on, take us from one place to another. So perhaps that could be our starting point for today. We might think of an individual paving stone, perhaps with a wisdom inscribed on it, or something growing round it, or something or someone treading on the stone… You can use any of the materials here and…”
People begin to drift towards the tables. In the noise and movement I slip away into the corridor. I remember exacdy where Edith Sorrel’s room is. Third on the right. I knock softly, in case she’s asleep. There is no answer. Quietly, I ease open the door. The room is small and institutional. There is a bed, a chair, a wardrobe, a basin and a bedside cabinet. Except for a toothbrush, flannel and soap, there are no personal items at all: no photos, no china, no knick-knacks, not even a book.
Miss Sorrel is asleep, breathing quietly and evenly. Sitting in the chair at the bottom of her bed is a man.
He rises, as if startled by me. He’s tall, white-haired and, despite the heat of the room, he’s wearing a full-length black overcoat. There’s something hunched about him, something glittering, that makes me think crow, hooded crow. He stares like I owe him an explanation, so I say:
“Hello, I’m Robert. I’m on the project.”
“Ernest,” he replies edgily. “Ernest Sorrel.”
“Oh,” I say. “You must be her brother then.”
“No. Not exactly.” His eyes bore into me. “I’m her husband.”
I try to keep my face neutral but, as Edith Sorrel told me quite emphatically that she didn’t have a husband, it isn’t easy.
“No doubt she didn’t mention me?” He smiles, or maybe it’s a grimace, and then he sits again, his coat curling around his legs.
“I’m sure she would have done,” I say uncomfortably. “I mean if we’d have talked about things like that. But we didn’t. We just sort of talked about the project.”
“Oh. And what project’s that, Robert?”
“The art project. About your lives and ours.”
“Mm?”
“The similarities or differences.”
No reply.
“Stories.” I’m burbling. Why don’t I just quit? Leave? He’s obviously not interested. So why are my feet stuck to the floor? “Wisdoms. You know.”
“I see.”
“She said about Chance House.”
“What!” His detached tone vanishes instantly. He appears astounded. “She spoke of Chance House?”
I nod.
“Oh.” He turns towards her. “Oh, Edith.” He stretches out, as if to touch her, but his reaching hand falls short.
“What did she say?” he asks me.
“Just sort of mentioned it.”
“Mentioned what exactly?”
“Chance House.”
“No.” He gives a violent shake of the head. “Edith could not have ‘just mentioned’ Chance House. It’s over thirty years since she was last able to say the words ‘Chance House’.”
I shrug. He doesn’t look like the sort of person you contradict.
“Thirty-four years and three months, to be precise.”
“I ought to go.”
“No. No…” And then he adds, “… please.”
His desperation is sudden and disconcerting.
“I need to know. What did she say? Exactly. You have to tell me.”
That’s when he goes flimsy. Or that’s how it seems to me. As if his huge coat is just a piece of black cloth wrapped around nothing. As if, were I to blow at this moment, he would simply collapse inwards, disappear. Which is why I try to remember for him, to be as exact as I can.
“Well, I asked her what the most important thing in her life was. I had to ask, it was part of the project that…”
“Yes, yes, and…”
“And she said, without any hesitation; ‘Chance House’.”
“That’s all?”
“No. Top Floor Flat. Chance House. Twenty-six St Aubyns.”
“Did she seem…” he pauses, “agitated at all? Upset?”
“No. She just said it normally. Like it was just the place you lived.”
“No. We never lived there.”
“What?”
“We never lived in Chance House.” He laughs a low, miserable laugh. “Never lived there.”
“I