long time since she lost herself in music. Since she lost herself. She turns her attention to the bed, to her husband. He who went through middle age and then old age. He who did the best he could with the heart he’d been given. He who now lies thinned and wearily turning to stone. You bow your head. You raise it a moment later and the curtains are thrown open, the bed stripped and empty. And again the voices: “I tried to get here. I’m so sorry. The train from London…” “It’s all right. It was a rapid deterioration.” (Another voice, then, dryly authoritative, and saying: “It will be rapid. You must prepare yourself. If you have children…”.) “What will you do now?” “It’s going to be quiet without him. Who’s going to look after the garden?” “Come and live with us. We’ve plenty of room.” “All that way at my age?” “He always said it was the back of beyond.” “Anywhere but here was the back of beyond.” “They say you shouldn’t do anything rash at a time like this, but come and live with us.” “I can’t leave. It’s my home. Everyone is here.” You withdraw from this lonely hour. You cross the landing to the smaller bedroom. It has recently been painted in bright summery blue and a faint aroma is still about. It has little by way of furniture. Some drawers, a small desk. A bed for an infant. On the wall an old oval mirror hanging on a chain. A young woman quietly closes a thick book of fairytales. She looks upon the child with a depth of affection. Gently she strokes his brow. And once more the voices: “What happens next?” “Tomorrow. It’s a long story, and you’re tired.” “It’ll have a happy ending. Does it have a happy ending?” “I expect so.” “Do you like it here? I like it here. I like our old house but I like it here.” “I like it too. Not that mirror, though. I think we’ll get rid of that.” “Why?” “It’s not ours. And it looks like it belongs in a junkshop.” “Whose is it?” “The lady who lived here before.” “Is she still here?”
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