Dying in the Wool by Frances Brody Page A

useless. Her brain had turned to lint.
    Sister told her to get herself off duty now, and rest.
    The woman who had tried to relieve her made them cups of tea, using the old tea leaves in the pot because that’s all there was till tomorrow. The woman didn’t speak, but everything about her quiet confident movements spoke sympathy and understanding. It soothed Tabitha to have someone else there, making the tea, saying nothing. The woman had chestnut hair, caught with combs at the nape of her neck. She wore an ambulance driver’s uniform. She looked as alert and intelligent as Tabitha felt insipid and undone. Even something as simple as letting her legs walk her off duty posed an insurmountable task.
    The woman set down the tea and took out cigarettes, lighting Tabitha’s for her.
    The action, and the deep inhalation, brought Tabitha back to life. She remembered that she had been on the go for twelve hours without time to stop, until now.
    ‘Sister called you Braithwaite,’ the woman said. ‘What’s your Christian name?’
    ‘Tabitha.’
    ‘I’m Kate. Kate Shackleton.’
    Tabitha took Stanley Spence’s letter from her pocket. Ifshe did not do this now, her courage would fail. She would finish Stan Spence’s letter. Setting her cup on the desk she reached for the scratchy communal pen and dipped it into what was left of the scrunchy disgusting ink. Not looking at what had gone before, she wrote,
Must say ta ta for now, Your loving husband, Stan
.
Kissses to the children.
    Earlier that day she had checked his address from the records and written an envelope. She folded the letter carefully and reached for the envelope.
    Kate looked over her shoulder. ‘Is that for the man who just died?’
    ‘Yes. But what do I do? Mrs Spence will receive this letter and think her husband is alive. Then a telegram will come. I can’t put PS I am dying. PPS I have died.’
    ‘Where does Mrs Spence live?’ Kate asked.
    ‘She lives in Keighley,’ Tabitha answered. ‘Not far from the railway station. Stanley was a millwright. He thought it was a hoot to be cared for by me. We have a mill, you see.’
    Sister looked in on them. Tabitha and Kate exchanged a swift glance as Tabitha slid the letter into her pocket. Sister would insist on doing things by the book, posting the letter, arranging for notification in the usual way.
    ‘I told you to take some rest, Braithwaite,’ Sister said. ‘And haven’t you a home to go to, driver?’ She had forgotten Kate’s name.
    Sister clomped out. She put the whole of her foot on the floor at once, not heel first in the usual way. They listened to her plod along the corridor.
    ‘She makes more noise than a woman clattering to the mill in clogs,’ Tabitha said.
    Kate started to laugh. ‘Take some rest, Braithwaite!’ Kate giggled.
    ‘Haven’t you a home to go to, driver?’ Tabitha demanded, shaking with laughter.
    ‘Isn’t it terrible to laugh?’ Kate said.
    ‘I know.’
    ‘I have petrol enough to take you to the station. Would you get a train to Keighley at this time, and if you did, could you get back?’
    Tabitha felt some energy returning. ‘Yes. I can do that.’
    She felt she owed it to Stanley Spence. What fury would Mrs Spence feel when she found out how close Stan was to coming home. How near, and yet gone forever.
    And that was how Tabitha came to call home, unexpectedly, for a brief visit.
    It was mad to have done it, to have gone to see Mrs Spence and break such news. At nearly midnight, she had no chance of getting back to St Mary’s. She found a cab driver willing to urge his tired horse to take them to Bridgestead. She left him on the drive while she went indoors to find the fare, expecting to have to bray on the door to wake the house.
    The door was open. The housekeeper emerged in her dressing gown. Dad wasn’t there. Mother wasn’t there. Tabitha had to scrabble about in her room until she found some cash.
    When she had paid the cab driver, she asked where her