Page 7 of All the Things We Never Knew

‘Yeah, maybe, but they don’t know.’ The words sounded almost wheedling, like I was trying to strike a bargain with someone who held all the cards. ‘That’s why we have to wait to find out.’

‘Anna.’ Gray turned his glass around on the countertop, a full three hundred and sixty degrees, but he didn’t pour any more whisky into it or drink any more of what was there. ‘If it does turn out to be pancreatic cancer…’

‘Then what?’

‘I googled, obviously. Just like you’re not supposed to do. But it’s not good.’

‘How not good?’

‘Like, really, really not good. Like the worst sort of cancer there is.’

The worst sort of cancer there is. Wasn’t that a tautology or something? Like, The Cutest Sort of Baby, or The Most Boring Game of Cricket?

I had some more of my drink. It was just watery gin now, the ice melted and the tonic long gone. I was feeling lightheaded – like I might fall off my stool or simply float away, up to the ceiling and then maybe out of the window, to somewhere where this wasn’t happening.

‘Anna,’ Gray said. ‘Are you listening to me?’

I nodded mutely.

‘It’s often fatal,’ he said. ‘More than often. Almost always. If it turns out that’s what I’ve got, I’ll probably die.’

‘Don’t be mad.’ I stood up, the floor seeming to seesaw beneath my feet, so I had to clutch at the countertop to regain my balance. ‘You won’t die. Come on. There are treatments for things like that. Drugs and surgery and – you know. Stuff. It’ll be okay.’

Slowly, fumblingly, I put my glass in the dishwasher and flicked the kettle on. I didn’t want tea or coffee, but it was something to do. I could take a mug of something hot up to bed with me, and when I woke up in the morning I wouldn’t have a hangover because this wouldn’t have happened.

But Gray didn’t let me take refuge in denial.

‘Anna, sit down.’ It was the same tone he used when he was going to give one of the kids a telling-off for something – firm but patient, gentle but with a touch of steel.

I sat.

‘There’s something else I need to tell you.’

FOUR

ORLA

12 February 2023 – One year earlier

I do not think of myself as a curtain-twitcher, but after what happened yesterday I am afraid I must count myself officially within their ranks. I have excuses, though – the curtains were not drawn so there was no actual twitching involved; I was in plain view, should anyone have chosen to look up at the second floor. I was, quite genuinely, cleaning the window: the junior cats, successors to my beloved Maud, have taken to perching on the windowsill for hours on end, chattering at the blackbirds in the square, and their little noses leave smudges on the glass that obscure their view. Until they’re old enough to be allowed out, this will have to be a regular chore.

I was, typically, distracted from my work by the view. The trees are still bare, but the first snowdrops have emerged in the grass, their fragile heads modestly bowed against the cold. High on a branch, a robin was singing his lungs out – I considered summoning the kittens to see him, but they were both asleep on my bed. And around the corner, a woman appeared on a bicycle, her yellow waterproof jacket a pleasing splash of colour on the grey day.

I watched as she came around the square, not slowly but not particularly fast either, distracted as people often are by the surprising appearance of the three rows of elegant Georgian houses, perfectly preserved in this neighbourhood that is becoming increasingly dominated by high-rise glass-and-steel towers.

She did not see the Grahams’ cat, Augustus, returning from his morning prowl among the trees, until it was too late. He saw her, though, and he made the wrong judgement: instead of dodging beneath a parked car for safety, he made a run for home, darting across the road right in front of her approaching front wheel.

It all happened too fast for me to take in the details. She must have braked suddenly, perhaps hitting a cobblestone or skidding on a patch of ice. But in any event, her bicycle went one way and she went the other, tumbling sideways and forwards over the handlebars and falling hard while Augustus dashed unharmed to the safety of his front door.

I heard her shout of alarm and the clatter of her bike hitting the pavement, shortly followed by an outraged yowl from Augustus as he reached the door of number eight and demanded to be let in. I stood there for a moment, waiting for her to pick herself up and go on her way, but she didn’t. She sat up, legs akimbo on the cold cobbles, looking down at her right hand as if it was somehow no longer part of her.

I put down my spray bottle of vinegar and cleaning rag, about to turn and hurry downstairs to see if I could help. But before I could, the door of number eight swung open and Gray emerged, alerted either by the sounds of the woman’s fall or the cries of his cat. I couldn’t see Augustus any more; presumably he had fled inside to lick the wounds he didn’t have.

Gray approached the woman, squatting down next to her. I could hear his voice, soothing and concerned, and hers replying, high with shock and perhaps pain, although I couldn’t make out their words. As I watched, he stood up again, taking her left arm in his and helping her to her feet. They stood there for a moment before Gray picked up her bicycle, inspecting its wheels and shaking his head before carrying it inside his house. The woman followed, her right arm cradled across her body.

I resumed my window cleaning, wondering whether the brief drama was over.

And it mostly was. After five minutes, they came out again, the woman now with a blanket around her shoulders. Gray guided her to his car, opened the door for her, they both got in and he drove away.