me the other day. You sounded overwhelmed.’
She had been. But her comfort zone was expanding, and the National Gallery was her new favourite place. ‘I’m doing okay.’
‘You’d tell me if you weren’t?’
Tell him anything he wanted to know about her. All he’d ever have to do was ask.
‘I would.’
*
‘What about you? How are your grandparents?’
Henry hesitated. Silence had always been his go-to when he was wrestling with something, but Tilly had a way about her that invited him to share. ‘Nothing more than what you warned me about,’ he said finally, and she raised her eyebrows and waited—a gesture she’d learned from him. ‘Beth’s a worry. She thinks I’m her brother sometimes—which is good, because from what I can gather she was fond of him and doesn’t criticise; and bad, because she’s a little bit further along the Alzheimer’s path than I was expecting.’
She had a way of tilting her head and listening that made it easy for him to continue. ‘I didn’t get far with the farm manager idea, and I didn’t even mention the word housekeeper. Tonight I’ll push for a visit from the community nurse. An assessment.’ He didn’t like his chances, but it was time. And if he didn’t speak up, who would?
‘Good. It’s the right thing to do.’ A handful of little words, a clutch of syllables lightly spoken, but they warmed him through, and this was why he’d wanted to call her. Not just to provide support if she needed it but to take heart from her in return.
‘I touch base with you there because I miss you being here, right next door,’ he offered gruffly. ‘I touch base because I like the thought of you in my space and want you to feel at home there and supported in a way you’ve always made me feel. I call because I want to.’
‘Oh, Henry.’
Her eyes shimmered and for a moment he thought there might be tears. Clearly more words were required. Better words. But he didn’t have any.
‘Are you going to call me again tomorrow morning?’
She’d turned away and was reaching for a glass of juice. Breakfast time over there for her, the end of a hard day of mending fences here for him. Leather gloves, wire strainers, the sun beating down and red dirt beneath his feet. ‘Are you going to be wearing another one of my shirts?’
‘Oh, you mean this old thing? I looked up the brand name and its worth at least a month’s worth of cupcakes. There’s an even softer one in your cupboard, did you know? It’s blue.’
‘Not the Weatherill.’
‘Was it a gift? Is it from Savile Row?’
‘No, and yes.’ Bottom line, he’d felt as out of place as Tilly did when he’d first reached London. He’d gotten away with his Aussie farm clothes for a while; they’d simply coloured him poor, which he had been. But for his first paid position he’d needed to dress up. Utterly clueless about what might be required, he’d hit Savile Row and discovered precision tailoring and suits that could take him into any workplace or social situation. ‘I bought it myself. I wanted to know what all the fuss was about.’
‘So do I. Bye, Henry. Say hello to Bethany and Joe for me. See you tomorrow.’
‘What makes you think I’m going to call you tomorrow?’
‘You’ll want to tell me how the assessment conversation went. I’m predicting not well, but may the force be with you.’
‘Star Wars quotes? Still?’ She could make him smile. Always had.
‘What can I say? I’m loyal to the classics. Besides, you are going to call me tomorrow.’
Confidence looked good on her. His shirt looked particularly good on her. ‘Only if you put my sock drawer back the way it was.’
‘Hand over heart, I’ll do it.’ She suited action to words, and then started rubbing her hand over her heart. Breast. Heart. Breast … ‘How can this be cotton material when it feels like silk?’
‘Matilda, please stop doing whatever it is you’re doing to that shirt.’ Was that a pebbled nipple?
It was.
He closed his eyes. Invoked a prayer. Wished for Scotty to beam him right there. She wasn’t the only one to cling to the memory of scientifically ludicrous space operas.
‘Do you think it’ll pill? This shirt.’
He cracked an eye open and her hand was still there. Breast. Heart. Collar. Button, wait. ‘Is that shirt missing a button?’ It was.
‘It’ll be here somewhere, I’m sure of it. And if I can’t find it I’ll get another one and sew