rate, flat. They drank gingerly. Mauriceâs wife was confused, hoped her husband would recover without further bother. She clutched her hands together and kept blinking her eyes. He had been trouble before, but not quite like this; never in public. She came round the table to be with him. She didnât know whether to touch him. The occasion, more than the terror, confused her. Her wish, had she had one, was not that this hadnât happened, but that it had happened at home on an ordinary day. So many to choose from. Why did he have to?
Someone practical came forward, right into the middle; a woman with medical training, a course in the past, long or short. It was enough to give her confidence to deal with Maurice. Sylvie spoke to her briefly and let her attend to him. She turned and cleared the plates away quietly, brushed the crumbs from the tablecloth. The evening was too far on to be cleansed, but she tried. The minutes were long, which was dangerous for Maurice, but for everyone else a remission. Some of them talked in low voices; just phrases exchanged, not sustained conversation. The three on the distant tables were silent. Their appetite was gone. They abandoned their food and stared at their plates. They werenât voyeuristic. Sylvie respected their restraint. She wouldnât disturb it. Outside it was peaceful.
âItâs here.â It was Maude who announced this, hurrying in from the hall, on her high heels. They already knew. The siren â in the distance â then growing louder, the wheels and the motor, the tyres on the gravel, the jarring of doors sliding and slamming, ambulance doors, the same the worldover. The paramedics came in with the draught, a man and a woman. They smelled of fresh air and canvas and rubber. Their colour was green; cold and practical, in the warmth of the room. Nothing else was green, only the stems and the scent of the lilies. They set to. Incredibly quick they were, wielding equipment, kitting him out. They left with the bulky form on the stretcher. Maude took Mauriceâs wife by the elbow, guided her. In spite of Maude, she was flustered and seemed to take a long time to get to the door.
Once the outside sounds died away, the party round the table changed shape. The space in the middle gaped, but at either end people shifted, pushed back their chairs or huddled together, flexed their shoulders, stretched their legs, started to talk.
âHave a fag.â
âI could use one.â
âShit. This lighterâs buggered.â
âUse the candle.â
âCheers.â
âChrist. What an evening.â
âPoor sod.â
âPoor old Maurice.â
âHe didnât deserve this.â
âNot this way.â
Sylvie hung back from the table. They didnât want her. They needed to pretend that the restaurant had vanished and they were back in the office.
âDidnât look too clever, did he?â
âWhat are his chances?â
âNot great. Canât be, can they?â
âGone already, I thought.â
âYou can tell from the colour.â
âIt was too much for him.â
âThe strain of the evening.â
âThe thought of retiring.â
âHe didnât want to.â
âLooks like he wonât have to.â
âHow old
was
he?â
âMust have been seventy.â
âOver, surely.â
âHe got overwrought.â
âVery emotional.â
âHeavy on the drink.â
âI noticed that.â
âBad business.â
âBad for his wife.â
âI canât believe it, I just canât believe it.â
âHe just keeled over.â
âPissed himself.â
âDid he?â
âHere comes the coffee.â
Paul had come in looking oddly patrician, Maude in his wake with a tray. He spoke to a few of them, as he went round the table: well-chosen words, fairly grave. He didnât say drinks on the house, but
Someone practical came forward, right into the middle; a woman with medical training, a course in the past, long or short. It was enough to give her confidence to deal with Maurice. Sylvie spoke to her briefly and let her attend to him. She turned and cleared the plates away quietly, brushed the crumbs from the tablecloth. The evening was too far on to be cleansed, but she tried. The minutes were long, which was dangerous for Maurice, but for everyone else a remission. Some of them talked in low voices; just phrases exchanged, not sustained conversation. The three on the distant tables were silent. Their appetite was gone. They abandoned their food and stared at their plates. They werenât voyeuristic. Sylvie respected their restraint. She wouldnât disturb it. Outside it was peaceful.
âItâs here.â It was Maude who announced this, hurrying in from the hall, on her high heels. They already knew. The siren â in the distance â then growing louder, the wheels and the motor, the tyres on the gravel, the jarring of doors sliding and slamming, ambulance doors, the same the worldover. The paramedics came in with the draught, a man and a woman. They smelled of fresh air and canvas and rubber. Their colour was green; cold and practical, in the warmth of the room. Nothing else was green, only the stems and the scent of the lilies. They set to. Incredibly quick they were, wielding equipment, kitting him out. They left with the bulky form on the stretcher. Maude took Mauriceâs wife by the elbow, guided her. In spite of Maude, she was flustered and seemed to take a long time to get to the door.
Once the outside sounds died away, the party round the table changed shape. The space in the middle gaped, but at either end people shifted, pushed back their chairs or huddled together, flexed their shoulders, stretched their legs, started to talk.
âHave a fag.â
âI could use one.â
âShit. This lighterâs buggered.â
âUse the candle.â
âCheers.â
âChrist. What an evening.â
âPoor sod.â
âPoor old Maurice.â
âHe didnât deserve this.â
âNot this way.â
Sylvie hung back from the table. They didnât want her. They needed to pretend that the restaurant had vanished and they were back in the office.
âDidnât look too clever, did he?â
âWhat are his chances?â
âNot great. Canât be, can they?â
âGone already, I thought.â
âYou can tell from the colour.â
âIt was too much for him.â
âThe strain of the evening.â
âThe thought of retiring.â
âHe didnât want to.â
âLooks like he wonât have to.â
âHow old
was
he?â
âMust have been seventy.â
âOver, surely.â
âHe got overwrought.â
âVery emotional.â
âHeavy on the drink.â
âI noticed that.â
âBad business.â
âBad for his wife.â
âI canât believe it, I just canât believe it.â
âHe just keeled over.â
âPissed himself.â
âDid he?â
âHere comes the coffee.â
Paul had come in looking oddly patrician, Maude in his wake with a tray. He spoke to a few of them, as he went round the table: well-chosen words, fairly grave. He didnât say drinks on the house, but
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