I don’t like this. She’s normally at the door within about half a minute of me ringing the bell. Where the hell can she be? I ring again. Nothing. I’m afraid. Has she changed her mind, decided that, after all this, after all her efforts, I’m not the one she wants to take with her? No, can’t be. I texted her when I got on the train. She said she’d be here. What, then? What if something’s happened to her? OK, there haven’t been any fainting fits lately, but I know she doesn’t feed herself properly when I’m not around. What if something’s wrong, something bad?
The studio faces onto the main road behind the house, and there’s no way for me to get to it from here. I run back the way I’ve come, towards the traffic, sprint round the corner. The red brick facade of the old factory is covered in graffiti, and the narrow strip of no man’s land behind the low fence is unkempt. I vault over it, find an overturned dustbin, push it up against the wall, and climb onto it, puffing and panting. I stand on tiptoes, unsteady, and pull my eyes level with the small window that’s up there. It’s one of the library windows. I can see all the way through to the studio from here. The world grinds into silence around me. The studio walls are now bare, and there’s a small shadow curled up on the floor. It’s not moving.
The bin falls over with a clatter as I jump off it. My trousers get snagged on the fence as I try to jump over it again. I ignore the ripping sound and the pain in my leg to race to the front of the house. I try the door. It won’t budge. I take a step back and try to shoulder-charge it. And bounce off it. I take more steps back, a proper run-up. I clatter into the door. There’s a little crunch, and it shifts, but not enough. Again, I run up and try to hit the door with as much of my side as I can manage. There’s more movement this time. It always looks so simple when they do this on the cop shows on telly. One last try. The doorframe splinters, and I’m in.
The silence overpowers me after the noise of breaking in. I slip on the wooden floor as I run through the hall and the kitchen. The shadow’s Birdie, a tiny huddle of clothes and limbs. I go down on my knees next to her. I can’t see her breathe. I put my ear next to her mouth. All I can hear is my heart pounding. Sweat drips into my eyes. It runs off my nose onto her face. I’m sure she’s dead. What … what? I feel for the pulse in her neck. Oh, there’s a flicker there. This isn’t the same as catching hold of her when she fainted on the train. How long has she been like this?
As I move her, more of my sweat drips onto one of her closed eyes. Her eyelids move. A rattle climbs up out of her throat. Her eyes open and look at me, vacant. They don’t know me. Oh God, oh God, oh God. I put my hands under her back and start to roll her over. She feels really heavy this time. No, no, no. I try not to think.
Once she’s on her side, I dial 999 on my mobile. The ambulance will be here in ten minutes, the voice reassures me after I’ve given the address. And I ask the voice what to do. Just stay with her, it tells me, try talking to her. So I talk. It’s the longest monologue of my life. ‘Please, please, don’t die. I do love you. I want to be with you. I’ll do anything you want me to. Listen to me. It’s not your time, it’s not time to go. You belong here with me. I can’t do this on my own. I can’t be without you. I need you. You’re all I ever wanted. Please, please, please.’ Over and over again. But she’s incapable of hearing. Although her chest is moving up and down with sharp, fluttering, irregular breaths. Like her body’s having to work too hard to keep going, like it could give out any second.
I kiss her forehead. I take her limp hands and stroke their bony fingers. I long for them to have that hard touch about them, that muscular, powerful grip, but they stay still and heavy. I kiss them. I talk to them, to her, to her closed eyes, to her matted hair, to her face. And all I hear is my voice bouncing back at me, because this empty place has become a theatre of echoes.
‘Where are you?’ A shout from the house.
‘In here,’ I shout back.
‘On our way.’
Just as the paramedics put their cases down next to her, she splutters and shakes. Her arms and legs draw irregular circles on the floor. Her nails scrape crooked shapes into the wood. She heaves and retches. She opens her eyes, and screams. The men are on their knees, trying to hold her down, and trying to calm her. The screaming doesn’t stop. Her neck is tight with the effort, the veins rigid along the sides. I can’t look, but I have to look. What else can I do? I try to calm her with my thoughts, but I don’t think it’s working.
‘Shhh, shhh, shhh.’ I don’t even realise I’m saying it and swaying as I say it until the men look at me. And then she stops screaming and looks at me. She’s afraid. Her lips move. They form the same shape, over and over again. She tries to sit up. The three of us help her. One of the paramedics straps a blood pressure monitor round her arm. She doesn’t resist.
‘What’s her name?’ the other one asks me.
