The Love Song of Miss Queenie Hennessy by Rachel Joyce Read Free Book Online Page A

syringe driver in the knitted case. That will be nice too.’
    Another set of patients will arrive this afternoon.
    ‘When you come in those doors, it’s a one-way ticket,’ said Mr Henderson. ‘Whose turn next?’
    I pretended to read your cards.
    ‘Did you live in Kingsbridge once, Queenie?’ asked Sister Catherine.I gave a fast nod. ‘Is that how you made friends with Harold Fry?’ Another nod. ‘What made you leave?’ I felt my nose prickle. Sister Lucy took my hand.
    ‘So when do we suppose Harold Fry will get here?’ she said gamely. ‘Tomorrow morning or tomorrow afternoon?’
    Sister Lucy is one of the kindest young women I’ve met. When it comes to French manicures and blow-drying, she has no equal. But I don’t believe the poor girl has ever seen a map of England.
    No wonder she is challenged by her jigsaw.
    Yes, I remember Exeter. It was right at the end. I’d gone to your home in Fossebridge Road to say goodbye and I’d met your wife instead. It was the only time we ever spoke, she and I, and it was one of the most devastating conversations of my life. I remember the busy café opposite Exeter station where I sat early the following morning with my tartan suitcase and wondered what to do next. It was clear I had to leave. Maureen’s words rang in my ears. Whenever I was still, I heard them. I’d walked and walked after our meeting, but it was no good, I couldn’t get away from what she’d told me. I saw her too. In my mind I saw her. Hanging the washing, over and over, as if the sun would never come and the wind would never blow and her task would never finish. Behind her, net curtains now hung at every window. The house had closed its eyes.
    I don’t know why some of these memories must remain so crystal clear. I recall one sliver and the whole picture comes rushing back, while other things, for instance, other things I would like to remember, are completely unavailable. If only memory were a library with everythingstored where it should be. If only you could walk to the desk and say to the assistant, I’d like to return the painful memories about David Fry or indeed his mother and take out some happier ones, please. About stickleback fishing with my father. Or picnicking on the banks of the Cherwell when I was a student.
    And the assistant would say, Certainly, madam. We have all those. Under F for Fishing. As well as P for Picnicking. You’ll find them on your left.
    So there my father would be. Tall and smiling in his work overalls, a roll-up in one hand and my fishing net in the other. I’d skip to keep up with him as he strode the broken lane down to the stream. ‘Where is that girl? Where are you?’ The hedgerow flowers would boil with insects and my father would lift me to his shoulders and then— What?
    I haven’t a clue. I don’t remember the rest.
    But I was writing about the café in Exeter. The place was already packed. Suitcases, bags, rucksacks. One could barely move. It was the very end of the school holidays, and there was an early morning fog outside. All around me I saw joined-together people, talking and laughing and looking forward to their joined-together futures. It was an insult, all of it. So much happiness, it had steamed up the windows. I chose a table by the door. Every time it opened, I hoped it would be you. Harold will have heard what I have done for him, I thought. Even if Maureen has failed to give him my message, he will have bumped into someone from the brewery who will have told him. Harold will come to find me and I will tell the truth. All I wanted was to see you one last time.
    ‘Excuse me? Is this seat free?’
    My heart gave a swing. I looked up, and it was, of course, another man. Not you. He had thick brown hair, but it didn’t give the smallest kink of a curl at the nape of the neck like yours, and neither did it poke out a little above the ears. He pointed at the empty place opposite mine. No, that seat’s reserved, I told him. I’m