Flora pressed her father’s hand, the skin as soft as sandpapered wood, the bones inside fragile. She kissed him on his good cheek, smelling the sour breath of sleep and under it his familiar odour: pepper, dust, and leather—otter brown.
Nan helped Gil into bed while Flora held the candle. The light hollowed out his good eye socket, gouged craters into his cheeks and cast distorted shadows on the wall. Under his coat, Gil was wearing the pyjamas that Nan must have taken into the hospital. He winced when his bandaged arm was touched, but then sank into the bed with a sigh.
“Love you, Daddy,” Flora whispered in his ear, although he was already asleep.
In the kitchen they sat with Richard and talked in the half-light, working out who would collect Gil’s car from Hadleigh and drinking tea made with water boiled in a pan on the gas hob. Flora had hers black, not trusting the temperature of the fridge. She had seen Richard take note of the books in the hall, the sitting room, and the kitchen, but he made no comment about them. Instead, looking straight at Nan, he said, “What did your father say about seeing your mother?”
It was the question Flora wanted to ask, but she was shocked at Richard’s audacity.
Nan’s fingers tightened around her cup. “He was mistaken,” she said stiffly.
“You mean he’s changed his mind about what he saw?”
“Richard,” Flora said; a warning.
“I mean what he saw isn’t possible,” Nan said.
“But—” Richard began, and Flora put her hand on his and squeezed. “Is he going to be all right?” he continued.
Nan made a low hum, her mouth closed. Flora caught a glance from her sister before she looked away again.
“You’re worrying about his wrist, aren’t you?” Flora said.
“He has a urinary tract infection. It probably explains some of his confusion, but . . .” Nan paused.
“What?”
“Things have become”—she chose each word carefully—“potentially more . . . complicated.”
“What do you mean?” Flora said.
“He’ll be fine at home, Flora. We’ll do everything we can to make him comfortable.”
“You think his wrist is broken, don’t you?” Flora put her cup on the table and tea slopped over the edge. “We should take him back in. Get another X-ray.”
Nan and Richard looked at each other, the light from the candles moving across their faces so she couldn’t read their expressions.
“No,” Nan said softly. “He should stay at home with us. If he’s here I can keep an eye on him.”
The three of them sat in silence, sipping at their tea until Richard said, “It’s late. I should get going.” He stood up.
“Tonight?” Nan put her cup down. “I thought you’d be staying.”
“Would you like me to stay, Flora?”
“Richard’s got to work tomorrow,” Flora said.
“I could leave in the morning.”
“You’ll have to get up at a ridiculous time.”
“I wouldn’t,” Richard said. “It’s Sunday; the bookshop doesn’t open until eleven.”
“It’s far too late to go now,” Nan said. “You can sleep in the writing room.”
“If he’s going to stay, one of the sofas will do,” Flora said. “It’s only Daddy who sleeps in the writing room.”
Richard looked from one sister to the other.
“The sofas are full of books,” Nan said. “And it would mean making one of them up.”
“It won’t take a minute to throw a sheet over a sofa,” Flora said.
“Dad isn’t sleeping in his writing room now.” Nan stood. “Come on, I’ll show you the way.”
Flora narrowed her eyes at Richard but he didn’t appear to notice. He followed Nan out of the kitchen.
Flora thought about sleeping with Richard in the room at the end of the garden, but there was something about the two of them being there, using her father’s private space, that made her uncomfortable. So when she woke with the early light creeping through the window, it was Nan’s bed she saw with its covers thrown off and the sheets showing. There were voices across the hall—her father’s and her sister’s. Flora got out of bed and put on a spare dressing gown of Nan’s.
“Give me the phone,” Nan was saying in her midwife’s voice.
Nearly all the lights in the house were lit. The power must have come back on in the middle of the night, and the lamps in the sitting room glowed orange. Gil was perched on the arm of one of the sofas in his pyjamas, the telephone receiver pressed between his shoulder and his ear. He held the index finger of his right hand up at Nan, as if telling her to wait while he finished his conversation.
Gil nodded. “Yes, yes, of course.”
“Dad,” Nan said. “Give me the phone.”
“Who is it?” Flora said, yawning. “What time is it?”
“Half past five,” Nan snapped. “Go back to bed.”
“But who’s he speaking to?”
“Shh,” Gil said to Flora, and then into the phone, “OK, I’ll pass you over. It’s been lovely to speak to you, finally.” He paused, listening. “Me too,” he said, and Flora felt she was intruding on a private moment. Gil pressed the receiver against his pyjama top.
“It’s for you,” he said to Flora.
“Dad,” Nan said, exasperated.