Who else says
unduly these days?
He writes a prescription for a mild tranquillizer in case I need it.
‘What about side effects?’ I say. ‘Is it addictive?’
‘Not with a short course at this dosage,’ he says. ‘There are a range of potential side effects. The leaflet lists them all, but the most common ones are feelings of detachment…’
Isn’t that the point?
‘… drowsiness, and a dry mouth.’
Do I want to feel detached? If I muffle the emotions, won’t they just grow in intensity, waiting to ambush me when I stop taking the medicine? ‘I’m not sure I want it,’ I tell him.
‘Entirely up to you; the script is valid for six months, anyway. And if there’s anything else you need, do ring the surgery.’
Marian and Alan bring Florence back; she’s clutching a pile of picture books that threaten to overbalance her. They plan to do some shopping for us. Marian is brisk and practical and talks too much, a running commentary. She’s probably afraid that she’ll fall to pieces if she stops. Alan’s reserved, speaks only to agree with her comments or echo her thoughts. We’ve only met them a handful of times, at the wedding, once before that and then at Florence’s first birthday party. I watch Marian heating the soup and talking about allotments and gardens. And home-cooked vegetables. She manages to talk about soup for a good five minutes.
Living in East Anglia, they see much less of Jack and Lizzie and Florence than Tony or I do. What will happen now? Would Jack think of leaving, go and live there, take Florence? The thought sends panic swirling through me, and I grip the table. When they’re ready to leave for the shops, I ask Marian if she will fill the prescription for me.
I can’t cope with all the people calling at my house to comfort us. It seems heartless to turn them away, but Kay suggests she act as gatekeeper and will explain that we are grateful for their good wishes but too distressed to meet anyone.
Cards arrive, from neighbours and colleagues and friends. It takes me ten minutes and several tours of the house to find my reading glasses. I keep losing things. As if now that I have lost Lizzie, I can’t keep hold of anything else.
I open a batch of cards at the table.
‘Is it your birthday?’ Florence says, her head cocked to one side.
‘No. These cards are for us because of Mummy dying. People know we’re sad. They’re thinking about us.’ Her face closes down and she slips from the chair. I go after her into the lounge.
