‘I didn’t try, love.’

Over the river (Shakespeare’s Avon!) and on to the MyPharm at the big supermarket to collect Helena’s meds. On the NHS, medicines used to be free with a small prescription fee, but now the system was pretty much like it had been in South Africa. You could queue for eight hours on your specified appointment day at the government depot for your generics, or you could buy your meds full price at the pharmacy and, depending on your medical scheme, you could claim some or most of the cost back. Petra knew what she wanted for Helena. The full course of medicines now, and no queueing.

When they’d discussed getting onto the MyHealth scheme, and Petra had pushed for the comprehensive cover for Helena, she hadn’t argued, even though it would cost precisely half her housing budget. The fact that she’d accepted the trade-off – full medical cover and a tiny, sunless ex-council flat in exchange for space, greenery and a future of essential services only – showed Petra that Helena was worried for the future, although she’d never admit it. That Helena had given up her light, her view of birds in a little garden, was privately devastating to Petra. If only Petra had made more of herself. Instead of fucking around trying to be an ‘artist’ all those years, Petra could have got a real job and be on a career path; she could have been renting a place with more than one bedroom and Helena wouldn’t have to stay here. God, if they’d stayed in South Africa and she’d been a lawyer or something, she could have owned a house with a separate cottage. But her father had screwed them both over. Apart from the fact that they could only spend his money here because of pension rules and exchange controls, his death had hit Helena harder than his disloyalty and she still hadn’t quite got over it, even though he had died more than ten years ago. Helena liked to pretend she was a free spirit, but she was supernaturally loyal – to her loves, to her vision, to her idea of what love and life should be – and Petra realised she’d inherited the same bull-headed idealism.

Then back towards the river and right at the Indian restaurant, she found a parking spot near enough to the door of Helena’s building. Next to a trio of men leaning against the wall, working on rolling a cigarette, long toms of Stella inserted in their coat pockets as if they were cupholders, the big billboard on the side of the convenience store was advertising three shows the Emscote Road commuters could watch on TV. The vast image was split into three – one with the leering skull face of a glacial zombie, one with a devil-horned witch, and one with the hideous, menacing face of the American president. Up close, the effect was quite overwhelming, and often Petra wondered if it was fair to show that to the children passing by to school every morning or the innocent folk nipping into the shop for a pint of milk.