Page 82 of Postscript

‘Like cancer.’

‘Ginika!’

She laughs wickedly.

‘Unfortunately, many of these words are common words and we call these tricky words.’

Ginika rolls her eyes. She rolls up her sleeves. ‘Right. Let me at the bastards.’

I smile. ‘For example. This word,’ I write it down. ‘Normally we would read this as …’

‘L-a-u-g-h,’ Ginika sounds it out with the g and h sound. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘Perfect,’ I smile.

‘I got it right?’

‘You got it right and wrong. It’s a tricky word so it’s actually pronounced laugh. The GH has an f sound.’

‘Ah for fuck’s sake, then why don’t they give it an “f”? How’s anybody supposed to learn this stuff?’ She tosses her pencil up in the air and it lands on the table. The pointed lead dents the fresh varnish. I pretend her outburst never happened; it’s certainly not the first time.

‘Ginika,’ Denise says. ‘Sorry to interrupt you guys.’ She has a peculiar tone, she sounds nervous. ‘A friend of mine was getting rid of some baby stuff recently – her kids are older now, and she was going to throw out a buggy. I took it, thinking it might be good for Jewel. You don’t need to use it if you don’t want …’

‘She hates buggies, you know that. She likes to be held,’ Ginika says firmly, not looking up from her page.

‘Of course, you’re her mam, you know best. But I thought I’d take it instead of letting it go in the skip. I’ll show you.’ She dashes into the house, while we watch Jewel lying on her stomach and focusing on a blade of grass, her finger pointing, gently touching it, and then … grabbing and pulling. Denise returns to the garden with the buggy.

It doesn’t look old at all. It’s brand new.

I steal a glance at Ginika, who’s staring at the buggy blankly, with a million things going through her head.

‘I could bring her out for a walk, just around the streets, we won’t go far,’ Denise offers, keeping her voice light and airy. ‘For a change of scenery.’

I stay out of it. Head down, continue my prep.

Ginika is silent. When she’s pushed, she’s the explosive kind, particularly when it comes to her daughter. Her response, when it comes, surprises both of us.

‘OK.’

Jewel kicks up a lot when placed in the buggy, but then is quickly distracted by the – also new – range of toys that Denise places on the bar. She also attaches her favourite book and Jewel is happy.

Ginika is quiet after they’re gone. She turns away from the workbooks and to the empty play mat on the grass. She seems tired. She is tired. Dark rings around her eyes, she’s lost a lot of weight, with the cancer extended to her liver, bowel and groin. She reaches down to her bag with great effort and I get it for her. She rummages in a package and takes out a lollipop, but I know that it’s nothing sweet. It’s a fentanyl lollipop, for sudden bursts of severe pain.

‘Let’s take a break,’ I say. ‘Do you want to go inside? Maybe it’s too hot.’

‘I don’t want to take a break,’ she snaps.

‘OK. Can I get you anything?’

‘No.’

Silence.

‘Thank you,’ she adds, more gently.

Giving her time, I move my chair out of the shade and finally relax, I sit back in the chair, close my eyes, lift my face to the sky, listen to the birds singing with delight, the bees all around me, scrunch my toes into the hot grass. My crap day begins to dissipate.

‘Did your husband use these?’ she asks.