then, I might never have met Elisabeth. The thought often fills me with panic.
“Coffee, if that’s okay? I’ll be in here.” I indicated a room designated as the library, though stocked only with Mills and Boon paperbacks, Reader’s Digest magazines and large-print Western novels.
I scanned the chipboard bookcases for a real book, then gave up. I sat down in a big, comfortable armchair and stared out at the snow. A minute later the coffee arrived. The nurse intuited that I wished to be left alone.
I drank the coffee and gazed at my reflection in the glass. I felt like a patient, or rather a “guest”.
I think I was weeping when I heard, “It is depressing, isn’t it?”
The voice shocked me. She was standing behind my chair, gripping a steaming mug and smiling.
I dashed away a tear, overcome with irritation at the interruption.
She sat down in the chair next to mine. I guessed she was about my age—around thirty— though I learned later that she was thirty-five. She was broad and short with dark hair bobbed, like brackets, around a pleasant, homely face.
“I know what it’s like. My mother’s a guest here. She’s senile.” She had a direct way of speaking that I found refreshing.
“My father has Alzheimer’s,” I said. “He’s been in here for the past year.”
She rolled her eyes. “God! The repetition! I sometimes just want to strangle her. I suppose I shouldn’t be saying that, should I? The thing is, we were so close. I love her dearly.”
I found myself saying, “In time, when she dies and returns, her memory will—” I stopped, alarmed by something in her expression.
It was as if I had slapped her.
Her smile persisted, but it was a brave one now in the face of adversity. She shook her head. “She isn’t implanted. She refused.”
“Is she religious?”
“No,” she said, “just stubborn. And fearful. She doesn’t trust the Kéthani.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, as if to dismiss the matter. “I’m Elisabeth, by the way. Elisabeth Carstairs.”
She reached out a hand, and, a little surprised at the forthright gesture, I took it. I never even thought to tell her my own name.
She kept hold of my hand, turning it over like an expert palm reader. Only later did I come to realise that she was as lonely as I was: the difference being, of course, that Elisabeth had hope, something I had given up long ago.
“Don’t tell me,” she said, examining my weather-raw fingers. “You’re a farmer, right?”
I smiled. “Wrong. I build and repair dry-stone walls.”
She laughed. “Well, I was almost there, wasn’t I? You do work outdoors, with your hands.”
“What do you do?” I would never have asked normally, but something in her manner put me at ease. She did not threaten.
“I teach English. The comprehensive over at Bradley.”
“Then you must know Jeff Morrow. He’s a friend.”
“You know Jeff? What a small world.”
“We meet in the Fleece every Tuesday.” I shrugged. “Creatures of habit.”
She glanced at her watch and pulled a face. “I really should be getting off. It’s been nice talking...” She paused, looking quizzical.
I was slow on the uptake, then realised. “Ben,” I said. “Ben Knightly. Look, I’m driving into the village. I can give you a lift if you—”
She jangled car keys. “Thanks anyway.”
I stood to leave, nodding awkwardly, and for the first time she could see the left-hand side of my face.
She stared, something stricken in her eyes, at where my implant should have been.
I hurried from the nursing home and into the raw winter wind, climbed into my battered ten-year-old Sherpa van and drove away at speed.
The following evening, just as I was about to set off to the Fleece, the phone rang. I almost ignored it, but it might have been a prospective customer, and I was going through a lean spell.
“Hello, Ben Knightly? Elisabeth here, Elisabeth Carstairs. We met yesterday.”
“Of course, yes.” My
“Coffee, if that’s okay? I’ll be in here.” I indicated a room designated as the library, though stocked only with Mills and Boon paperbacks, Reader’s Digest magazines and large-print Western novels.
I scanned the chipboard bookcases for a real book, then gave up. I sat down in a big, comfortable armchair and stared out at the snow. A minute later the coffee arrived. The nurse intuited that I wished to be left alone.
I drank the coffee and gazed at my reflection in the glass. I felt like a patient, or rather a “guest”.
I think I was weeping when I heard, “It is depressing, isn’t it?”
The voice shocked me. She was standing behind my chair, gripping a steaming mug and smiling.
I dashed away a tear, overcome with irritation at the interruption.
She sat down in the chair next to mine. I guessed she was about my age—around thirty— though I learned later that she was thirty-five. She was broad and short with dark hair bobbed, like brackets, around a pleasant, homely face.
“I know what it’s like. My mother’s a guest here. She’s senile.” She had a direct way of speaking that I found refreshing.
“My father has Alzheimer’s,” I said. “He’s been in here for the past year.”
She rolled her eyes. “God! The repetition! I sometimes just want to strangle her. I suppose I shouldn’t be saying that, should I? The thing is, we were so close. I love her dearly.”
I found myself saying, “In time, when she dies and returns, her memory will—” I stopped, alarmed by something in her expression.
It was as if I had slapped her.
Her smile persisted, but it was a brave one now in the face of adversity. She shook her head. “She isn’t implanted. She refused.”
“Is she religious?”
“No,” she said, “just stubborn. And fearful. She doesn’t trust the Kéthani.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, as if to dismiss the matter. “I’m Elisabeth, by the way. Elisabeth Carstairs.”
She reached out a hand, and, a little surprised at the forthright gesture, I took it. I never even thought to tell her my own name.
She kept hold of my hand, turning it over like an expert palm reader. Only later did I come to realise that she was as lonely as I was: the difference being, of course, that Elisabeth had hope, something I had given up long ago.
“Don’t tell me,” she said, examining my weather-raw fingers. “You’re a farmer, right?”
I smiled. “Wrong. I build and repair dry-stone walls.”
She laughed. “Well, I was almost there, wasn’t I? You do work outdoors, with your hands.”
“What do you do?” I would never have asked normally, but something in her manner put me at ease. She did not threaten.
“I teach English. The comprehensive over at Bradley.”
“Then you must know Jeff Morrow. He’s a friend.”
“You know Jeff? What a small world.”
“We meet in the Fleece every Tuesday.” I shrugged. “Creatures of habit.”
She glanced at her watch and pulled a face. “I really should be getting off. It’s been nice talking...” She paused, looking quizzical.
I was slow on the uptake, then realised. “Ben,” I said. “Ben Knightly. Look, I’m driving into the village. I can give you a lift if you—”
She jangled car keys. “Thanks anyway.”
I stood to leave, nodding awkwardly, and for the first time she could see the left-hand side of my face.
She stared, something stricken in her eyes, at where my implant should have been.
I hurried from the nursing home and into the raw winter wind, climbed into my battered ten-year-old Sherpa van and drove away at speed.
The following evening, just as I was about to set off to the Fleece, the phone rang. I almost ignored it, but it might have been a prospective customer, and I was going through a lean spell.
“Hello, Ben Knightly? Elisabeth here, Elisabeth Carstairs. We met yesterday.”
“Of course, yes.” My
Similar Books
