. The knitting team had reached a key stage on Lorna’s flower spreadsheet – just three more streets to go and they’d have flowers in every major sector of the town! – but that wasn’t the real reason for the deli splurge. Lorna wanted to give Joyce a small treat every single day, something that made her glad to be alive. A new soap in her basin, or fresh flowers by her bed, or clean sheets. Treats for her senses.
Tiffany tucked into the picnic enthusiastically, full of stories from Butterfields about the latest arrival, ‘with a wolfhound , would you believe’, but after watching for a while, Lorna couldn’t help herself. She had to say something.
‘Joyce? Aren’t you hungry?’ There was a sliver of cheese and a deep pink flake of ham on Joyce’s plate, and she hadn’t even touched the bread. ‘Don’t you like it?’
‘It smells delicious.’ Joyce seemed confused. ‘But I’m afraid I just don’t feel hungry.’
‘Oh, but this is the best Manchego I’ve ever had!’ said Tiffany. ‘I don’t care about the calories. Go on, Joyce, try a little.’
‘I’m sorry, but no. I just … have no appetite.’
Lorna’s eyes met Joyce’s, and a sombre understanding passed between them. Lorna felt a marble knot in her stomach, cold and tightening with every breath.
In his basket by the window, where he was curled up with his sleek dachshund friend, Bernard groaned, and got up. He shook his shaggy head as if he couldn’t remember where he was; then, after a second’s pause, he walked over to the table and lay down again on Joyce’s slippered feet. As close to her as he could get.
The team of carers and medical experts around Joyce swung into action soon after lunch the following day.
Keir arrived with a friendly but practical nurse called Nina who sat with Joyce for an hour, talking to her in a relaxed tone that Lorna knew covered a multitude of jagged questions. While that conversation was going on, Keir took Lorna into the kitchen and opened a file of paperwork that made it pretty clear how the next few weeks were likely to pan out. DNR forms, pain relief, end-of-life care plans, wills.
We’re now one of Keir’s thick files, Lorna thought in shock, seeing him go through the stack of documents. How quickly it mounted up. How much paperwork was required for something as simple as breathing; one moment you’re your own person, the next you need all this.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said as she put her head in her hands to cover a surge of sorrow that seemed to flood her entire body. ‘We’ll know more when we get these blood tests back. Nina’s the best. She’s like the SAS of palliative-care nurses. She’ll co-ordinate everything for you �
� hospital, meds, care team, carer’s allowance, the lot – so you can get on with the really important stuff.’
‘What, like the knitting?’ Lorna put on a brave face, assuming that’s what he meant. ‘It’s taking our minds off this nicely.’
‘No, just being there,’ said Keir. ‘We’ll worry about Joyce’s body; you take care of her soul.’ His eyes filled with sadness, and he put a hand over his mouth. ‘God, sorry. I’m so unprofessional. But when I think of her on her own in that dark old house …’
‘She was never on her own,’ said Lorna, through her tears. ‘She had more than we knew.’
Over the next few days, KnitCam was never still, as Lorna whipped her volunteers into constant action. It was her deal with the universe: if she could somehow get every flower Joyce had designed to spring into woolly life, the inevitable could be held back.
Community nurses arrived daily now, motherly ladies called Sue and Pat who greeted everyone like old friends with their cheerful smiles, discreetly gauging and probing while they chatted away about garter stitch. But even they couldn’t stop the silent weeds creeping through Joyce’s tough body. One morning Lorna took her breakfast cup of tea in, to find Joyce crying, silent tears of fury running down her face as she slumped on the floor by the en-suite door; she couldn’t walk any further.
‘I’m trapped,’ she sobbed, shaking her hands in a rare flash of bitterness. ‘I can’t come downstairs to the gallery! I’m useless!’
‘We’ll come to you, Joyce,’ said Lorna, and moved what she could upstairs – paintings, the webcam, the afternoon meeting about stock. Her bedroom was already a still life composed of Joyce’s possessions; it reminded Lorna of an Elizabethan portrait, every detail a clue to the subject’s character and past. But two days later, Nina had conjured up a temporary stairlift and sent workmen to install it, and the relief on Joyce’s face, that her lifeline to people and art and the outside world was still there, gave Lorna a nudge – she had to keep Joyce’s world as broad and outward-facing as she could, for as long as she could.