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Authors: Louise Dean
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like a swallow making a circle of the sky, turning south for the winter.
13
G EORGE SLIPPED THE PLASTIC CARD into the slot of the key mechanism on their door three times but each time was too impatient, shoving the handle before the lights turned green. He knocked and called out.
'I say, Dorothy, it's me, let us in, I'm having no joy with this card thing.' He waited, licked his lips, he was dry, dry as a bone. When he thought of Dorothy he thought of a nice cup of tea waiting for him. He kicked the door softly, 'Come on dear, pull yourself together, get a move on.'
He tried the card once more, took his time and stumbled into the room that was being blown by the rapidly turning fans. There were loose papers from the hotel brochures all over the floor. He called her name again and stepped on to the balcony. She wasn't there. Probably she'd popped out for a spot of lunch. His watch showed three. The beds were made, tidy as a stack of fresh lumber. He'd just have a little lie-down while he waited for her, rest his eyes.
14
T HE LITTLE OLD LADY —her daughters called her 'Mrs Tiggy-Winkle'—attracted only a little attention as she left the main gates of the resort. Perhaps one or two of the staff were surprised to see that she wore a coat in
the blazing heat. Nobody noticed her stand opposite the gates for a quarter of an hour or so as if she were a passing stranger considering it as a subject for a little sketch. She began to walk on the right-hand side of the road. She was pleased to discover that there was no traffic.
Over the years, a few times, Dorothy had gone to the door, picked up her bag and her hat and coat and buttoned up to leave them all. The buttoning had seemed to take forever, her jaw moving all the while, grinding grievance. Once or twice she'd gone to the end of the road and stood at the bus stop, blinking, her chest heaving with the phlegm caught in her lungs. Each time, the bus came and went and she'd let it go on its way and gone back home. It was no easier to go back than to leave.
Now, she was faced with a long slow incline, a hill that promised to reach a plateau. Ahead of her, she saw the swishing sugar canes, shaking shaggy haircuts. The heat was intense. She had no idea what the time was as she'd left her watch behind. The walk was slow and tiring, so soon. She was old and useless, just like they all told her, but there was no point in getting upset over that. When she reached the plateau and saw the sugar fields stretching golden and righteous ahead of her, and to her left and right and beyond them at the sides a blue which might be both land and sea, she took her coat off, folded it neatly, then popped it under a tall hedgerow. She took a swig from the little bottle of water she'd brought, swilling it around her dry mouth,
up in front of her teeth, feeling it loosen her gums. She pulled the fabric under her arms away from the skin and stepped onwards.
She had had to warn them, the girls and George, about herself, without really saying anything; she didn't want anyone to panic. She knew it was coming on before the doctor did, whatever it was they called it. The bloody wicked thing was she couldn't remember the name of it! You had to laugh. She wasn't stupid, she'd been a bright young thing, read everything she got her hands on, always in the library, before George. She could remember that place in such detail, all the different smells, the listed rules, the little catalogue cards in dark blue, titles in capitals, author in small letters, the dank promising smell between the shelves, then the yeasty smell of the books themselves and the Lily of the Valley on the head librarian when you went to get your library card stamped. She used to think that the gate to heaven would be like that, kindly but official with the smell of flowers. All of that she could bring to mind, and much of her childhood with it, but she couldn't remember the name of her own illness! There were lots of words that had
13
G EORGE SLIPPED THE PLASTIC CARD into the slot of the key mechanism on their door three times but each time was too impatient, shoving the handle before the lights turned green. He knocked and called out.
'I say, Dorothy, it's me, let us in, I'm having no joy with this card thing.' He waited, licked his lips, he was dry, dry as a bone. When he thought of Dorothy he thought of a nice cup of tea waiting for him. He kicked the door softly, 'Come on dear, pull yourself together, get a move on.'
He tried the card once more, took his time and stumbled into the room that was being blown by the rapidly turning fans. There were loose papers from the hotel brochures all over the floor. He called her name again and stepped on to the balcony. She wasn't there. Probably she'd popped out for a spot of lunch. His watch showed three. The beds were made, tidy as a stack of fresh lumber. He'd just have a little lie-down while he waited for her, rest his eyes.
14
T HE LITTLE OLD LADY —her daughters called her 'Mrs Tiggy-Winkle'—attracted only a little attention as she left the main gates of the resort. Perhaps one or two of the staff were surprised to see that she wore a coat in
the blazing heat. Nobody noticed her stand opposite the gates for a quarter of an hour or so as if she were a passing stranger considering it as a subject for a little sketch. She began to walk on the right-hand side of the road. She was pleased to discover that there was no traffic.
Over the years, a few times, Dorothy had gone to the door, picked up her bag and her hat and coat and buttoned up to leave them all. The buttoning had seemed to take forever, her jaw moving all the while, grinding grievance. Once or twice she'd gone to the end of the road and stood at the bus stop, blinking, her chest heaving with the phlegm caught in her lungs. Each time, the bus came and went and she'd let it go on its way and gone back home. It was no easier to go back than to leave.
Now, she was faced with a long slow incline, a hill that promised to reach a plateau. Ahead of her, she saw the swishing sugar canes, shaking shaggy haircuts. The heat was intense. She had no idea what the time was as she'd left her watch behind. The walk was slow and tiring, so soon. She was old and useless, just like they all told her, but there was no point in getting upset over that. When she reached the plateau and saw the sugar fields stretching golden and righteous ahead of her, and to her left and right and beyond them at the sides a blue which might be both land and sea, she took her coat off, folded it neatly, then popped it under a tall hedgerow. She took a swig from the little bottle of water she'd brought, swilling it around her dry mouth,
up in front of her teeth, feeling it loosen her gums. She pulled the fabric under her arms away from the skin and stepped onwards.
She had had to warn them, the girls and George, about herself, without really saying anything; she didn't want anyone to panic. She knew it was coming on before the doctor did, whatever it was they called it. The bloody wicked thing was she couldn't remember the name of it! You had to laugh. She wasn't stupid, she'd been a bright young thing, read everything she got her hands on, always in the library, before George. She could remember that place in such detail, all the different smells, the listed rules, the little catalogue cards in dark blue, titles in capitals, author in small letters, the dank promising smell between the shelves, then the yeasty smell of the books themselves and the Lily of the Valley on the head librarian when you went to get your library card stamped. She used to think that the gate to heaven would be like that, kindly but official with the smell of flowers. All of that she could bring to mind, and much of her childhood with it, but she couldn't remember the name of her own illness! There were lots of words that had
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