Freddie couldn’t fault any of the nurses who had cared for his beloved wife Mary during her time in the hospital. They had all been cheerful and efficient. But Amy Painter had been special; she was the one he and Mary had most looked forward to seeing.
When she came on shift Amy’s dazzling smile lit up the ward. She was always ready with a sympathetic ear or a naughty joke, whichever was appropriate at the time. Her bleached blond hair was cropped short, her blue eyes were by turns sparkling and compassionate, and she never failed to brighten Freddie’s day. If he and Mary had been blessed with a daughter, they would have wanted one like Amy. She was the most perfect, funny, generous, and caring twenty-three-year-old you could wish for.
Freddie still had the letter she’d written to him after Mary’s death. She had attended the funeral too, and wept until her eyes were swollen and red. And four months later she had sent him a postcard from Lanzarote, just a few cheery lines telling him that she had left Cheltenham and was enjoying a vacation in the sun before starting work at a hospital in London. The message concluded: Dearest Freddie, still thinking of you. When I grow up I want to be as happily married as you and Mary. Love and hugs, Amy xxx.
He’d kept this postcard too; it had meant a lot to him. And when he had received the news of his own condition from Dr. Willis and it had been necessary to consider his future, such as it was, Freddie had known at once who he wanted to take care of him in his last days.
He wasn’t completely selfish; he was aware that Amy had her own life to lead and that such a degree of disruption was asking a lot of her. But that was the great thing about having money. She could name her price and he would happily pay it.
Now, looking at the expression on Lottie’s face, Freddie sensed that all wasn’t going according to plan.
“I spoke to someone at the hospice who used to work with Amy,” Lottie said. “Officially they’re not supposed to pass on personal details, but I explained about you wanting to see her again and she gave me Amy’s mother’s address. Her name’s Barbara and she lives in London. So I wrote to her.” Pausing, Lottie held out the letter she’d opened in the office. “And now she’s written back.” Reluctantly she said, “I’m so sorry, Freddie. Amy’s dead.”
Dead? How could someone like Amy be dead? Feeling winded, Freddie reached across the kitchen table for the letter.
Dear Lottie,
Thanks ever so for your nice letter about my daughter. I’m very sorry to have to tell you that Amy was killed in a car accident three years ago. She had volunteered to work in a children’s hospital in Uganda and was loving her time there. Sadly a jeep overturned and Amy was thrown out. I’m told her death was instantaneous, which has been a comfort to me—although I’m sure you can understand that the last three years have been hard to bear. Amy was my whole world, and I still find it hard to believe she’s really gone.
I hope this news won’t upset your friend too much. You say his name is Freddie Masterson and his wife’s name was Mary. Well, I remember Amy telling me about them. She was so very fond of them both and envied them their long and happy marriage. My beautiful girl always got fed up with her boyfriends after a couple of months and dumped them, so it was always her big aim in life to find someone who didn’t get on her nerves or bore her rigid!
Anyway, I’m waffling on. Sorry to have been the bearer of bad news. Thanks again for your letter—it’s lovely to know that Amy hasn’t been forgotten and is fondly remembered. That means so much.
Yours,
Barbara Painter
* * *
The apartment was on the tenth floor of a modern council block in Hounslow. Now that he was no longer allowed to drive, Freddie had hired a car and driver for the day. Climbing out of the car, he told the driver to return in two hours.
Then he entered the building and rode up to the tenth floor in the graffiti-strewn lift.
“This is so strange,” said Barbara Painter, “but so nice at the same time. I can’t believe you’re here. I feel as if I know you.”
“Me too.” Freddie smiled and watched her fill their teacups. The apartment, not much to write home about from the exterior, was warm, tidy, and welcoming on the inside. The living room was bright with cushions and paintings, and there were framed photographs of Amy on every surface and at every stage of her life.
Barbara saw him looking at them. “A couple people have told me I’m turning the place into a shrine, but they’ve always been there. I didn’t suddenly put them out after she died. Her father took off before Amy was born, so it was only ever just the two of us. Why shouldn’t I have photographs out of the person I loved most in the world?”
“Exactly.” Freddie didn’t know how Barbara Painter could bear to carry on. The unfairness of it all was beyond him. When there were muggers and rapists and mass murderers in the world, why did a girl like Amy have to die?
Barbara, reading his mind, said, “You just take it one day at a time. Force yourself to get out of bed every morning. Try to have something to look forward to, however small and insignificant it might be. Oh God, listen to me, I’m starting to sound like a counselor.”
“Did you go see one?”
She pulled a face. “I did. Not for long. I swept all the papers from her desk and told her to fuck off.”
“So long as it made you feel better,” said Freddie with a grin. Barbara was a plump, motherly woman in her fifties with dark blond hair, bright eyes, and a subversive sense of humor. Since his arrival over an hour ago, they had exchanged reminiscences about Mary and Amy, talked about his brain tumor, and struck up quite a rapport.
“And then she got down on her hands and knees and picked up every last paper herself,” Barbara went on. “Told me it didn’t matter a bit! My God, I couldn’t believe it—I was like the Princess and the Pea! I could have scribbled all over her face with a felt-tip and she’d have let me do it. Wouldn’t that have been a laugh? I could get away with anything. Oh look, you’ve finished your tea. Can you manage another cup?”
“Thanks.” Checking his watch, Freddie saw that it was time for his afternoon dose of medication. Taking the bottle out of his inside pocket, he struggled for a few moments with the childproof cap before shaking a carbamazepine tablet into the palm of his hand. Then, because his head was pounding, he added a couple of painkillers.
“That was a bit tactless of me,” said Barbara, “talking about having things to look forward to. How long did the doctors say you probably had?”
“A year. Ish.” Freddie appreciated the straightforward approach. “Well, that was back in the summer, so more like eight or nine months now.”
“Amy would have been so flattered to think you’d wanted her to take care of you. So what will you do now?”
Freddie shrugged and swallowed the pills, one after the other. “Advertise, I suppose. Hold interviews, try to find someone I can bear to have around. Something tells me I’m not going to be the most patient of patients.”
“You mean you’re a belligerent bugger. I’ve dealt with plenty of those in my time, let me tell you.” Barbara looked amused. “When Amy was looking after your wife, did she ever happen to mention what I did for a living?”
“Not that I can recall.” Shaking his head, Freddie said, “Why? What were you, a nightclub bouncer?”
“The cheek of you. Take a look at that photo over there on the board.”
Freddie obediently rose from his seat and went over to the corkboard, where several unframed photos were randomly pinned amid the cab company cards, scribbled reminders, and phone numbers. One of the photographs was of Barbara and Amy laughing together, listening to each other’s chests through stethoscopes and wearing matching uniforms.
“You’re a nurse?”
“I am.” Barbara nodded.
“Where are you working?”
“Nowhere. I retired in March.” She paused then said, “And been going mad with boredom ever since.”
Freddie was almost afraid to ask the question. “Would you consider taking care of a stroppy bugger for a few months until he kicks the bucket?”
“If you shout at me, would I be allowed to shout back?”
“I’d be offended if you didn’t,” said Freddie.
“In that case, let’s give it a whirl. You wanted Amy, but she couldn’t do it, so you’re getting me instead.” Barbara Painter’s eyes glistened as she smiled proudly at the snap on the corkboard of Amy and herself. “You know what? I think she’d be tickled pink about that.”