The Road to Lichfield by Penelope Lively

Author:Penelope Lively
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780802136251
Publisher: Grove Press
Published: 1978-01-02T06:00:00+00:00

Eight

‘There’s a quiche in the fridge,’ she said to Paul, ‘for tomorrow’s lunch. And a hot pot for supper, that wants a good half hour in the oven, and there’s some cheese-cake and a chocolate mousse and a bolognaise sauce for Friday night – you only have to do the spaghetti yourselves – and lots of cheese. Oh, and I’ve made some of that pizza you like – all you do with that is pop it in a hot oven for a few minutes. Do you think you’ll be all right?’

‘I should think we’ll just about survive.’

‘And remind Dad there’s an onion tart for him because he doesn’t care for spaghetti.’

‘Right.’

‘And there are some crumpets.’

‘Mum?’

‘Yes?’

‘Whose birthday is it?’

‘I just want to be sure I’ve left enough,’ she said. ‘And I’ll ring tomorrow night, tell Dad.’

The road to Lichfield unfurls now in stages, each length known and experienced; it would be impossible any more to mistake the route though there is a temptation to turn off here or there and experiment with a side-road or diversion. One wants, now, to prolong the journey. One wants to savour it to the full, this anticipatory joy, slow down over favourite sections, stop even, once or twice, and postpone arrival for a little because the contemplation of it, the expectation, is almost as good as the thing itself. From the A423 to the A41 to the A452 … From that smooth sweep of fields to those lines of poplars funnelling the road away to a distant point to this factory chimney sending its spirals of smoke out into the clear blue spring sky.

In the nursing-home, she found her father lying with his eyes closed, breathing in lengthy rasps, as though his body existed for that purpose only. It seemed an absence of consciousness far beyond sleep, and the Matron, coming in as she stood over him in anxiety, said that yes, this was a coma, but he would probably come out of it and was in no immediate danger. ‘We have to expect this kind of thing,’ she said, ‘especially as he’d been particularly spry and lucid lately. I wish I’d known you were coming up, Mrs Linton, and I’d have suggested you put it off for a few days. What a shame.’ She laid her hand for a moment on Anne’s arm. ‘Rather a wasted journey for you – but let’s hope you’re more fortunate next time.’ Anne walked out through the gardens to the car park and thought: I would, I think, if it had been possible, have told father about this, about what has happened to me.

In Starbridge, she set about going through his papers in the desk once more, since, the nursing-home visit having been cut short, there was an hour or so to spare. Less squeamish now, she emptied files onto the floor and sorted quickly through their contents, filling a grocery carton with discarded brochures, minutes of committees, reports on this and that. How little I know, she

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