‘I can believe that. Hey, is that your true thing for the day?’
‘It is.’
‘It’s a good one.’
‘Thank you. You know, I will be in the chapel for several more months before my post ends, and I thought—’
‘So running can be good?’
‘You’re going to give me a headache.’
‘Running away. The message of the prodigal son is that if you run away when you want to run away, you’ll be rewarded.’
‘I’m not sure that—’
‘Father Arthur?’
‘Yes, Lenni?’
‘I have somewhere I need to run.’
There’s a difference between running and running away. They are oceans apart but nobody ever pays attention. They’re only interested in telling me that if I keep running away, they’ll take away my visiting privileges. But it’s not running away unless I leave the hospital doors. And I never have.
I couldn’t actually run from Arthur because my hip was still hurting from the crash with The Temp. Instead, I slipped on my Everyday Casual slippers and shuffled slowly in the direction of my destination. Arthur didn’t give chase, which was kind because his walking speed is probably faster than mine and it would have been embarrassing for him to catch up with me before I even got out of the May Ward.
I wasn’t running because I wanted an empire, or because I wasn’t enjoying my talk with Father Arthur, but because I wanted to be somewhere else.
I peeped through the small window in the Rose Room door, and saw Pippa holding a piece of paper up to an elderly audience of three. She pointed her finger to the edge of the canvas and swooped her hand down in a sweeping motion. When she had finished talking, she put down the paper, and it was then that she waved and beckoned for me to go in.
I shuffled in, feeling the eyes of the room on me and my pink pyjamas. I should have gone for my Sunday Best slippers.
‘Lenni, hi!’
‘Hi, Pippa.’
‘What brings you here?’
I struggled to think of how to phrase what exactly had brought me there. A long-dead man and his two unequally loved sons. A fish. A priest. An itching to do anything other than mind white-water rafting … None of those made enough sense to verbalize in front of a geriatric audience.
‘Fancy doing some painting?’ she asked.
I nodded.
‘Pull up a seat and I’ll bring you some paper. The theme this week is stars.’
I turned to find somewhere to sit and there she was. Sitting all alone on the table at the back. Her hair catching the sunlight and shining like a ten-pence piece, her cardigan a deep shade of purple and her eyes set on the paper in front of her, on which she was sketching with a nubbin of charcoal. The mauve miscreant, the periwinkle perpetrator. The old lady who stole something from the bin. ‘It’s you!’ I said.
She looked up from her drawing and stared at me for the briefest of moments, letting me come into focus. Then, with recognition and delight, said, ‘It’s you!’
Lenni and Margot
I SHUFFLED OVER to her table.
‘I’m Lenni.’ I held out my hand.
She put down her charcoal and shook my hand. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Lenni,’ she said, ‘I’m Margot.’
The charcoal on her fingertips left several of her prints on the back of my hand.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You did me a great favour.’
‘You’re welcome,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t really anything.’
‘It was something,’ she said. ‘It was. I wish I had a real way to thank you, but all I have to my name right now are several pairs of pyjamas and a half-eaten fruitcake.’
She gestured for me to sit down.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, and I knew she meant the Rose Room, but I think it’s best to be honest, so I told her the truth.
‘They say I’m going to die.’
There was a moment of silence between us as Margot studied my face. She looked like she didn’t believe me.
‘It’s a life-limiting thing,’ I said.
‘But you’re so—’
‘Young, I know.’
‘No, you’re so—’
‘Unlucky?’
‘No,’ she said, still looking at me like she didn’t believe it. ‘You’re so alive.’
Pippa came over to the table and placed some paintbrushes in front of us. ‘So, what are we talking about over here?’ she asked.
‘Death,’ I told her.