They shut the door behind them. She stood for a while longer in the middle of the room, staring at the door, listening as their footsteps grew faint. Then she walked slowly to the chairs still grouped around the tea tray. She hauled and dragged her chair back to the window. It took her ages; she had to stop twice and sit down on it, halted at a peculiar angle on the rug. When she finally got it into place, she dropped her stick in the effort to squeeze between the chair and the window. She’d pushed it too close, her legs were cramped, but she squashed in anyway, sat down and left her stick lying there on the carpet out of reach. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t planning on getting up.

Finetta, 1964

39

Finetta, 1964

The generations of sculpting that had refined her marble beauty to perfection remained intact and unmoved as she followed Ian away from their mother’s room. She kissed him goodbye in the foyer. “That’s that then.”

“See you for lunch. Let’s make it twice yearly, shall we?”

“Let’s.”

“And I’ll look into that house in Newbury.”

“I’d like that.”

She watched him walk across the car park to his Aston Martin, his back straight, his suit well-cut, the keys jangling in his hands. Then she went along to the office and popped her head around the door. “I’ve got to get something from my car – I won’t be a minute. I’ll call you when we’ve finished our tea.”

“Is she feeling better?” said Mandy.

“Oh, much better,” said Finetta.

When she was sure Ian had driven away, she went out to her car and got the quilt from the passenger seat. The tissue paper crunched as she held it snug against her chest. She carried it along the hall, past the office, up the three twisting stairs and along the corridor to her mother’s room. Enid had managed to move her chair back to the window. God, the strength of that woman when she needed it.

She seemed to be sleeping. She didn’t move as Finetta crossed the room; she was completely still. Her stick was on the floor again – Finetta picked it up, and hooked it over the end of the bed. The file was still there where she’d left it, closed and put aside. She shut it away in the bedside cupboard. Built over by flats. She hadn’t known that either. Ian had never said. She’d never asked. They never talked about him. That was the most they’d talked about him since it happened.