Chapters (41)
- Finetta, 1964
- Enid, 1964
- Enid, 1964
- Enid, 1921
- Enid, 1921
- Enid, 1964
- Enid, 1921
- Joan, 1921
- Enid, 1921
- Enid, 1921
- Joan, 1922
- Enid, 1922
- Enid, 1922
- Joan, 1922
- Enid, 1923
- Enid, 1924
- Enid, 1964
- Enid, 1924
- Enid, 1925
- Enid, 1964
- Finetta, 1964
- Enid, 1926
- Enid, 1926
- Enid, 1926
- Enid, 1926
- Joan, 1926
- Enid, 1926
- Enid, 1926
- Joan, 1927
- Enid, 1927
- Enid, 1928
- Joan, 1929
- Enid, 1929
- Enid, 1964
- Enid, 1930
- Enid, 1931
- Enid, 1964
- Enid, 1964
- Finetta, 1964
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgements
Enid balled her hand into a fist, it jerked against the stick sending it flying once more. Her heart smashed against her ribs – seeing him in the Rolls, watching him not turn around, twenty-five years of silence. “You’re certain?”
Carol picked it up again. “That’s what she said.”
This was what Joan used to do. “She’s doing it on purpose.” An uncommon sweat sprang over the dry parchment of her back, and her temples pressed in on her brain.
“Who’s doing what on purpose?” Carol’s fat face was too close again.
“Finetta.” Enid turned her head the other way. “Hurting me.”
Carol hooked her hand under Enid’s elbow. “Why don’t you lie down for a bit? I could get you a nice drink of milk.”
“I don’t want milk,” she snapped, pulling her arm free. “My stick.”
Carol put it in her hands. “Where do you want to go?”
“I need to telephone.”
“She already said she’ll bring the shortbread.”
“Shortbread?” She tried to stand but she wasn’t getting anywhere. She grabbed Carol’s wrist.
“Has he been abroad?” Carol put her other hand on Enid’s and helped her up. Enid shoved her stick out in front of her and took a step. “Why is he coming?”
“I expect he wants to see you,” said Carol, gently.
“But I don’t have any sons.”
Carol let out a puff of breath. “Well I’m sure I don’t know. Why don’t you let me telephone?” She halted on the carpet, halfway across the room, the dress shoved into the crease of her elbow. “You don’t have any sons?”
“You must tell her I’m not well.” Enid marched another step across the room.
Carol took a sudden left turn and steered Enid towards the bed. “There’s no need for you to come all the way to the office. I’ll be done with my rounds in a tick and then I’ll do it. Have a lie down ’till lunch. I’ll come and get you.”
“I don’t want to lie down.” They treated patients like imbeciles, as if upset could be cured by raised feet, but like a toy released, Enid found herself propelled towards the bed, unable to halt and turn, a victim of the rush of her brain, her very own Gallipoli, alive with a carnage she couldn’t stop.
“Tell her I’m not feeling well today.” She reached the bed. Her hands touched the counterpane.
“Of course you’re not. I can see that. I’ll come back and check on you in half an hour,” said Carol. She whipped across the room and shut the door behind her.
Enid, 1964
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Enid, 1964