A is for Angelica (25 page)

I’m now standing in my back garden. My files are piled in front of me. I brought them down from the loft this morning and placed them into stacks. They are taller than I am. A mountain in
the snow on the lawn. Everything is here. K is for Kipling. B is for Benny. A is for Angelica. There’s only one file left to add. My manual. Our lifeline. I position it at the foot of the
nearest stack. I reach into my pocket and take out a box of matches. They are long and thin and perfect for bonfires. I open the box by pushing one end, take out a match and strike it. There is a
spark and a flicker of life. Then it settles. Glows amber and red in my fingers.

I pause to think of Georgina.

I picture her in hospital. Dying in a care home.

And hope that God intervenes.

Zero tolerance

I’m in the kitchen making tea, waiting for Angelica. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. She arrived home half an hour ago having spent the night elsewhere. I
was behind the curtain in the living room when Michael dropped her off. I watched her kiss him goodbye and stand on the pavement as he waved and drove away, his arm through the sunroof, his fingers
twirling. Angelica tiptoed from the pavement to her door. Her folded arms and small steps. She was laughing. About something from last night. Something just for her. I waited until she was inside
before I made my way to the kitchen. I opened the fridge, sliced a piece of angel cake and placed it on the table. Three separate layers of sponge, pink, white and yellow, each divided by cream. I
put my coat around my shoulders, picked up the cake and stepped outside. The air was cold, crisp and stung my gums. I walked to the end of the garden, opened the gate and crossed the road. I
checked Angelica’s windows. She wasn’t watching. She was busy somewhere else. Getting changed or making dinner. I walked to her door, reached into my pocket and took out my notepad and
pen. I ripped a page from the pad, folded it in half and dropped it on her doorstep. I placed the cake on top of the note, rattled the letterbox twice, turned and ran away.

‘I thought you wouldn’t come.’

Angelica is here. She’s sitting at the kitchen table with green fingernails and wet hair. She’s drinking tea and eating cake. I want to ask her how the birthday meal went. Where did
they end up going? Tell me more about David. What are his hobbies? What school does he go to? What’s it like to have children? It really doesn’t matter. She’ll never tell me
now.

‘What made you change your mind?’ she says.

I pull out a chair and sit down opposite. I think about answering her question with some questions of my own. Like how would she react if it happened to her husband? What does she think it would
feel like to feed him with a spoon? Rub lotion on his bedsores? Empty his commode? I put my elbow on the table and rest my chin on my fist. I look across the table at Angelica. She’s not
wearing make-up.

‘You were right,’ I say. ‘She needs to be in hospital. It’s too much.’

‘Gordon, it is too much. Too much for anyone.’

‘Maybe. She’d been getting better.’

She bites her lip and shakes her head. I can see the veins in her hands and the lines around her eyes. I want to know about Michael. Is he younger than me? How much did his car cost? What did he
really
forgive you for? She threads her fingers through the handle of her mug, stands up and walks over to the window. She puts her hand to her head and covers her eyes. She looks tired.
Upset. Like she might be ready to cry. Then she takes her hand away. I’m right, she’s crying. Not much, but enough for me to notice.

‘Shall I make the phone call?’ she says. I look at the clock on the oven. It’s almost ten to five. The last of the daylight is fading away. I put my hands on the edge of the
table and use my heels to move the chair.

‘I need to speak to Georgina,’ I say. ‘I need to tell her what’s happening.’

‘Will she understand?’

‘Of course.’

‘Shall I wait down here?’

‘Yes. How long will it take them to get here?’

‘I’m not sure. It depends. Fifteen minutes?’

‘That’s fine. You can phone while I’m upstairs. It’s in the living room. You’ll have to plug it in.’ Angelica nods at me. She can’t believe how calm I
am. She thought that I’d be different. I smile and shrug my shoulders. ‘What else can we do?’

I open the door and walk to the hall. Georgina’s case is at the foot of the stairs. It’s her hospital case. It’s covered in signatures, signed by the nurses who helped her the
first time. I showed it to Angelica when she arrived. She seemed impressed. Inside the case are Georgina’s slippers, for when they get her walking. A list of favourite foods, for when she
starts to eat again. And her best nightdress, to help her feel at home. I put my hand on the banister, turn and climb the stairs.

I’m sitting on the chair next to Georgina’s bed. I can see the sky through the gap in the curtain. It tapers up and over rooftops. Red to blue. Blue to black. I’ve been holding
her hand, mopping her brow and massaging her fingers. It’s supposed to stop them curling, but she’s too far gone already. Her hand is like a claw. She’s changing shape in front of
me. Exhausted and half paralysed. I’ve been upstairs for eight minutes. Only seven more to go before they come to take her away. I stroke her arm with the back of my hand. Her skin is dry and
lifeless. She won’t get any better. There’s nothing they can do.

‘Georgina,’ I whisper. She doesn’t respond. I let my fingertips rest on her cheek and comb her hair behind her ear. I watch her eyelids flickering. She’s in another
world. On another planet. I can hear Angelica. She’s back in the kitchen, clearing cups and making noise. Keeping herself busy. I listened to her talking on the phone to the hospital. The
emergency services. She was calm and collected, softly spoken, brief and to the point. She told them what the problem was and answered all their questions. Then silence, for a while. She gave them
our address.

‘Georgina,’ I say, louder than before but not enough to make a difference. A strip of light shines through from the landing. I think about it waking her up, hurting her eyes should
they open. But it’s never going to happen. Not any more. We made our decision together. Last week before the snow came. I held her hand and asked her questions. Prepared a plan of action. And
now the time has come. I put my hands on my knees, stand up straight and slowly turn around. I untie the cushion and remove it from the chair. It feels warm from where I’ve been sitting.
It’s ripped along the seam. I turn again to face Georgina. My beautiful wife. This is what she wanted. This was our decision. I shut my eyes and count the seconds. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.

Angelica is coming. I can hear the crockery, the floorboards and her heels on the stairs. I reattach the cushion and sit down on the chair. She knocks on the door, peers through the gap and
shuffles into the room. She looks across at me, then down at Georgina. I’m here to say my goodbyes. Explain to her what’s happening. Angelica stands beside me, offers me some chocolate
cake, asks me if I’m ready. But I don’t answer properly. I never answer properly. I sit and I stare.

‘Did you know the Russians have a special word for light blue?’ I say.

She looks away. Sips her tea. Shakes her head.

‘Just get on with it,’ she replies. ‘Before your drink gets cold.’

Cover design

The cover design of
A is for Angelica
is by Jonathan Wilkinson. A painter and illustrator, Jonathan was born in Leeds, grew up in Nottingham and now lives in
Sheffield.

Jonathan graduated from Sheffield Hallam University in 2001 with a degree in fine art and started off his career in graphic design. Inspired by the brutalist surroundings of Sheffield’s
urban landscape and the looming destruction of the Tinsley Towers, he launched an online store for his own art, ‘We Live Here’, in 2007. We Live Here features art prints of the things
people love about the places they live. Jonathan’s pared-back and architectural style quickly gained him a local following which now stretches far beyond Sheffield. His commissions include
art prints for the BALTIC Centre for Contemporary Art, Sheffield Theatres, the National Theatre, RIBA and The Sage Gateshead.

Last year, Britarama marked the beginning of a new style for Jonathan. A solo painting exhibition in Sheffield and accompanying website launched this series of works. He counts the painters
George Shaw, Edward Hopper and Patrick Caulfield as influences, as well as the anonymous photography of British tourism postcards and classic illustrated posters.

Jonathan is married with a son.

Come and visit us at