as if the questions were in the worst possible taste. She shook her head. ‘Oh well. It was a while ago. Something upset me, that’s all. A person. Here, and what about your er … I can’t get his name. Where’s he?’
‘He’s at work,’ Sara explained patiently. ‘What upset you? Who? Who upset you? What did they do to you?’
‘Och, you know fine yourself how it is. You should know. Did you not have the same thing, with Matteo Becker? He died, didn’t he? I saw it in the paper. Well, same thing. Someone died.’ She swallowed some tea. ‘Nobody you know.’
‘I wish you would tell me. It might help.’
Joyce drank more tea as if Sara had not spoken. Sitting in the peaceful bedroom at that slightly head-swimming point in a summer afternoon when an old lady might decide that, as the day is all but gone, she will take the rest of it slowly, Sara realised that it would be cruel to displace the consoling effects of tea and warmth and quiet with unsettling conversations about the past and an insecure future. Joyce was so old, Sara noticed, that the drinking of her cup of tea was an activity which she carried out with care and concentration, without trying to do several other things at once. At what age, she wondered, does a cup of tea make us sit down? It was a trivial enough concession toage, Sara thought, watching Joyce, to claim a few minutes in which to sit and sip a cup of tea, and a modest enough hope that there might occasionally be someone else around to make it. Could she and Andrew find a way to keep her, for as long as it took? Was it callous to calculate that her malnourished, alcohol-abused and elderly body would not be around to inconvenience any of them for long?
‘Now, dear,’ Joyce said, sliding her empty cup cautiously back on to its saucer. ‘Time you and I had a wee talk. You don’t want an old woman in your house, I’m quite sure of that. And I need to find myself a wee place to stay. Although after what those terrible people did to me, robbing me of half my means, I’ll need to content myself with maybe just a room. Then we’ll be out of your way, Pretzel and me.’
Without a second’s doubt Sara knew that Joyce was opening the way to getting herself clear of her in order to start drinking again. She also knew that she could let her, and that Andrew would probably say she should. The generous thoughts of Joyce enjoying her twilight years bathed in the golden light of her magnanimity, which only two minutes ago had been making her feel cornered yet rather good about herself, were now making her feel stupid.
‘I’m not letting you go off to another crummy bedsit,’ she announced, ‘just so you can start drinking your way through the rent money again. I’m not letting you.’
Joyce managed to look both stunned and pompous. Sara bit her lip, because she was not at all sure exactly what she was going to let her do instead. What options were there? Whatever happened, if Joyce were to stay off the bottle, she would have to restore some pride inherself. Her little daily self-deceptions and habits of self-aggrandisement would not substitute for the self-belief and self-discipline she would need in order to live independently. ‘You need to find something to do.’
‘Do?’
‘To keep yourself occupied, to have an interest.’ Sara knew as she spoke how interfering she sounded and how futile her interference was, unless Joyce were to start doing something she really enjoyed. ‘Your baking. Your wonderful baking? You enjoyed that, didn’t you?’
‘I don’t bake now,’ Joyce said, with finality. ‘I am a musician, not a pastry cook.’ She gazed past Sara as if she were invisible.
‘Right. Well, suppose you start teaching again? Could you give lessons?’
‘Teach?’ Joyce’s eyes travelled to the cello case against the wall. ‘On that? Teach?’
‘Go on, have a try,’ Sara said. She rose, walked over to it and undid the clasps. ‘When did you last play? Ages, I
‘He’s at work,’ Sara explained patiently. ‘What upset you? Who? Who upset you? What did they do to you?’
‘Och, you know fine yourself how it is. You should know. Did you not have the same thing, with Matteo Becker? He died, didn’t he? I saw it in the paper. Well, same thing. Someone died.’ She swallowed some tea. ‘Nobody you know.’
‘I wish you would tell me. It might help.’
Joyce drank more tea as if Sara had not spoken. Sitting in the peaceful bedroom at that slightly head-swimming point in a summer afternoon when an old lady might decide that, as the day is all but gone, she will take the rest of it slowly, Sara realised that it would be cruel to displace the consoling effects of tea and warmth and quiet with unsettling conversations about the past and an insecure future. Joyce was so old, Sara noticed, that the drinking of her cup of tea was an activity which she carried out with care and concentration, without trying to do several other things at once. At what age, she wondered, does a cup of tea make us sit down? It was a trivial enough concession toage, Sara thought, watching Joyce, to claim a few minutes in which to sit and sip a cup of tea, and a modest enough hope that there might occasionally be someone else around to make it. Could she and Andrew find a way to keep her, for as long as it took? Was it callous to calculate that her malnourished, alcohol-abused and elderly body would not be around to inconvenience any of them for long?
‘Now, dear,’ Joyce said, sliding her empty cup cautiously back on to its saucer. ‘Time you and I had a wee talk. You don’t want an old woman in your house, I’m quite sure of that. And I need to find myself a wee place to stay. Although after what those terrible people did to me, robbing me of half my means, I’ll need to content myself with maybe just a room. Then we’ll be out of your way, Pretzel and me.’
Without a second’s doubt Sara knew that Joyce was opening the way to getting herself clear of her in order to start drinking again. She also knew that she could let her, and that Andrew would probably say she should. The generous thoughts of Joyce enjoying her twilight years bathed in the golden light of her magnanimity, which only two minutes ago had been making her feel cornered yet rather good about herself, were now making her feel stupid.
‘I’m not letting you go off to another crummy bedsit,’ she announced, ‘just so you can start drinking your way through the rent money again. I’m not letting you.’
Joyce managed to look both stunned and pompous. Sara bit her lip, because she was not at all sure exactly what she was going to let her do instead. What options were there? Whatever happened, if Joyce were to stay off the bottle, she would have to restore some pride inherself. Her little daily self-deceptions and habits of self-aggrandisement would not substitute for the self-belief and self-discipline she would need in order to live independently. ‘You need to find something to do.’
‘Do?’
‘To keep yourself occupied, to have an interest.’ Sara knew as she spoke how interfering she sounded and how futile her interference was, unless Joyce were to start doing something she really enjoyed. ‘Your baking. Your wonderful baking? You enjoyed that, didn’t you?’
‘I don’t bake now,’ Joyce said, with finality. ‘I am a musician, not a pastry cook.’ She gazed past Sara as if she were invisible.
‘Right. Well, suppose you start teaching again? Could you give lessons?’
‘Teach?’ Joyce’s eyes travelled to the cello case against the wall. ‘On that? Teach?’
‘Go on, have a try,’ Sara said. She rose, walked over to it and undid the clasps. ‘When did you last play? Ages, I
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