was strange to wake up in that house again. Strange to put on jeans and a thick, warm sweater and go out into the crisp autumn dawn where the shouting wind caught her black hair and blew it around her like a banner. She ran, startling horses in the pasture below the house. Climbing the wall and jumping down, she hunted for new mushrooms in the long grass where they had always grown.
When she went back to the house she found her aunt slicing tomatoes. ‘I saw you from the window gathering mushrooms; we’ll have them with toast,’ Grace Thornton said. ‘Your uncle’s away up to the top, to work on one of the walls—it came down in the last storm. He took his breakfast with him and a flask of tea. There’s nothing like rebuilding a wall to cheer him up.’
Nerissa remembered he had always gone off to work on the drystone walls whenever he was upset; the routine task was soothing to him.
After breakfast she and her aunt drove off to the hospital again. There was no change, Staff Nurse Courtney told them.
‘No change isn’t necessarily bad news, though,’ she said, and Nerissa wished she could believe her. ‘It’s a long, slow haul,’ added the nurse, and that, at least, Nerissa believed.
Towards the end of that very long day she wondered how her aunt managed to stay so cheerful, how she kept talking to her son when there was absolutely no response.
They had taken it in turns to talk to Philip. When his mother was tired she went off for a break and a cup of tea and sat outside, in the cool fresh air, in a little garden beside the ward, so that if she was wanted she was near by. Several times that day Nerissa went out and left Philip alone with his mother. After sitting about for hours Nerissa preferred a brisk walk around the garden after she had had her tea and a sandwich.
Her uncle arrived in the afternoon, and at six o’clock Grace Thornton sent them both home again. ‘And make sure you eat a proper cooked meal this time,’ she told them. ‘John, did you remember to pop that casserole into the oven?’
He nodded. ‘Just as you said, at two o’clock. What time shall I take it out?’
‘As soon as you want to eat. It won’t spoil, but it’s ready whenever you want it.’
When they got back to the farm Nerissa said, ‘I’ll serve supper,’ but John Thornton shook his head.
‘Nay, lass, your aunt told me to do it, and I’d better, or she’ll never let me hear t’end of it.’
‘I’ll lay the table, then.’
They ate in the farm kitchen, the biggest room in the house, with white-washed deep stone walls, small windows, an old range which gave out great warmth on cold days and cheerful red and white checked curtains. The table was old and wellscrubbed, the wood deeply bitten with knife-cuts and scratches and carved initials. Along the high windowsills stood rows of pink geraniums, all grown by Grace Thornton, who often won prizes for them at local flower shows.
The casserole was lamb, with seasonal vegetables—potatoes and carrots, late green beans and leeks and onion. It was all grown there, on the farm, and the smell was mouthwatering and the taste delicious.
They washed up and put everything away, leaving some of the casserole in the oven for Grace when she got back. John Thornton went out to his yard to feed some of his animals, and Nerissa switched on the radio to listen to some music.
She curled up in a chair, her mind occupied with Philip, worrying, remembering his white face and the carved, blind look of his closed eyes.
Was he ever going to wake up? And, if he did, would he be some sort of human vegetable? She knew that that was what was terrifying his parents. They hadn’t said anything, but she knew them. She had caught looks they gave each other, words they began and cut off.
She put her hands over her face. It wasn’t fair! Why had this happened to Philip? Hadn’t he borne enough grief already?
The phone rang beside her, making her jump. She had a sudden presentiment that it was news of Philip, that it was her aunt ringing from the hospital to say…what? That he had come out of his coma? Or…was dying?
Her hand shaking, she reached for it, whispered, ‘Yes, hello?’
There was a silence at the other end.
‘Hello? Lantcrn Farm,’ Nerissa said urgently. ‘Aunt Grace…is that you?’
The phone cut off suddenly. She held it, listening to the dead tone. Whoever had rung had hung up without speaking.
The silence was eloquent. Nerissa felt ice trickle down her nape. It could be a wrong number, of course. But she was afraid that it wasn’t.
She was afraid it was Ben. He would have rung their home, only got the answering machine, then perhaps tried ringing friends, her boss. She had known that sooner or later Ben would realise she was not at home. She had hoped it would take him longer to work it out, but she had known it would happen, and that he would not forgive her for going to Philip without telling him what she meant to do.
Her heart beat with terror. If that had been him, what would he do now?
For the moment, nothing, she quickly told herself. He was in The Hague representing a client at the Court of Human Rights. He couldn’t leave; this was an important case. Ben had been working on it for a long time; he wouldn’t walk out on it now. He had said he estimated that it would take at least a week, maybe longer, for him to present his case. He wouldn’t have to stay there to wait for the court’s decision—that might take weeks, even months—but he certainly couldn’t leave yet.
She had a breathing space. Days. Maybe a week, maybe longer. But sooner or later he would arrive and demand that she leave with him, and when she refused—as she knew she must—their marriage would be over.
NERISSA didn’t sleep much that night, and when her aunt saw her next morning she gave her a frowning, anxious stare.
‘You look terrible. Didn’t you sleep? Your eyes look like holes in a white paper bag. I can’t let you go to the hospital looking like that. They’ll take one look at you and send you home in case you’re coming down with something contagious.’
‘I’m fine,’ she said, sitting down at the table and looking without much interest at the fruit, the cereal, the coffee waiting for her.
‘Fine? Nonsense!’ snorted Grace Thornton. ‘I know what you’re like—if you’re upset you don’t sleep or eat and the next thing we’ll find is that you’re ill, too. Look what happened when you were competing in the county swimming competition—you couldn’t stop throwing up for hours beforehand. And what about the year you took your final exams at school? You ended up with pneumonia that time. You’re one of those people who can’t take any sort of strain for long.’
Nerissa gave her a wounded look, her huge eyes darkened. ‘I’ll be OK. Don’t stop me going to see Philip; I can sleep later, when I get back. That’s all that’s wrong with me—I had something on my mind and couldn’t get to sleep for hours, that’s all.’
Grace Thornton frowned, face intent. ‘Something
