And I had promises to keep. The second I saw the wheelchair, I knew this was going to be a bigger task than I’d counted on. It was…well, it was huge.
“I know,” Claire said. “I hate it too.”
“It’s just so…”
Claire was sitting on the sofa and we were both staring at the ugly, hideous big National Health Service wheelchair that we both knew so well from trips through hospital corridors, to operating rooms and blood-testing departments, with jaunty porters who always had a cheery word. But now it was just us.
“Well, I’m sure I can fold it up,” I said, not sure at all. I’m only five foot three and a bit wobbly on the one side.
“And people will be kind,” said Claire firmly.
I looked at her. She’d lost even more weight; the bones on her face made her look like one of those ballet dancers from the opera. Blue veins were visible underneath her skin, except on her arms, where repeated stabbings had caused them all to retreat and hide. The story was that she was off the chemo so she could get well enough to operate on. She insisted this was the case, but she didn’t look better to me. Not at all.
She didn’t wear a scarf or a turban in the house, and I inspected her head. It was covered in a tiny fuzz, like a duckling’s.
“I reckon Cath could do something with that,” I said, but she didn’t smile. I noticed she didn’t like to get too far away from her drip, which usually indicated, psychologically, that she was in pain.
“How are you feeling?” I asked softly, even though I knew it was a question she got asked ninety times every day.
“Well, I’d be a bit better if everyone didn’t keep telling me not to go,” she said, almost snappily for Claire, who never snapped, not even when I burst into tears over my inability to grasp the subjunctive (a really stupid tense they have in French solely for shouting at people).
“We’ll be fine,” I said with renewed vigor. “We shall charm every porter from here to the Gare du Nord.”
She gave me a slight smile and her hand fluttered a little to her neck.
“He…he knows I’m coming.”
“He does,” I said. “It’s the first time he’s smiled since his heart attack.”
I didn’t tell her about Alice and Laurent. I would deal with all that later.
I looked at the large suitcase Patsy had packed, under duress. It contained an oxygen cylinder we would have to declare at customs. I was terrified of it and the situation in which I might have to use it. I was terrified, full stop. What if they didn’t let us go? That might even be better, part of me thought. Then we could say we’d tried our best and that was that, and now they could talk like sensible people, on Skype, and I could go back and work the shop back up for Thierry and after that…well, come home, I suppose. Go flatting with Cath again, figure something out. I’d worry about that when it happened. But for now…one thing at a time.
“I only have a small bag,” I said, although my mum had loaded me up with bacon and cheddar cheese and anything else she heard I couldn’t get ahold of easily. She felt I was fading away. The idea of changing in London scared the crap out of me. I didn’t know London at all, and it didn’t open itself up to walking in it the same way Paris did, but I’d worry about that later too.
We were leaving Tuesday morning. I had Sunday lunch at Mum and Dad’s, made conversation with my brothers, saw a lot of Cath and tried to persuade her to come and visit me—I reckoned her and Sami would get on, even if they didn’t speak the same language, but she’d gotten unusually sheepish.
“Neh,” she’d said. “I don’t think it’s for me.”
We were walking down by the canal on Monday night, looking for something to do. It was warm out still.
“You’d love it,” I said. “There’s a party every night and champagne everywhere and it’s really beautiful and I live right at the top of this spooky old house.”
She turned to me sadly.
“You’re dead brave, you are,” she said. “Everyone thinks you’re the quiet one, but it’s not like that really.”
“Don’t be daft,” I said. “You’re the one who jumped into the canal fully clothed that New Year’s. I thought you’d kill yourself.”
Cath shook her head.
“Oh, it’s one thing hanging around here,” she said. “Out there…neh. You might as well take me to the Amazon jungle. This is where I belong, Anna. Along with the shitty shopping trolley in the canal, and Gav, and me mam and everything really. You’re not like that.”
“Course I am,” I said.
“Neh,” she said. “You are the brave one.”
And we linked arms and walked back home together.
- - -
Seven a.m. and my dad was running the car outside. It had suddenly turned cold and he was sounding very cross. Our train wasn’t till twenty past eight, but I had decided better to be safe than sorry, which was just as well, as we were having a heck of a job trying to fold the wheelchair into the trunk of the car, and I was starting to wish I hadn’t bothered and wondering whether the very first half hour was an acceptable time to give up the trip altogether.
Dad got out and helped me, while Claire sat in the front seat, the seat belt almost flat against her, so thin was she now. I’d locked up the house—it was immaculate, the fridge empty, which I found slightly off-putting. She’d be back in three days. This felt like an empty house. But I wasn’t going to argue with Patsy (again).
Claire watched us in the rearview mirror swearing and sweating as we tried to maneuver the wheelchair in by taking down the backseats, but we still weren’t having much luck. We were going to be very tight for the train as it was. And the London train went from the opposite platform. I could feel myself starting to panic.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing, love?” said my dad quietly, to which I could only reply, “I haven’t got a clue, Dad.”
Being my dad, he just patted me on the shoulder, and that was the best thing to do. Even so, it wasn’t boding well.
Suddenly up the quiet street glided a very large, very quiet car. You didn’t see one of those often around Kidinsborough; it looked to be one of those enormous Range Rover things, all shiny black. It slowed down next to us and a distinguished-looking man stepped out beside us on the pavement, dressed in a smart tweed jacket.