Quarter Past Two on a Wednesday Afternoon Read Online Free PDF Page B

nothing to her, other than that Martin had been here with Ruth immediately after Bridget’s death. He’d known his way around, of course; Bridget had been his mother-in-law. She pictured him, capable and reassuring, collecting what he needed, making notes, ticking things off a list. He must have comforted Ruth too – allowed her to cry, in those first days. Anna imagined Ruth sobbing against Martin’s shoulder, her fine hair tickling his face, his arms holding her.
    ‘Martin’s been brilliant,’ Ruth said, as if reading her thoughts. ‘I wouldn’t have known where to start, but he’s thought of everything.’ She unlocked the door, looking in dismay at a heap of post on the mat. ‘Oh, look. I expect it’s mostly junk, but I must get it redirected. Something else I should have done.’ She tugged at a fat envelope wedged in the letter box.
    Never having met Ruth’s mother, Anna felt like an intruder as she stepped inside. The chill struck at her. She would have thought it impossible for a house to feel so cold; the air and space inside might have been rendered deep-frozen by the death of its occupant.
    Gathering up the letters and catalogues, Ruth carried them through to the kitchen; Anna stooped for a dropped envelope, and followed. They both stood in silence for a few moments. The kitchen was large, furnished with units in the dark, rustic-looking wood that had been popular some thirty years ago. A frilled blind was half lowered in the window. On the sill, and on every other surface, were bits and pieces of china, jars, ancient cookery books, dried teasels. Clutter, Anna thought; so much clutter. What will we do with it all? For a moment, thinking Ruth was about to give way to tears, she searched for something to say; but Ruth briskly took control of herself.
    ‘I thought we’d start upstairs.’ She dumped the post on a worktop, with a slither of paper and cellophane. ‘But first I’ll check the oil and turn on the heating, or we’ll get hypothermia.’
    There were only two bedrooms, the back one overlooking a large, bedraggled garden with a bird table and empty seed feeders. Beyond, hedgerows stretched away in hazy sunshine; a green slope of meadow, still frosted at its shadowed edges, was dotted with well-spaced parkland trees. Bridget’s room at the front, large and square with a washbasin in one corner, was less feminine than Anna had expected, the clothes in the wardrobe tending towards tweed and corduroy, quilted gilets and sensible skirts.
    ‘We need a system,’ said Ruth. ‘Most of this can go to the charity shop – the shoes as well, unless they’re too battered. Anything past it we’ll bag separately for the recycling centre – there’s a bin there for fabrics. I’m going to choose some scarves and jewellery to give to her friends.’
    They got to work. Ruth turned on the bedside radio and tuned it to Radio 3. They didn’t talk much, beyond ‘What do you think?’ or ‘Oh look, this can’t have been worn,’ and ‘Where on earth did she get this?’ as Ruth pulled out a flimsy purple top with feather-trimmed neckline.
    Anna carried the bulging bin-bags down to Ruth’s car, and stowed them on the back seat for Ruth to take to the hospice shop later. The hanging space and shelves were soon emptied, quickly stripped of character and the accumulation of years: hints of bargain purchases, special outings, threadbare favourites. Now it was as bland as a fixture in a hotel bedroom. Only the shoes remained.
    Ruth made a start, but said, ‘I can’t do this. Could you?’
    She didn’t say why, but Anna understood. Shoes took on the shape of feet; kept the imprint of toes, their uneven heels recording how their owner walked and stood.
    ‘OK. Let me.’
    ‘I’ll do the airing cupboard, instead – the sheets and towels.’
    Anna knelt, and began taking out the shoes, pair by pair. Sturdy lace-ups and flats, comfort sandals, ballet pumps, size five, were neatly arranged on racks, several