The Things You Didn't See(26)

Holly turned into the wind and made her way back to the cottage, where Janet was waiting by the door, a foil-wrapped parcel of scones in her hands.

‘Now off you go,’ said Janet. ‘No need to bring the plate back.’

Holly felt she was warning her away.

Inside Maya’s hospital room, it was very quiet.

Cassandra was sleeping on the grey-blue plastic chair beside the bed, slumped uncomfortably to one side. On the bedside cabinet sat an empty cardboard bowl, a plastic jug half-full of water, and tissues – the trappings of hospitals everywhere. On the wall above the bed, a picture with the title Un Pichet de Limonade by Nicholas Verrall: a perfect scene, a rustic table and some empty chairs, a jug of lemonade. Was it hung there to inspire patients to recover? Most likely it served as a cruel reminder of what they were missing, though for Maya it was neither of these things. Unmoving and unresponsive, she was oblivious to everything. Whatever her secrets, they were locked inside her. Holly looked at her bruised and swollen face, and had to close her eyes against the pain. Violence had been committed, and she was sure that it wasn’t self-inflicted. If only Maya would wake, she could name the culprit. She unwrapped the foiled package, smelling the scones, their buttery scent of warm kitchens and comfort, the sweet tang of sugared fruit. She placed them on the bedside cabinet, and watched to see if Maya responded at all.

But it was Cassandra, still asleep, who reacted. ‘Mmm,’ she said.

Holly reached to gently touch her shoulder and Cassandra jolted upright, her gaze immediately directed at her mother. Holly experienced it as a surge of sorrow twisted with resentment, an invisible cord running from Cassandra towards the woman in the bed. She removed her hand and the feeling snapped away as if it were a figment of her imagination.

‘Oh, Holly, hi. How long have you been here?’ Cassandra rubbed her eyes, then noticed the scones.

‘I just arrived. I brought some of Janet’s baking. Let’s hope it helps.’

Cassandra smiled warmly in gratitude. ‘Thank you. I should have thought of that myself.’

‘You have enough to worry about.’ Holly pulled the second chair closer to Cassandra. ‘Where’s your dad?’

‘Downstairs having a smoke, I imagine. He was here when I fell asleep.’

‘And Daniel?’

‘He can’t cancel his Samphire Studio clients – some of them are very ill. They need him.’ There was no trace of bitterness, though they could hardly be as ‘ill’ as Maya.

‘Don’t you need him?’

Cassandra looked up with watery eyes. ‘Yes, of course. But he can’t be in two places at once. And you’re here.’

Holly was overwhelmed by how openly Cassandra smiled at her, her beautiful face warming like the sun. Her eyes returned to the woman in the bed and the temperature cooled. ‘It makes no sense that Mum would have done this to herself. But it’s what everyone seems to believe.’

‘Not everyone,’ Holly said. Discreetly, she reached her hand forward to touch the mound of bedding that covered Maya’s foot and tried to tune into her subconscious. She felt a shiver of cold and a dull heaviness, very little life and no emotion.

Cassandra closed her eyes tightly, as if to fight an eruption of tears. ‘How can this have happened, Holly? Friday was just an ordinary day. I don’t understand . . .’

Holly knew intuitively that Cassandra needed to talk. She needed to make sense of the fact that her mother was fighting for her life. Holly felt her hazy confusion as she struggled to navigate her way through the emotional landscape of recent days.

‘You can talk to me, Cass. It might help us to work this out.’

Cassandra bit her thumbnail. ‘I don’t know anything . . . I wish I did.’

‘How was your Friday, before this?’

‘I was at the library in Greater Kenley, as usual.’

Holly nodded, remembering that she knew this. ‘You’re a librarian there.’

‘I’m the manager. A therapy group called Team Talk is held there every Friday. I help Dr Clive Marsh run it.’

‘I know Dr Marsh,’ said Holly, glad of a connection to build on, and wanting Cassandra to talk more openly. ‘He’s one of the supervisors at the hospital; he’s marked some of my assignments.’

Cassandra gave a smile. ‘He’s a good friend.’

‘Do you want to talk about Friday?’ said Holly, tuning in to Cassandra’s muddled feelings. ‘I’d like to help, and I think we need to start there.’





12

Cassandra

Friday 31 October

Team Talk starts at ten. Around me, a motley gathering, all in the grip of the same sweat: strained faces, bunched bodies, slow movements. These are the foot soldiers of the mentally ill and Clive and I are on a mission to help them.

Roger, in a wide-lapelled suit that would have been fashionable back when he was still a company director, looking at his oversized watch, though he has no job to go to.

Trish, dark roots showing, fumbling in her bag for a box the size of a cigarette packet containing lollies.

Kirsty, milk stains on her jumper, struggling to keep her eyes open.

Alex, passing round the biscuits, ducking his acne-red face when anyone acknowledges his kindness.

An unlikely group, united each Friday. Some by choice, others by obligation.