a cluster on the bench. ‘I can’t stay here and ram these down your throat, so I’m going to set them out according to the instructions. I’ll put each pill on a piece of paper with a time written beside it. Do you think you can manage to get yourself over here and swallow them four times a day?’
‘You don’t have to do this,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not a child.’
‘I’m trying to help you.’ He glanced at the clock and waved a bottle at her.
‘Don’t say anything,’ she mumbled. ‘Just bring them to me.’
He dumped the pills and a glass of water on the coffee table. ‘Let’s stop these little night-time walks, shall we? Before you get into more trouble. I can’t always be here to rescue you.’
Her hands began to shake and tears spilled from her eyes. He turned his back on her and leaned against the kitchen bench, looking out.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked after a while, conciliatory.
‘Yes. I think so.’
He walked around and flopped in an armchair, then rested his head against the back, staring up at the ceiling. ‘You have to take better care of yourself,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be held responsible if something happens to you. One visit a day is the best I can do.’
‘I’ll make sure I take my tablets.’
‘And you have to eat.’
‘It’s hard. I’m not hungry.’
‘Promise you’ll try.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘And it’s cold in here. I’m going to light a fire for you each morning when I come. I’ll split the wood and haul it inside for you. Can you lift the handle and shove the wood in the heater? That’s all you’ll have to do.’
The fire. He was going to light the fire. And if it was lit, she could burn the letter. ‘What if the handle gets hot?’
‘There are oven mitts hanging on the wall. Hadn’t you noticed?’
‘No.’ She felt sheepish and reprimanded, like a schoolgirl. ‘I’ve been looking out the window.’
‘And not in the mirror, obviously, or you’d know what I’m talking about.’
‘Have you seen the mirror here?’ Relief fuelled an attempt at humour. He wasn’t going to send her home yet. ‘At my age, you don’t want to see your entire body when you step into the shower.’
Leon didn’t laugh. ‘Don’t shower then.’ He found newspaper and began stuffing balls of it into the wood heater. Then he shoved in kindling and wood and lit it. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’m going. Can you do the rest by yourself?’
The rest would be the burning of the letter. He could leave now, so she could get on with it.
He rolled up his sleeve to check the time, and her eyes were drawn to his arm. There it was. A new bruise just above his wrist. He covered it with his hand and looked away, his face studiously blank.
What was happening with Leon? Who was hurting him? ‘I think you need to talk,’ she said.
He shook his head slowly. ‘Not today.’ Then he pulled on his jacket and was gone over the dunes in seconds, the roar of his vehicle lost in the wind.
Mary sat by the window, watching clouds skating across the sky. Wasn’t there something she meant to do? She couldn’t quite remember.
16
Friday morning, I wake exhausted. I haven’t slept well since Emma’s talk. At night, every time I close my eyes, I see flashes of Antarctica, Adelie penguins, Sarah, the end of my marriage. The recollection comes with rushes of emotion. I thought I’d dealt with all that, but the seminar has released all the memories again.
I slip out for my early walk with Jess. Nature has always helped me through tough spots before and it’s no different this morning. We wander along the sand; Jess sniffs around while I allow myself to unwind with the hiss of the wavelets as they skim up the beach. It’s good to see that the world is normal, even if I am not.
After a shower and breakfast, I’ve just picked up my car keys when I hear footsteps on the verandah and a knock at the door. Jess scrabbles to take a look and her woof is a question, not an answer. I follow her to the door and open it.
A woman stands there, facing away from me, looking out towards the channel.
‘Hello,’ I say. ‘What can I do for you?’
She turns and I notice that everything about her is pale: her face, her light brown hair, her cheeks, her eyes, and also the smile that stretches her