ANNIE WAS BACK at Everwell unpacking her shopping when Mrs Miller came downstairs.
‘Mrs Howarth’s sleeping like a baby,’ she said. ‘Are you all right to sit with her if I pop out for an hour?’
Annie nodded and went up to her mother-in-law’s room. She tapped gently on the door, and when there was no response, she opened it and went in.
William had had two bedrooms knocked through into one large room for Ethel when she came to live with them. This had created a pleasant, sunny space, with the bed, commode, washbasin and wardrobe at one end and a couple of easy chairs, a small settee, a television and a table at the other. The old lady was asleep in her armchair. Mrs Miller had tucked a cushion behind her head and covered her over with a crocheted blanket. Ethel’s mouth was open and she was snoring quietly. She looked as vulnerable as a baby bird, the skin that covered her skull powder-puff pink beneath her sparse white hair. One bar of the electric fire was burning and the room was very warm. Annie moved over to the window and looked down. She could see the spot where Elizabeth always waved goodbye in the mornings, the grass worn away by her shoes, and the first hint of blossom in the purple-leaved cherry tree beside the derelict cottage. Up on the moor, two brown deer were grazing, taking turns to stand guard. In the distance, Annie could see the glint of metal from the cars in the car park at the mine and the dark silhouettes of the works and their sprawl.
She sat by the window, picked up a magazine that the nurse had left, and flicked through the pages. There was an article about an American pop star called Madonna. Annie looked at the photographs. She liked the way the girl was dressed, with her swept-over hair, her heavily made-up eyes and hooped earrings like Marie’s. Annie wondered if she could find some long, lace gloves to go with the dress she’d bought. Madonna wore bracelets and bangles over her gloves and a dozen necklaces were strung around her throat. It would not be a difficult look to copy – only William probably wouldn’t like it. He preferred it if Annie was not ‘blown about by the winds of fashion’. He liked her to look classic. On the next page were pictures of Princess Diana, but then there were always pictures of Diana; it was as if the world would never have enough images of her. Sometimes, Annie compared herself to Diana. Diana was younger than Annie, of course, but they’d both married older, wealthier men, both had had to endure a great deal of public attention and comment, and Diana, like Annie, sometimes seemed to struggle a bit with her role.
Annie closed her eyes, leaned back in the chair. She would never admit to anyone else that she thought she was like Diana. They’d only think she was getting above herself again. She thought about what her mother had said and tried not to be upset by her constant nippy little criticisms. Marie was, after all, stuck in a tiny, smelly house with a husband who had all the refinement of a wild boar. Of course she was jealous of Annie.
Annie was warm and sleepy, and she must have dozed off because she did not hear a vehicle come up the drive, or a knock at the door. She only found the flowers on the doorstep after Mrs Miller had returned and she was leaving to pick Elizabeth up from school. They were not shop flowers, but spring wildflowers, moor flowers in delicate shades of yellow and blue, forget-me-nots, celandine, thrift, yellow oxlips, primroses and violets. Annie took the small envelope that lay beside the jar and prised open the flap. Inside was a piece of card. On the back was a pencil sketch of a wren and six words.
When can I see you? Tom.
‘Oh no,’ Annie whispered. ‘No, you won’t get to me that way.’
She picked up the flowers by the stalks – they drooped in her hand, shedding petals like confetti – and went outside, across the lawn to the gate that separated the garden from the home meadow, where Jim Friel’s small herd of dairy cattle was grazing. She whistled to the cows, and as they wandered over, she tossed the flowers over the gate and dropped the card after them. The lead cow sniffed the flowers, and then picked one delicate, ragged stem of blossom and began to chew, slime drooling from its big soft lips.
‘Thank you, cow,’ said Annie, and she brushed the pollen from her hands before turning and marching back to the house.