“Is that her?” I’m pointing to a framed photograph on the table beside Bert’s armchair. It is a black-and-white wedding picture of a young couple dancing together; the bride in a floor-length gown, bridal train held in one of her hands, the groom in top hat and tails grinning at her. Bert reaches past the old record player and stacks of LPs to pick it up, smiling.
“That’s right. Our wedding day, July 14, 1953. We were dancing to Billie Holiday singing ‘Blue Moon.’”
“It’s a lovely photo.”
“She’s a lovely woman. We’ve been married for thirty-odd years. And they really have been ‘odd’ years hah!” He laughs, seemingly delighted with his joke, then his countenance softens as he leans toward Alice.
“Talking of odd—Alice love, I don’t know what to tell youabout those people that have been gathering out there. Do you know what the word ‘tricoteuse’ means?”
She shakes her head.
“It’s French. It means ‘knitter.’ Historically, it was used to describe the women who would sit beside the guillotine and knit to keep their hands busy while heads rolled during the Revolution.”
“Urgh.” Alice pulls a face. “Why?”
“For many reasons, but mostly for sport. They would often sit so close they would get splattered with the blood of whichever unfortunate aristocrats had met the blade. That’s who they are, these gawkers. They’re like vultures, circling.”
I help myself to another iced tea as the conversation washes back and forth. I’m surprised to find myself close to tears—it’s that wedding photo, I think, the two of them brimming with hope and optimism, glad-eyed and joyful. The way Bert is looking at Mary in that picture, the way his face lights up. I don’t think Oscar has ever looked at me that way.
“Hey, Bert. Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” I say, hoping my voice stays steady.
“Top of the stairs. There’s a sign on the door if you’re not sure which one.”
Alice laughs again.
“‘If you sprinkle when you tinkle—’”
“‘—be a sweet and wipe the seat!’” Bert finishes and the two of them grin at each other.
Once upstairs I draw a few deep breaths with my back pressed against the bathroom door, hand clamped over my mouth to stop the tears spilling out of control. It’s hard to know if I’m upset because of Oscar’s affair or because I’m so afraid of what I will be once I have lost everything. I’ve barely known myadult life without him. There’s fear there, of course, but I also feel a guilty spark of excitement, at the thrill of rediscovering who I am, the things I like. After a few moments I inhale shakily and splash my face with cold water, patting the skin beneath my eyes with a folded tissue.
I find myself hesitating before heading back downstairs. Along the hallway are three doors, and if I’m calculating correctly the middle one will border Alice and Tamsin’s bedroom next door. That’s where it came from. SOS. It’s like an itch I can’t resist scratching.
Forget it.
I almost do. Instead, at the last moment, I walk very quietly to the second doorway and stand outside it, listening. Downstairs I can hear Bert and Alice talking animatedly, voices overlapping, laughter. Fern was right, this is good for her. I put my fingers around the doorknob and it turns so easily I am almost sure it was already open. I tell myself I will just check on Mary because it’s the responsible thing to do, and if she’s asleep, then no harm, no foul.
“Mrs. Roscow?” I whisper. “Mary? Is everything all right?”
Silence.
“Mrs. Roscow?”
Inside the bedroom the light is bright and clean and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the glare. I take in the primrose-yellow walls, the soft watercolor paintings, and the rounded, velvet headboard. They are in stark contrast to the commode chair in the corner and the nebuliser on the bedside table, the crisp smell of sanitation. In Eddie’s last days the smell of his room was like this—clinical, disinfectant and bleach, the dry heat of the oxygen pump, rubber bed sheets, latex gloves.
“Mrs. Roscow?”
The figure in the bed is turned away from me, facing the window. I can hear the rasp of her breathing, how wet and painful it sounds. One pale hand lies on top of the covers.
“Mary?”
She must be asleep because she isn’t reacting to the sound of my voice. I am about to slip silently back out the door when something draws my attention. I edge slowly around the bed, discomfort tightening like a metal band around my ribs. The net curtains flutter slightly as I brush past. I’m no longer looking at the sleeping figure in the bed. I’m staring at the wall above the bedside table where the nebuliser sits with its bulb of yellowing rubber the color of nicotine.
Black smudges on the paintwork in crescent moon shapes, a few inches long. Scuff marks. As if made with an object, perhaps a walking stick or the heel of a shoe. Someonehasbeen hitting the wall. Tapping out a message, maybe. That discomfort pulls in another notch. I look down at Mary and that’s when the floor seems to fall away from me, fear squeezing my throat so tightly I see stars.
She is looking right at me, pinprick pupils floating on irises the pale gray of snow clouds. There is no surprise on her face, no nervousness or fear. Just a simple weariness, mouth unhinged and hanging open, showing stubs of yellowing teeth. Her skin is very pale and creased as crumpled linen.
“Mary! I didn’t mean to wake you. Are you okay? Do you want me to get Bert?”