2

April 2008 – Monks Bottom Manor, Oxfordshire

Marina Proudfoot’s hands lay desiccated and yellowing on the lace counterpane. Marina was dying. Perhaps the hands already had, but despite the weakness and confusion of extremis, she seemed irritated and impatient. Her fingers flickered into life, rasping and blindly tapping. She was attempting to make words, but her dry whispers were just a muddled slur.

Sally Fuller stroked her brow and whispered the usual comforting words, wishing she could convey more than sympathetic noises. It was always the right of the dying to be understood and nurtured at the end, but somehow philosophy was anathema when time was seeping away. She could offer nothing but her professional nursing skills; to sooth, to ensure dignity and monitor the demise. ‘Listen, Tim,’ Sally said. ‘I’m sure she’s trying to say something.’

Timothy moved closer and hovered anxiously over his mother. ‘Mumma, it’s Tim. I’m listening.’ With a powerful effort the husk of Marina’s body stiffened, her arms flailed and a desperate gasp cracked from her parched throat. She then paused and spoke with perfect diction.

‘Hat trick.’

Sally stared as the tortured face became calm and the rib cage dropped. She felt for the pulse, placed the stethoscope over the heart, and listened intently. She shook her head and stepped back. ‘I’m sorry, Tim.’

Timothy clasped his face with both hands. ‘Hat trick. You know what that means, don’t you? The score of three. My father, Morgana and now herself. She knew it was her last moment. God must have crept in at the end after all.’

Sally turned and patted his shoulder, knowing it was still her duty to be kind to him, but already feeling detached and anxious to leave. ‘You need a few private minutes,’ she said, pulling up a bedside chair. ‘I’ll go downstairs and phone for Andrew. He has to sign the death certificate and arrange what happens next.’

The bereaved son and the nurse skillfully avoided eye contact, deeply aware that the hidden agenda between them was striding out of cover, shaking a hand-bell and blowing a whistle.

When Sally left the room Timothy retrieved his mobile from the windowsill, and pressed a number. ‘Oh, Skipper. It’s all over.’