The Things You Didn't See(40)

Finally, you properly see me. You frown, suddenly concerned. ‘What’s happened, Cass? You look terrible. What on earth is wrong?’

Downstairs, you make a pot of tea.

I sit obediently, trying to keep my spine straight, though it wants to crumble. Inside my head is foggy, a sensation I identify as the beginning of depression, when thoughts slip and slide in my mind like fish. When you finally sit down opposite me and take my hands, you feel them trembling.

‘Cass, has something happened? You don’t look well.’

‘I think . . . I think I’m starting to get sick.’

‘Is it the delusions?’

Oh, Mum, you always understood me so well. My shaking intensifies now we’re talking about it aloud. I’m afraid to ask for help, but more afraid of being alone with this. Last time I hid my symptoms, I waited too long, and then the illness took me over completely. I was sectioned to the Bartlet and Victoria was sent away to boarding school. ‘I don’t want to be ill, Mum.’

You move, coming to sit with me on my side of the table. ‘Is it the same as last time, Cass? Tell me the truth.’

‘I think so, I . . .’

I falteringly describe hearing a woman’s voice, then opening the bedroom door and finding it empty. How I then heard noises in the study, and once again I thought Daniel was having sex with another woman.

‘I left the house, and then I saw her,’ I say, ‘fully clothed, with a briefcase. Oh, Mum, it was just a business meeting. It’s all in my head.’

Just like before.

Then you say something that shocks me – the last question I expected: ‘Could she have dressed quickly?’

‘No, Mum!’ God, are you going crazy too? ‘It’s just jealousy, my old demon. I wanted to come here and get my head straight.’

I wait, for your assurance that you can help me. That we can fix this together and I can go home and everything can be okay.

‘Cass, I’m really sorry to hear this.’ You speak so carefully that it scares me. Something is happening, something I don’t understand.

‘It’s okay.’ I try to stand, but I stumble. I try to smile, but my face won’t co-operate. I can feel the fogginess is in my muscles now. And still you watch me, so carefully, and I can tell that something is coming that I can’t stop.

‘Look, love, there’s something I’ve been keeping from you. But, given this, you need to know.’

You reach into the pocket of your skirt and remove a piece of paper, folded into squares. My hand won’t move to take it from you, so you unfold it on the table. The paper is so worn from being refolded that it’s torn almost in half. It’s an appointment letter, from the oncology department at Ipswich Hospital. My jaw releases and I take in air quickly, panting like a puppy. No, this can’t be happening, not again.

‘I found another lump, bigger this time, and went for a mammogram. This is my second appointment with my consultant, to discuss treatment options. There aren’t many.’

‘You can’t get ill!’ I feel the panic like a cold wash: you could leave me. My voice is shrill, uncontrolled. ‘Daniel cured you.’

You look concerned, for me rather than you, and this more than anything breaks my heart. ‘Daniel isn’t God, he isn’t even a doctor. It’s leaving things so long, trusting him, that has left so few options for me.’

‘No, you’re not ill! Doctors, they make mistakes all the time.’ I’m shaking from toe to tip, cold all over. You try to still me, but I’m gone too far for that.

‘Cass, love, this is why I didn’t tell you. Please calm down . . .’ Through the window, I see a group of men in the distance, guns broken over their arms, voices loud. You notice too and run a hand through your hair. ‘Look, love, there is a new treatment that’s available. But it’s only available for high-priority cases and at my age . . . Well, the bottom line is, it’s only available if I pay privately.’

‘What treatment?’

The men are outside now, in the yard. I see Dad speaking with Ash. There are other men, who I can’t identify.

‘Proton therapy.’ You sigh. ‘And out there is an official from the Port, Dave Feakes. Your Dad and Phil Godwin are trying to show him what the countryside means to us, trying to make him withdraw his offer for the greater good.’ You laugh then, harsh and ironic, and it scares me.

‘Mum, I don’t understand.’

‘Don’t you, Cass?’ you say, so gently. ‘That little PR stunt out there has come at the perfect time. What with me needing treatment, and Daniel up to his old tricks . . .’

‘Mum, no, Daniel’s done nothing wrong. I’m sick, it’s me who needs help!’

‘We’ve all been sick, Cass. It’s time we started to get better.’

I hear a honking voice outside, and lift my head to see a distinctive ruddy face. ‘That’s not Alfie Avon, the journalist?’

You grimace. ‘Phil Godwin thought of everything, didn’t he? Get the Port Authority on our side, and get it covered in the newspaper at the same time.’

‘I can’t believe you’ve let that man on our land – you really have gone crazy. You know he has it in for Daniel.’

‘Well,’ you say coolly, ‘this isn’t Daniel’s farm, it’s mine.’