She blinked and swallowed, trying to re-teach herself the simple task of breathing in and then out again. Such minor victories over her body: controlling her breathing, holding back her tears. Such small battles won when they all knew she’d already lost the war.
She felt a hand on her arm, looked up to see the Macmillan nurse crouched next to her, saw such compassion in her eyes that she wondered how anyone had the strength to do that job: offering comfort where there was none to be had.
‘Can we call someone for you? We’d really rather you didn’t go home on your own. Was no one free to come with you today?’
Audrey shook her head, thinking of the people who’d asked to accompany her: Lily, Jess, Mia, Phoebe. But she’d insisted on coming alone, and now she was relieved that she had. Having to cope with someone else’s shock was more than she could have borne.
‘Well, there’s no rush to leave. We can sit outside in the waiting room for as long as you like. I might even be able to rustle up a cup of tea.’
The Macmillan nurse smiled and Audrey felt herself try to reciprocate but it was as if the muscles around her mouth had slackened and couldn’t quite pull themselves up. ‘That’s very kind but there’s no need. I’ll call a taxi.’
‘I can do that for you.’
There was a moment’s silence, as though all three of them were paying respects to an event they knew was coming far too soon. Then Dr Sharma glanced at her computer screen, and leaned back in her chair. ‘Audrey, we don’t have to make any decisions about your treatment today. Go home, discuss things with your family, think it all through. Let’s make an appointment for next week. That gives you the weekend to mull it over. How does that sound?’
Audrey nodded, thinking back to the discussions she’d had seven months ago, when she’d first announced her decision to refuse treatment: Lily’s pleading, Jess’s frustration, Dr Sharma’s patient explanation of the options, as though perhaps a repetition of the facts might somehow change her mind. But Audrey had been resolute. She knew the doctors were offering her nothing more than palliative care. There had been no conversations then about possible remission, no hope of a reprieve. Just chemotherapy to try to slow the growth of something nobody denied would kill her. Audrey had imagined a day room filled with a dozen patients sitting in high-backed cushioned chairs, silent and immobile as drugs were pumped intravenously through cannulas in the back of their hands, medication seeping into their bloodstream and charging towards an enemy it was destined not to defeat. Seconds, minutes, hours ticking away, accompanied by nothing more than the hope of a brief stay of execution, with no guarantee that those faulty days would ever be refunded.
Audrey knew all too well the effects of those therapies. Once upon a time she had been told they might work miracles. Sometimes, in her darker moments and against her rational judgement, she found herself wondering whether perhaps, given time, they might have done.
It was more than that, though. Audrey might not allow the admission to hover on the surface of her thoughts for too long but it was always there. She didn’t deserve treatment. Whatever help the doctors might be able to offer, whatever temporary miracles they might be able to perform, Audrey felt she was the last person in the world who actually deserved them.
‘Thank you. But I won’t change my mind about the treatment. I’m sure of that.’
‘Well, there’s no rush. Let the news settle and we’ll discuss it again next week.’
Audrey rose and shook Dr Sharma’s outstretched hand, felt the consultant’s soft, youthful skin beneath her fingers. She felt an arm around her shoulders as the Macmillan nurse guided her through to the waiting room and lowered her into a chair as though the muscles in Audrey’s legs might not be able to negotiate the manoeuvre, then left to order a taxi.
Audrey leaned her head against the wall, her temples throbbing.
Four to six months. She pulled out her diary and began leafing through the pages, counting down the weeks and months until her time might run out. And the act of looking at dates, willing them to tell her a different story, took her back to a scene from years before, when she had similarly wished that time could be more on her side.
Chapter 13
April 1972
Audrey sits on the edge of her bed beneath a poster of Aretha Franklin, frantically turning the pages of her diary, urging them to give her a different answer. She flicks back through the weeks – one week, then two, a third and then a fourth. A fifth whips past her fingers and still she has to press on. Past the sixth until there it is, seven weeks previously. Practically a lifetime ago.
She stares at her own unintelligible scribble, the shorthand her mum has taught her to mark this monthly event, unreadable to anyone else who may chance upon her diary.
Seven weeks and somehow she hasn’t realised until now.
She continues to stare at the open page in front of her, as though the strength of her gaze might have the power to alter history. She notices that her hands are shaking and tries to hold them steady, but it is as if they are a separate entity over which she has no control. She is eighteen, and it seems surreal to her that only a few minutes ago she could have described how her life might pan out over the next three years yet now she is unsure how to manage the next three minutes.
She lifts her head and looks towards the net curtains, notices the tired grey tinge to the thin white material. She remembers she had promised her mum she would take them down and wash them during the school holidays, a promise she has failed to keep.
Perhaps, Audrey thinks, if she washes them now, her parents won’t be quite so disappointed in her when she tells them. Just imagining the dismay on their faces – the realisation that she is no longer a little girl, that she has not behaved how they would expect her to – causes her to scrunch her eyes shut.
Audrey swallows the rising tide of bile at the back of her throat and drops her head into her hands. She has no idea what she’s going to do next.
Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ plays on the jukebox. Audrey has to strain her ears to hear the lyrics because the machine is on the far side of the bar and she has deliberately chosen the quietest table, tucked away in a corner far from eavesdropping ears, even though she is not expecting to see anyone she knows in this Holborn pub.
She sits waiting for Edward to return from the toilet, unsure whether she wants him to come quickly or not. But after more than two weeks of holding on to the news, she no longer feels able to bear the weight of it alone.
The table rattles and she leans over, wedging a beer mat underneath the leg. As she sits up, the palm of her hand instinctively finds the flat of her stomach.
There is no sign yet, nothing to give her away. Nothing to indicate what is taking place inside her and has been for nine weeks now, according to the doctor: the cells dividing and multiplying, a brand new person slowly morphing into life. This strikes Audrey as remarkable. That it is possible for another human to be growing inside her with no external evidence to communicate this fact to the rest of the world: no change in the colour of her skin, no readable message on her face, no visible aura of protection around her.
Audrey sips gingerly at the Babycham Edward has bought for her but it tastes strange – bitter – and she puts the glass back on the table.
And then there he is, striding around the bar towards her, smiling: his tall, dependable frame; his expression a question in need of an answer; his walk toeing an invisible line.
Can a walk, Audrey wonders, be sensible?