The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,142

betray her. Secretly, at first. But she’ll find out. There are no secrets down south. And he won’t last a season. I wish she could see this about him.

A knot of regret twists within me. I have to let go. Emma’s a great girl, but she’s not for me.

I finish my beer and leave.

36

The following morning, I’m in the kitchen chopping zucchini for soup when there’s a knock at the door. I open it, and Laura stands there shyly, arms folded, eyes flicking from my face to Jess and back to me.

‘Just thought I’d pop by and see how you were going,’ she says.

I shrug. ‘Thanks, I’ll be okay.’

She gives a small smile. ‘It’s a hard time. But things will improve. I lost both my parents a few years ago.’

She’s stating fact, not looking for sympathy. And her eyes are kind. I suppose her parents’ death explains why she looks after Mouse. There’s no-one else.

‘Mouse is coming home for the afternoon,’ she continues. ‘Today’s his birthday and they’re letting him out for a few hours. I was hoping you might come round with Jess. To help celebrate. Mouse loves dogs.’

I draw breath, wondering how to tactfully say no. In my current frame of mind, I’d rather not face company. The agony of stilted conversation. And Jess will be terrified of Mouse after that awful trip to the hospital. I look down at Jess as she pants up at me. ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure if Jess will let him pat her.’

Laura glances at Jess. ‘Mouse is different now,’ she says. ‘He’s on medication. It makes him calmer. I don’t think he’ll frighten her.’

I hesitate. Laura clearly does not understand the memory of a dog. ‘I suppose we can see how it goes . . . If she’s frightened, I’ll bring her back home.’

Laura’s face splits open with delight. ‘That’ll be wonderful. It’ll make Mouse’s day. Could you come at four? He should be settled in by then.’

During the afternoon, I try not to watch the clock, but the hands keep moving, and soon it’s four o’clock and we wander down the hill and across the road to Laura’s house. She flings open the door with frightening exuberance and my anxiety increases. She’s excited to see us, desperate to make a success of this occasion for Mouse. Jess and I step tentatively through the door and down the hallway to the lounge.

Mouse is sitting on the couch, his face shadowy. He appears dull and unresponsive, his body large and slack.

‘Mouse. Our visitors are here.’

Laura’s brightness seems forced, and when Mouse swings his eyes towards us, all I feel from him is disinterest.

‘This is Tom, our neighbour.’ Laura’s voice is high with enthusiasm. ‘And this is his dog, Jess.’

Mouse’s blank gaze takes me in without reaction, but when he glances down at Jess, sitting very close to my legs, something flickers across his face and I notice the fingers of one of his hands twitching where it lies open, palm up, on the couch.

Jess presses against me and watches Mouse carefully. She isn’t entirely at ease, but she’s not afraid either.

‘Happy Birthday, Mouse,’ I say.

Mouse ignores me. I hear him humming to himself and his lips are moving, but I can’t make out any words. The fingers of his hand continue to twitch, and I watch them, mesmerised, unsure what to say or do. Then Jess stands up and pads softly across the carpet, sniffs at Mouse’s fingers and lowers her head onto his hand. A sigh passes through both of them: Jess and Mouse. I hear it and so does Laura. She stands rapt, watching Mouse’s mouth as he mumbles incoherently to Jess, the spark of something in his eyes, the feathery twitching of his fingers beneath Jess’s chin.

My dog stands very still, her yellow eyes watching him. Her tail is waving very slightly, and she hasn’t shifted her head from his hand.

‘He hasn’t spoken in weeks,’ Laura whispers.

Mouse’s muttering doesn’t seem to equate with speech, but to Laura it’s obviously progress.

‘He’s been heavily sedated,’ she says. Her face is sad. ‘They’ve only just started to back off his dose. I thought Jess might help. Thank you so much for coming.’

She looks at me with tears shimmering in her eyes, and I feel sorry for her. For both of them. My grief is overwhelming, but it’s a temporary state, a loss and readjustment that is difficult, but not impossible. This poor man is so lost and so disconnected that he