Frances knew that the time had come. Her body had finally reached tipping point and was sliding now—she no longer had the strength to resist. Standards had finally slipped. The knowledge, instead of frightening her, brought with it a profound sense of relief. She didn’t need to do any more, she could just lie there and wait.
She had no real hope of meeting Kenny in heaven, not after all this time—twenty-four years: his soul had probably been shuffled off to merge with the Godhead or some such—although Joyce was sure her Richard would still be waiting. Frances hoped God would do his bit, though, find her a comfy spot somewhere after all those endless church services she’d sat through. It was easier to believe in him, because oblivion was the only other option, and who would willingly choose nothing? There wasn’t a hell of a lot she could do about it either way, so she had resolved, long ago, not to worry. People had been dying since there were people to die, and so would she.
Now that Richard’s painkillers had run out, however, things had become very tricky. She was tough, she knew how to endure, but goodness it had been hard not having that blissful cushion of respite every few hours. It had made her feel quite mad. She’d eked out the supply till the end of last week, but now she was reliant on paracetamol, and much bloody use that was, even taking twice as much as the packet advised.
It should be easier, she thought, as she lay in bed, waiting for Nancy to come up and help her wash. She was in constant dread that she would get too weak and her daughter would drag her off to hospital where they would insist on cranking up the whole ghastly medical machine. Every morning she was mildly disappointed that she had survived the night.
But Frances put on a brave smile when Nancy’s face appeared in the doorway. The only wrench about knowing she was soon to die was leaving Nancy and the family, never seeing her dear granddaughter or those charming little girls again. The thought was astonishingly painful. Nancy had been a good daughter, despite being so much closer to Kenny than she’d ever been to herself. It used to make her jealous when Nancy was a child, witnessing the bond they shared and feeling so excluded, but none of it mattered now. One benefit of dying, she acknowledged, was that all the things that had bothered you in life were now spectacularly unimportant.
But although Nancy did her very best to hide her feelings, it was clear in her eyes the stress the bloody illness was causing. Frances would have liked to thank her from the bottom of her heart for being so kind; she would have liked to tell her she loved her before she died. But she wasn’t good at saying those things and the words—so often on the tip of her tongue—just wouldn’t come. She hoped Nancy knew.
“Good morning, darling,” she said, as if it were indeed good. But her whole body was just screaming to be left alone. She wanted to lie there and drift. She wanted it to be over.