by Sue Gee
‘What have you been doing?’
She got in next to Robert; they drove away. Slowly through the village, then gaining speed.
‘Let’s have some music,’ he said.
‘Sinatra.’
Everyone groaned. ‘Not again.’
She took no notice, slotting the tape in, pressing the button. The car was filled with Sinatra: they all began to sing.
After a while, Jessica stopped. She sat with her head pressed up to the window, looking out over the blue-green mountainside, the valley and the winding river, getting smaller, smaller, as they climbed.
And then I have to spoil it all by saying something stupid, like I love you …
She shut her eyes, and the music floated through her, and out through the open window as they drove away.
Tom sat between them, waiting for lunch. Behind them, the trolley
rattled and shook, coming along the aisle, but the plane was flying smoothly, and the little cat liked it. She sat on the plastic tray in front of him, waiting for her lunch, too.
Frances and Oliver looked at each other, over his head.
‘He seems fine.’
‘Yes. You okay?’
He nodded, and looked at his watch, returned to his book while he waited.
Frances looked out of the window. They were flying above the clouds: a thick, sunlit landscape of white, of such apparent substance and solidity that it was hard to believe it would not break your fall. If you opened the door of the plane and stepped out – surely you could walk upon those hills and along those valleys, surely you would be safe.
The plane flew steadily on. Far below them, far beneath the cloud, the mountains of Portugal were growing smaller and smaller, miles away. She saw before her the house, the garden, the darkness of the night, a cool breeze stirring the vines as she burned her letter, and Tom, coming up behind her, blindly seeking her out.
I shall be this and I shall be that, and tomorrow everything will be –
She saw him, lying as still as death at the side of the pool, his face blue and his teeth clamped shut; moving, twitching, trying to say her name.
Dora knew about things, she knew what was what. It sounded so simple, and it went so deep –
Dora, wrote Frances, leaning back, closing her eyes, seeing before her once again that oh, so lovely face, beloved Dora, help me to make it right.
Copyright
First published in 1993 by Century
This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world
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ISBN 978-1-4472-3437-1 EPUB
ISBN 978-1-4472-3436-4 POD
Copyright © Sue Gee, 1993
The right of Sue Gee to be identified as the
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