The Woman Before Me by Ruth Dugdall Page A

the awful hacking that went on and on. She said it was only cigs that made her lungs feel clearer. The doctors tried to make her stop smoking, but what was the point? She said it was a pleasure, and she had few enough of those left. But she would rub my hand when she said it, and I knew from her look that I was a pleasure to her as well.
    Rita wanted me to go to university, and she’d worked out that there was only one way for that to happen; I had to go back to Lowestoft to do my A-levels and live with my father. I heard the pleading whispered conversations on the phone and knew she was talking to him.
    “But she’s your daughter! She’s so clever, you should hear what the teachers say,” she said. “An education will be the making of her.” Another time I heard her say, “she’ll be all alone when I’m gone, doesn’t that bother you?” and during the final conversation she said, “shame on you! Her mother must be turning in her grave.”
    I was glad when she slammed the phone down. I didn’t want anything from him anyway.
    When Rita’s breathing became too difficult she was admitted to the general hospital in Ipswich, and put on oxygen. I stayed in the house alone each night, going every morning on the bus to Ipswich, a new magazine rolled up in my pocket. Rita lived in a council house and although the housing benefit was paid for the month while she was in hospital, I knew they’d soon want me out. Rita would never come home, and I’d have no right to live there when she’d gone, and Dad didn’t want me back.
    It was a long summer the year I was sixteen, and I spent every day by Rita’s hospital bed watching her slipping away from me. The nurses worked around me, putting watery hot chocolate by my side, and taking it away cold. I wasn’t thinking about food, but each evening Annie would bring over a plate of whatever she’d cooked at the house: chops and carrots, liver and mash. I could hardly get it down but she would watch over me, clicking her tongue if I paused for too long. She didn’t ask how Rita was. She knew it was just a matter of time. But she would rub my hands and ask about me.
    Although Annie had known Rita since they were both girls she wouldn’t come with me to the hospital. She just said she preferred to think of Rita at home, that was how she wanted to remember her. It was only later that I discovered the real reason.
    When I arrived in the hospital room I heard the grating noise in Rita’s throat and knew it was bad. I pressed the red buzzer and a nurse came quickly. She took Rita’s pulse and then turned to me.
    “That noise,” I said, “is she choking?”
    “Not choking, love. It’s a rattle – it means she’s going to go soon.”
    I took Rita’s hand, and saw that her fingers were swollen. “Look,” I said to the nurse, “what’s happening to her?”
    “Her body’s had enough, love. Just sit and talk to her. Make her passing easier. There’s nothing more you can do.”
    I sat on the chair, stroking Rita’s puffy wrist, listening to the life caught in her throat. Finally, within the hour, the noise stopped and I knew she had gone.
    When I got home that evening Annie didn’t force me to eat any food, but hugged me tight and kissed my forehead. “It’ll be better Rose, in time. You’ll see.” But I didn’t believe her. Rita wasn’t just my auntie, she’d been my best friend. She’d helped me navigate through the last few years, and I’d started to think about my future. With her gone, I was shipwrecked.
    For the first two weeks I only left bed to use the toilet or get more smokes. Smoking reminded me of Rita, and it was the only thing that slowed my breathing. I didn’t open the post; it could only be bad news. The council would want me out and I had nowhere to go.
    On the third Saturday Annie came calling, shouting through the letterbox until I had no choice but to let her in. She took one look at me and frog-marched me to the bathroom, leaning her