it was still. It had no movement in it, you could tell. The chair sat around her like armour, rising high behind her head, the footrest catching the soles of her feet below.
“This is Charlie Haywood. He came to the studio to look at my work. Charlie, this is my sister, Clemmie.”
She turned to him, and he knew from the gleam in her eye and the tilt of her head that it was a challenge. She hadn’t warned him because she wanted to see his reaction. Did she expect him to fail? At that moment another woman, plump and black-haired came in, holding a glass of orange juice with a straw in it.
“And this is Milena, my sister’s nurse, who lives with us. Lena, this is Charlie.”
They all smiled and said “hi.” Milena reported that she and Clemmie had spent the morning listening to Radio 3. Milena had checked through Clemmie’s meds and fixed some buttons that had broken off her cardigan when she fell from her chair the previous week. Clemmie had napped sitting up, and while she was asleep, Milena had made her bed. Auntie Betty had rung to say that she would pop in tomorrow. That is how the morning had been: quiet, domestic, unhurried. When Milena brought the sandwiches in, Charlie made a point of sitting next to Clemmie.
“When I came over to look at your sister’s work, I didn’t expect to get fed, so thank you for having me.”
“You’re very welcome. Did you go to her exhibition? I wish so much that I could have gone myself, but the gallery doesn’t have disabled access, so I would have been camped outside on the pavement, which might have cramped her style.” Her eyes twinkled as she laughed.
“I bet you wouldn’t have done, but you have plenty of her paintings here unless I am mistaken?” He looked around the room.
“Yes, they don’t get any choice,” interjected Evie, biting into a sandwich.
“We like the pictures, don’t we, Clemmie?” asked Milena who was feeding Clemmie hers in tiny pieces. “They brighten the place up.”
“They do,” said Clemmie between mouthfuls, “but one day my sister will hit the big time, and we’ll sell the lot and move to Mayfair.”
Thus, they laughed and ate their lunch as the mid-afternoon unfolded. Milena entertained them with tales of her Bulgarian relations who had just discovered Skype and wanted to video-call her every time the cooker was playing up. Clemmie and Charlie talked happily about the best walks through the Royal Parks. He was not a man for the Tube or the bus. If he wasn’t driving, he liked to walk around London. It took him a moment to realize that he shouldn’t have mentioned it. He was uncharacteristically abashed.
“You don’t need to be embarrassed. I used to be able to walk. I haven’t always been in this thing. And anyway, now that I am, Lena pushes me, so I still get to feed the ducks in Green Park. I just scare them a bit into the bargain.” She smiled brightly, and he was reassured.
“Have you always lived in London, Charlie?”
“Yes, I have. I live in Notting Hill now but grew up in Hackney. I can’t imagine living in the countryside. I think the silence might kill me. And the darkness—how do people sleep in the darkness of the country? I couldn’t do it. How about you? Fulham born and bred, or are you girls city immigrants?”
Clemmie laughed, and he got the feeling that, if she could, she would have thrown her head back in merriment.
“Fulham, born and bred—and this house, born and bred. We were both born in this house, and we have lived here all our lives. Our mother was an early adherent of the giving-birth-at-home craze. Said there was no call for hospital unless one was ill, and childbirth was not illness. Of course, now we are far more familiar than any of us would like to be with the inside of the local hospital. But anyway, that’s an aside. Evie and I are SW6 natives.”
“There can’t be many people in London who live in the house they were born in,” he said. He wasn’t sure whether it was
“This is Charlie Haywood. He came to the studio to look at my work. Charlie, this is my sister, Clemmie.”
She turned to him, and he knew from the gleam in her eye and the tilt of her head that it was a challenge. She hadn’t warned him because she wanted to see his reaction. Did she expect him to fail? At that moment another woman, plump and black-haired came in, holding a glass of orange juice with a straw in it.
“And this is Milena, my sister’s nurse, who lives with us. Lena, this is Charlie.”
They all smiled and said “hi.” Milena reported that she and Clemmie had spent the morning listening to Radio 3. Milena had checked through Clemmie’s meds and fixed some buttons that had broken off her cardigan when she fell from her chair the previous week. Clemmie had napped sitting up, and while she was asleep, Milena had made her bed. Auntie Betty had rung to say that she would pop in tomorrow. That is how the morning had been: quiet, domestic, unhurried. When Milena brought the sandwiches in, Charlie made a point of sitting next to Clemmie.
“When I came over to look at your sister’s work, I didn’t expect to get fed, so thank you for having me.”
“You’re very welcome. Did you go to her exhibition? I wish so much that I could have gone myself, but the gallery doesn’t have disabled access, so I would have been camped outside on the pavement, which might have cramped her style.” Her eyes twinkled as she laughed.
“I bet you wouldn’t have done, but you have plenty of her paintings here unless I am mistaken?” He looked around the room.
“Yes, they don’t get any choice,” interjected Evie, biting into a sandwich.
“We like the pictures, don’t we, Clemmie?” asked Milena who was feeding Clemmie hers in tiny pieces. “They brighten the place up.”
“They do,” said Clemmie between mouthfuls, “but one day my sister will hit the big time, and we’ll sell the lot and move to Mayfair.”
Thus, they laughed and ate their lunch as the mid-afternoon unfolded. Milena entertained them with tales of her Bulgarian relations who had just discovered Skype and wanted to video-call her every time the cooker was playing up. Clemmie and Charlie talked happily about the best walks through the Royal Parks. He was not a man for the Tube or the bus. If he wasn’t driving, he liked to walk around London. It took him a moment to realize that he shouldn’t have mentioned it. He was uncharacteristically abashed.
“You don’t need to be embarrassed. I used to be able to walk. I haven’t always been in this thing. And anyway, now that I am, Lena pushes me, so I still get to feed the ducks in Green Park. I just scare them a bit into the bargain.” She smiled brightly, and he was reassured.
“Have you always lived in London, Charlie?”
“Yes, I have. I live in Notting Hill now but grew up in Hackney. I can’t imagine living in the countryside. I think the silence might kill me. And the darkness—how do people sleep in the darkness of the country? I couldn’t do it. How about you? Fulham born and bred, or are you girls city immigrants?”
Clemmie laughed, and he got the feeling that, if she could, she would have thrown her head back in merriment.
“Fulham, born and bred—and this house, born and bred. We were both born in this house, and we have lived here all our lives. Our mother was an early adherent of the giving-birth-at-home craze. Said there was no call for hospital unless one was ill, and childbirth was not illness. Of course, now we are far more familiar than any of us would like to be with the inside of the local hospital. But anyway, that’s an aside. Evie and I are SW6 natives.”
“There can’t be many people in London who live in the house they were born in,” he said. He wasn’t sure whether it was
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