Postscript(43)

She takes a moment, and I wonder if it’s to decide how much to tell me. ‘What do you know about Multiple Sclerosis?’

‘I know that it’s a neurological condition, but that it’s different for everybody.’

She nods. ‘MS is a progressive disease of the nervous system. It can cause a variety of symptoms, which may continue or worsen as the disease progresses. Fatigue, walking difficulties, changes in brain function, vision, depression, mood swings. There’s no cure. Not currently. Just palliative care, which helps prepare us for what lies ahead in the end stage.’

‘Are you in pain?’

‘Muscle spasms, nerve pain. Antidepressants for the neuro-pain spasms. I hate taking drugs, I never even used to take headache tablets. I do physiotherapy for the muscle spasms.’

‘You were diagnosed nine years ago,’ I say, looking at the dog and remembering how his age represented the time of her diagnosis.

‘Yes, and you’re right, MS is different for everyone, Holly. Someone can be stable for long periods of time. I was convinced I was fine even after diagnosis, that it was manageable, that my life wouldn’t change, but then it advances and comes back with a stronger force. The stick helps me for the time being, but we have that on standby.’

I look across to the folded wheelchair by the door.

I reach out and hold her hand. ‘I’m sorry we’ve lost time, Joy, but I’m here for you now, what can I do for you? How can I help you?’

‘Oh, Holly, you being here is a gift to us all. You have re-energised us, given us a goal. Spending time with each of us and listening to us, and guiding us is more precious than you’ll ever know, and you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t need time to think about it. I don’t think we considered how life-altering asking you to be involved would be. I hope we haven’t up-ended everything for you, have we?’ she asks, her brow furrowing.

‘Any problems I have are all my own doing.’ My smile twists, thinking of Gabriel.

‘Angela was a very resilient woman,’ Joy says. ‘She was convinced she could achieve anything she put her mind to and getting you on board was a mission she took on with gusto. I only hope I didn’t take up her challenge too selfishly.’

I agree, remembering how Angela had gripped my arm so tightly at the charity shop, her eyes boring into mine as she urged me to continue telling my story as if her life depended on it.

‘The last thing you need to worry about is my life,’ I say brightly. ‘So, more importantly, have you decided what to write in your letters?’

‘I think about them all the time but I’m no closer to knowing what to do. My boys will be OK, they have wives, families. My main concern is Joe. I’m worried about him. He’ll be lost.’

I recall him fumbling around the kitchen on the first day I met him, trying to locate simple items, being hit on the head by a broom in search of milk. I try to imagine his home without his wife at the helm; despite his years living here, to him it will seem an alien environment filled with mysterious storage spaces.

‘I’ve noticed he’s a little lost domestically,’ I say, as tactfully as I can.

Joy surprises me with laughter. ‘You’ve noticed that already in the short time you’ve spent here. The children always tease him, but I take full responsibility for him being “lost domestically”. I’m sure we seem very old fashioned to you,’ she says, smiling. ‘My sons are equal in everything in their homes, and with their children. But Joe and I always liked the way we are. While he was at work, this was my territory. I was never good at sharing. I wash and clean his clothes, iron, make the dinners, do the food-shopping, cook, everything. I never used to let him do anything – not that he tried, because he had no interest. Since he retired, he’s been under my feet. He means well, but it takes him a lifetime to find anything.’ She grabs my arm, and leans in conspiratorially. ‘Don’t tell him, but sometimes when the pain is bad and I can’t stand it, I ask for things that I know he’ll take an age to find just so I can have some peace and to make him stop fussing. God forgive me.’

We laugh, a clandestine pair.

She ponders. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you told us about your letters from Gerry, about them not being reminders of death but about how they enabled you. I want to give Joe a boost after I’m gone. We’re not sentimental, Joe and I. I don’t think slushy mushy love letters will be what he wants. I’ve tried to write them …’ She shudders. ‘It’s not our style. If anything, he’ll think I must have lost my marbles. I want him to read them and feel as though it’s me. But I’m not a writer, Holly,’ she shakes her head. ‘I don’t have the imagination.’

‘Gerry wasn’t a writer either, believe me, but he was thoughtful. He knew me, he understood me, and that’s all you need. I think you need to imagine Joe’s life from his perspective and then try to decipher what gesture or words of comfort can make his tough times easier. We’ll think of something, don’t worry,’ I say, mind wandering.

I recall how useless I felt after Gerry’s death when the heating broke down in the house or a bulb went. It’s not that I was incapable, it’s that we all have our duties in a household. We find our niche and we stay in it, and often, in the everyday busy-ness of life, we’re unaware of what role the other plays, exactly what it is they do. In the case of Gerry and me, I always felt I was doing more than him, the same internal argument over and over. Only when he was gone did I realise the gaps, the extra things that I had never done and didn’t know how to do. The phone numbers I didn’t know, the codes, the accounts. Little things, normal, mundane, everyday acts that aided the flow of life. A Rentokil account. The Sky customer password. The phone number for a plumber. We each had our roles and Joy’s role is changing considerably, of great consequence to Joe. I sit up, feeling inspired.