27 It’s morning; the sun has just come up into a clear blue sky, and is catching the snow with pink splashes of light. Everything is frozen still, and unreally beautiful in the late dawn light. What was pointless and hopeless last night is maybe still so, but I said I would tidy up, and the list isn’t done. Jackie’s not on the list yet. * * * Jackie. When she came back she said, ‘You’re in a mess, Marion. Why didn’t you write? Why didn’t you let me know?’ I said, ‘I’m all right Jackie, leave me alone.’ ‘No.’ ‘I’m busy. I’ve got to put the washing on.’ ‘I’m taking you out. Helen can babysit.’ ‘I don’t want to come out. I’m all right. Go away.’ Jackie was my friend. Jackie was in the ward sixteen years ago when they brought me up after having Ruth. Her Helen was one day old. Like two excited dogs we yapped and nipped and chased each other across that first year of their lives, from crisis to crisis, from exhilarated discovery to latest breakthrough, from commiserations to confessions.
