Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
ORLA
I am sitting here in the dark writing these pages with a sense of foreboding. What happened yesterday feels like my fault, although I know it is not. I did all I could – there were circumstances beyond my control. It may all still work out.
But deep down, I feel as if it will not. I feel as if I have failed – that I acted too late and Gray himself made his request of me too late.
It was yesterday afternoon, one of the few rainy days we have had this glorious summer.
I had called round at number eight as I have done every afternoon this week, with a jar of jam for Anna and some beeswax lip salve for Gray.
When I went upstairs to see him, he was awake and lucid.
He has been sleeping more and more recently, whether because of the drugs or the disease I do not know.
Often I can do nothing except sit in the chair by the bed and chat nonsense to him – anecdotes about the goings-on of the neighbours, the infighting in the local historic buildings Preservation Trust, yet another trendy new cocktail bar opening on the main road.
They say hearing is the last sense to go, and I hope my words bring some comfort.
Certainly, I don’t believe he will be writing letters on his laptop again. But he clearly remembered that visit – just a few days ago, although it feels like longer.
The approach of death does strange things to the passing of time, I am learning. It moves slowly, then terrifyingly swiftly. And then, I suppose, it stops altogether.
As soon as I sat down, Gray said that he had been hoping I would come. They’re moving me to the hospice today, he said.
I said I knew, and that it was good to see him awake.
But he didn’t seem to be in the mood for pleasantries. He needed my help, he told me. He needed me to do another favour for him. I agreed willingly.
I need you to call my solicitor, he said. Have you got your phone?
I had. A moment later it pinged and vibrated in my hand, and I saw that he had sent me a contact.
He had already left a message for her – Claudia James, her name is, according to the contact which is now saved on my phone – but she was unavailable, out of the office at a conference all day.
He didn’t want Anna to know, he told me, but there was an amendment he wanted to make to his will. A bequest. Something he had only recently decided to do.
I said, Of course. I agreed to try and call Claudia myself. I did last night and I will again this morning, as soon as the day has properly begun and it is reasonable to call anyone.
But then Gray’s speech became disjointed, as if he was falling asleep or the drugs they are giving him through patches on his skin were kicking in. He tried to explain what it was he wanted his solicitor to do, but I struggled to make sense of it.
At one point he broke into song, then his eyes closed and he fell silent.
I can see why he was worried – why he asked me to make that call for him. Wills can only be changed by those of sound mind, and I know – and Gray knows – that whenever his solicitor contacts him, he might not be able to explain to her what it is he wants to do.
For all I know, it may already be too late.