Page 5 of The Love Letter
The old lady shook her head as firmly as she could. ‘Please, for your own sake, I—’
‘We’re nearly there now. I’ll help you inside your house and then go back.’
The old lady sighed, sank further down into her coat and said no more until the taxi came to a halt.
‘Here we are, love.’ The cabbie opened the door, relief that the woman was still alive clear on his face.
‘Take this.’ The woman held out a fifty-pound note.
‘Haven’t got change for that, I’m afraid,’ he said as he helped the old woman down onto the pavement and supported her until Joanna stood beside her.
‘Here. I’ve got it.’ Joanna handed the driver a twenty-pound note. ‘Wait for me here, please. Back in a tick.’ The old lady had already slipped from her grasp and was walking unsteadily towards a door next to a newsagent’s.
Joanna followed her. ‘Shall I do that?’ she asked as the arthritic fingers struggled to put the key in the lock.
‘Thank you.’
Joanna turned the key, opened the door, and the old lady almost threw herself through it.
‘Come in, come in,quickly!’
‘I . . .’
Having delivered the old lady safely to her door, Joanna needed to get back to the church. ‘Okay.’ Joanna reluctantly stepped inside. Immediately the woman banged the front door shut behind her.
‘Follow me.’ She was heading for a door on the left-hand side of a narrow hallway. Another key was fumbled for, then finally fitted into the lock. Joanna followed her into darkness.
‘Lights are just behind you on the right.’
Joanna felt for the switch, flicked it and saw that she was standing in a small, dank-smelling lobby. There were three doors in front of her and a flight of stairs to her right.
The old lady opened one of the doors and switched on another light. Standing just behind her, Joanna could see that the room was full of tea chests stacked one on top of the other. In the centre of the room was a single bed with a rusty iron bedstead. Against one wall, wedged in between the tea chests, was an old armchair. The smell of urine was distinct and Joanna felt her stomach lurch.
The old lady headed for the chair and sank onto it with a sigh of relief. She indicated an upturned tea chest by the bed. ‘Tablets, my tablets. Could you pass them, please?’
‘Of course.’ Joanna gingerly picked her way through the tea chests and retrieved the pills from the dusty surface, noticing the directions for use were written in French.
‘Thank you. Two, please. And the water.’
Joanna gave her the glass of water that stood next to the pills, then opened the screw-top of the bottle and emptied out two tablets into a shaking hand and watched the old lady put them in her mouth. And wondered if she was now okay to leave. She shuddered, the fetid smell and dismal atmosphere of the room closing in on her. ‘Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?’
‘Quite sure, thank you. I know what’s wrong with me, my dear.’ A small, twisted smile appeared on her lips.
‘Well then. I’m afraid I’d better be going back to the service. I have to file my piece for my newspaper.’
‘You’re a journalist?’ The old lady’s accent, now that she had recovered her voice, was refined and definitely English.
‘Yes. On theMorning Mail. I’m very junior at the moment.’
‘What is your name, dear?’
‘Joanna Haslam.’ She indicated the boxes. ‘Are you moving?’
‘I suppose you could put it like that, yes.’ She stared off into space, her blue eyes glazed. ‘I won’t be here for much longer. Maybe it’s right that it ends like this . . .’
‘What do you mean? Please, if you’re ill, let me take you to a hospital.’
‘No, no. It’s too late for all that. You go now, my dear, back to your life. Goodbye.’ The old lady closed her eyes. Joanna continued to watch her, until a few seconds later, she heard soft snores emanating from the woman’s mouth.