‘Birdie.’
‘Birdie, can you hear me?’ he asks her.
‘Mm … yes … can.’
‘Can you feel your arms and legs?’
‘’Course,’ she slurs.
She stares at me. She doesn’t stop staring. She doesn’t look at the others.
‘Can you lift your arms?’ he asks her.
She lifts her arms. The colour starts to come back into her face.
‘What day is it today?’ he goes on.
‘How should I know?’ Her voice isn’t so slurred now.
‘I think we should take you to the ambulance and do a few tests.’
‘Fine.’
‘D’you think you can walk?’
She shakes her head.
‘Blood pressure’s fine,’ the other guy says. ‘I’ll go get the chair.’
‘Do you want your husband to come with you?’
She shakes her head again.
‘I’m not her husband,’ I say.
‘I suppose you’d best wait here, then.’
I nod. I can’t do anything she doesn’t want me to. I don’t follow when they wheel her away, just lean against one of the empty walls. I can’t fathom what’s happened to the paintings. Has it got anything to do with her collapse? She can’t have been robbed, can she? The front door was locked. Nothing seems to be disturbed. My leg’s hurting. I hobble into the library. There’s nothing missing here. I shake my head. I wander slowly through to the kitchen, get myself a glass of water, and drink it down in one. Then I fidget with the tap and the glass and pour myself some more water. I can’t stand still, can’t sit down, can’t stay here any longer.
The door’s open, so I leave the house to stand next to the ambulance. I listen to the muffled voices, but can’t make out what they’re saying. I lean against the white metal. The voices carry on speaking. The sun’s too hot for me, but I don’t feel like moving. Then the back doors open. One of the paramedics climbs down out of the van.
‘She’s fine,’ he says before I’ve a chance to ask him. ‘Low blood sugar. But it’s a good job you called us.’
‘Anything I can do?’
‘Persuade her to eat more.’
‘She needs to understand.’
‘I’ll keep on trying.’
‘Best thing you can do is to go get her a couple of bacon and egg sandwiches. They’ll boost her sugar better than cakes or anything, and stay in her blood for longer.’
‘There’s café just down the road.’
‘We’ll be here for another quarter-hour at least, so you’ve got time now if you don’t want to leave her on her own later.’
‘We need to get the bloody door fixed as well.’
‘One thing at a time,’ he says. ‘You can call someone out for the door when we’ve gone. The sandwiches are more important.’
‘OK.’
Less than ten minutes later I’m back. They’re still in the ambulance with her. I take the sandwiches into the kitchen. Then I’m by the ambulance again. At last they come out with her. At least they’re not having to carry her. They just hold her by the arms as she climbs down.
‘I’ve got sandwiches in the kitchen,’ I say.
The paramedics smile. ‘Good,’ one of them says.
‘Just what the doctor ordered,’ says the other. ‘We’ll be off, then.’
‘Thanks very much,’ I say.
‘Nothing to thank us for.’
I take Birdie’s arm. ‘You all right?’
She nods, tries to smile. The ambulance leaves. The siren goes before it reaches the end of the street.
‘I wasted their time, didn’t I?’ she says.
‘Not really. You just need to learn to eat.’
We walk slowly back into the house. I sit her down at the kitchen table.
‘You’ve got to eat those now.’ I plonk a glass of water down next to her.
‘I’ll try.’
I watch her. She almost recoils from the food.
‘Birdie, you’ll die if you don’t get over this attitude to food.’
‘I don’t really hate it. I just can’t be bothered most of the time.’
‘Then start being bothered – please.’
I hunt out the phone directory while she tastes her first mouthful. She’s still chewing it when I’ve found someone to come and fix the door.
‘You’ll have to do better than that.’
She drinks and says nothing.
‘They’ll be here to fix the door in a couple of hours.’
‘Good,’ she says and stares at the sandwich as if it were going to attack her.
‘Come on – more. You’ll love it, after a while.’
‘Not sure about that.’
‘I am.’
She soldiers on. It takes her almost an hour to eat one sandwich.
‘Can I have a little rest?’
‘Go on, then,’ I say. I sit down next to her. ‘What happened to the paintings?’
‘Part of the deal.’
‘What deal?’
‘Us getting out there.’
‘Eh?’
‘I’ve given them to the art gallery in Christchurch.’
‘What’s that got to do with us going down there?’
‘There’s a charity down there that looks after all the huts on Antarctica. It needs a load of money, mainly for Scott’s place at Cape Evans.’
