The Sixth Lamentation by William Brodrick Read Free Book Online Page B

sometimes it was only the leaf of a
plant — as if dispensing blessings.
    ‘I don’t
need to, but I like to feel something on either side,’ explained Agnes.
    She was
losing her balance.
     
    On a muggy afternoon in
early July Lucy rang Cathy Glenton and arranged a night out. Then she went to
Chiswick Mall, resolved to touch upon what her father called ‘the real issue’.
She stood over the piano, playing ‘Chopsticks’ slowly, with two fingers, her
heart in her mouth. ‘Gran, you’re going to need specialist help.’
    ‘Please, anything but that,’ Agnes pleaded.
    ‘I’m
sorry, but it’s true. Someone has to tell you.’
    ‘I mean
that tune. For God’s sake, stop it.’
    ‘I’ve
played it every time I’ve- ‘
    ‘Believe
me, I’ve listened!’ said Agnes impatiently There was an uneasy pause.
    Lucy
bit her lip. ‘I meant what I said, you— ‘Yes, yes, yes, I know Don’t worry. I’m
all right for now And anyway, there’s always Wilma.’
    Lucy
gaped and almost exclaimed: a bag-lady … I thought you just met in the park
…
    Agnes
swiftly shut down any objections. ‘Wilma’s a very interesting person. She used
to be in the theatre. Did a lot of Rep. I’ll introduce you.’ She smoothed a
pleat on her skirt. ‘She’s my friend, Lucy Don’t shut her out.’
    ‘Of
course not,’ said Lucy uncertainly Before she could draw her thoughts together,
Agnes continued, with assumed cheerfulness, ‘Anyway, enough of that. Let’s
have a cup of tea. ‘
    They
moved awkwardly into the kitchen.
    ‘There’s
always some rubbish on about now,’ said Agnes, moving towards the radio,
touching a chair … and then a counter … and then the sink. She turned the
control. Suddenly there was a sort of explosion. An orchestra was involved… and a jazz band. And someone, thought Lucy, listening carefully … is
hitting a biscuit tin of broken glass.
    ‘Post-modern, you know,’ said Agnes, nodding gravely, ignoring
the tension between them.
    Lucy
made the tea and they sat nursing their mugs, their eyes frequently meeting.
Lucy was going to raise the subject of professional help again whether Agnes
liked it or not. But the glances from her grandmother made it clear she would
not budge, she would make her own arrangements. And, as if providing a
soundtrack to a silent film, an out-of-tune jazz band fought with an orchestra
while someone had a whale of a time with a hammer.
    Lucy
chose her moment when a languid, knowing voice ushered in the news at five o’clock.
But Agnes outflanked her with a newfound passion for current affairs. She sat
forward with a convincing display of concentration. The swift volley of
headlines between broadcasters began but Agnes dismissed each new story with a
pout before the introductions ended. After a few minutes, she signalled with
her head to turn it off. A clatter of falling plates echoed from the dining
room.
    ‘That
blasted cat.’
    ‘Sounds post-modern to me,’ said Lucy, nodding gravely
    Agnes
rose to investigate, touching a lamp—stand, a chair and the door on her way She
wasn’t going to discuss the need for help any more that day
     
    Lucy was getting ready to
leave when Agnes handed over the key to her Morris Minor, bought by Grandpa
Arthur in 1963. She’d named it Duchess.
    ‘It’s
no use to me any more.
    ‘But
Gran—’
    ‘Take
her. I’ve arranged the insurance. But treat her gently She’s a tired old bird.’
    Before
Lucy could find words of thanks, Agnes produced a manila envelope. She said, ‘There’s
a notebook inside. I want you to read it. But say nothing of what you learn.
Not to anyone.
    ‘What’s
it about?’
    ‘You’ll
find out.’
    Lucy
frowned.
    ‘Don’t
worry,’ said Agnes. ‘I just want you to know more … about me’ — she
hesitated, embarrassed — ‘before I die.’
    These
last words fell on Lucy like a sword. Her composure slumped and, with rising
tears, she turned quickly to go. By the vestibule door she caught her foot on