MORNING SERIAL
“WHAT are you doing here?” “I said I’d pop by. Remember?” He looks confused, then disappears. Comes out a moment later, his hair uncombed, rubbing his stubble. In the kitchen he goes straight to the kettle.
“Who’s up there?” “Sarah.”
“Sarah who?”
“She’s been helping your mam with… personal stuff. Showing me what to do.” He looks haunted. He has seen years’ worth of births and deaths on the farm, once helped a neighbour cull their entire herd during the foot and mouth crisis, using a tractor to pile up the stiff-legged cattle into a long pyre and burn them to a raised, smoking scar on the field. Yet this – his wife needing the sheets changing, needing to be wiped clean with a flannel and rolled to prevent sores – is worse. “Helen arranged it all, before she left. Just in case, she said. Good job she did. Panad?” He’s rinsing cups, clumsy. Filling the silence.
“Let me, Dad.” She takes the tea towel out of his hands, catches the tremor. When he looks at her to say thanks she can see the exhaustion in his eyes. Red threads across his eyeballs, puffiness beneath the lids. He slumps at the table.
“She’s nice, this lass they’ve sent. Makes your mam smile.” “I’m glad. I’ll go up in a bit.” They sit across from one another, the table scattered with letters and forms. She sees Helen’s name, the Vista logo, the calm blue Celtic knot of GIG Cymru NHS emblem. “What’s up?” “Nothing, Dad, really.” “Enough now. I can tell when something’s bothering you. Is it your mam?”
“Always. But I’m here to help today, Dad.”
“There’s something else, though, isn’t there? Tell me.”
She avoids answering. Stares around the room. There are pictures of Jack in frames among the ones of her and Helen as children on the wall, a leaflet on recycling stuck to the fridge with a magnet, and a digital timer on the counter by the range. A few tiny new things. Apart from that the room looks the same as when she was a child.
“Is it Ioan?”
“No.”
> The Half Life of Snails by Philippa Holloway is Published by Parthian at £15
CONTINUES TOMORROW