‘I know all that.’
‘So all the money raised from the exhibition and sales is going to go towards the project.’
‘So that’s what you meant when you said it was just money.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re fine about it?’
‘I wouldn’t have done it otherwise.’
‘I guess not.’
‘Do I have to eat this other sandwich?’
‘Yes.’
‘They taste like shit.’
‘But they’re good for you.’
‘Whatever you say.’ She starts eating again.
She eats through the noise and mess of the doorframe being fixed. She doesn’t object to me paying for it on my card. She’s on her last bite when I close and lock the door.
‘Thank God that’s done,’ she says.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you angry with me?’
‘What about?’
‘The paintings. The fainting.’
‘I’m worried about you. The paintings aren’t any of my business. It’s not like you to ask me about something that doesn’t concern me.’
‘I must be feeling weak.’
‘Not surprising, really.’
‘I s’pose not.’
‘How much are you hoping to raise with the paintings?’
‘A million quid, maybe.’
‘In New Zealand?’
‘Yup. It’ll work out.’
‘Are they still going to let you go out there?’ I say.
‘What do you mean?’
‘After today.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not exactly good health, is it? I’m surprised nothing came up when you did your medical.’
‘I made sure I ate lots and told the doctor lies. And there’s only a week to go. It’s too late for anyone to change anything.’
‘And you’re happy to go?’
‘Why not?’
‘It doesn’t worry you – today?’
‘No. It won’t happen again. Adam, I promise … I’ll be a good girl.’
‘I’ve been thinking …’
‘What about?’
‘That I’ve got a week to teach you how to cook.’
‘I can do the microwave stuff.’
‘I mean properly. Basic stuff, anyway. You’re going to have to cook over there. Real food.’
‘I’m not a very good learner.’
‘It’ll be fine.’
That night is the first time since we’ve been sharing a bed that she doesn’t wake me with her kicking and shouting. Instead, I spend most of the night awake listening to her breathing, worried every time it becomes irregular. I lie on my side, stare at her sleeping face in what little light the night gives. I put my hand on her belly, and feel her warmth through the thin shirt, make sure I don’t let her take the weight of my arm, and make sure I don’t wake her. In her sleep, she burrows the top of her head into my armpit. It makes me strangely happy. Such a simple thing.
I must have fallen asleep. The sun on my face wakes me. She’s still asleep. My hand is still on her flat stomach, her face still snuggled up to me. I breathe in. I can’t get enough of her scent. I manage to disentangle myself from her. When I look at her, I change my mind about getting out of bed. The warmth is too enticing. When I wake up again, it’s almost midday. She’s still asleep. This time I do get out of bed and fetch two glasses of juice. By the time I come back, she’s awake. Sitting up in bed.
‘Drink,’ I say.
‘And then we go shopping.’
‘Why?’
‘Food. I’ll teach you how to cook a decent breakfast.’
Many burnt rashers of bacon later, we sit down to a very late breakfast. It’s not bad. And she eats it rapidly.
‘Much better when you’ve done it yourself,’ she mutters, egg dripping down her chin.
‘Yes.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. When you get married you’ll be able to tell the lucky man you owe it all to me.’
‘I won’t get married.’
I shrug.
‘You’re an idiot,’ she says.
‘Let’s wash up.’
‘I’m not finished yet.
‘When you’re finished.’
The week passes quickly. Between cookery lessons and shopping tours, she fills the studio with the heavy scent of oil paints again. She starts a handful of new canvasses. So she has something to come back to, she says.
We make sure we’ve got all the clothes we need, and all the other gear, like sunblock, sunglasses, films, cameras. Everything’s packed tight into bags, not suitcases. We drink red wine in the library after she’s finished painting for the day, in the gloom after the light has gone. I rejoice in the sound of her voice when I can’t see her clearly.
One night we go to see John so I can tell him what I’m planning. For once, he doesn’t bluster about my idiocies. He wishes me luck, us both luck. He gives Birdie a hug as we’re leaving. ‘Take care of him,’ he tells her, and winks at me. He likes her. She likes him. I’m relieved.
We leave tomorrow. The bags are downstairs in the kitchen, and the passports on the table. Everything’s sorted. We’re all set.
‘Are you nervous?’ she whispers in the dark.
‘A bit. You?’
‘Nervous and excited.’
‘I …’ I bite my tongue.
‘I like you, too.’
She kisses me and turns over.