“Anita! I’ve been trying to reach you! Are you on your way in?”
Anita had been crossing the hospital car park when her mobile began to ring.Her eyes particularly sensitive to daylight, she squinted up at Ed’s drawn face, grey with exhaustion, motioning that he should put the money in the parking meter. She’d be right behind him. Pausing to fumble with the straps of her bag, Ed had seen her struggling and had taken her laptop in his good hand.
The voice on the other end of the line was breathy. Anita imagined her manager walking briskly along narrow cobbled passageways, across the great slabs of the Tudor kitchen or the broad sweep of a ballroom, casting scalding glances at anything that was out of place. The warders abandoning their gossip and standing straighter as Roz charged by, announced by the clip of her heels. “Didn’t you get my message?” Anita said. “I’m sorry but we’ve been stuck at the hospital all night.” Reminded how physically and mentally exhausted she was, as if on cue, her eyes began to stream. She hardly had the will to keep them open. “I didn’t, no. Is everything alright?”
“Just smoke inhalation.” Speaking irritated her throat. Knowing she would be unable to stop once she started, rather than cough, Anita swallowed. “We had a fire at the house last night. We’ve got to come back for more x-rays next week.”
“Damn this reception! Did you say a fire?”
Anita ducked behind a red-brick pillar which supported an overhanging corner of the building, out of the range of a motorbike’s roar. “I think the problem might be the noise at this end.”
“Not your dishwasher, was it? I heard a terrible story about one bursting into flames. Smoked out the whole kitchen. I won’t be using mine again at night in a hurry.”
The taste in Anita’s mouth was charcoal. Even the hairs in her nostrils were coated in soot. What she really needed, right this moment, was a long, hot soak. “We honestly don’t know what started it.”
“Well, you can give me all the details once you get here. I’ve got Helena filling in for you at the moment, but I don’t think we can trust her to do the introductions tonight. You know Helena.”
Anita bristled. “That’s the thing, Roz. I’m not going to be able to make -”
“Can you still hear me?”
“I -”
“Listen, if you need to catch up on some sleep for a couple of hours, do. It doesn’t matter what time you get here, as long as you’re in time for the drinks reception.”
Her body felt like a dead weight. Swaying slightly, Anita could have gladly fallen asleep on her feet. “Roz, I can hear you just fine, but I’m not sure you’re listening.” A lump had lodged in her throat. She put one hand to her forehead and tried to circumnavigate it. “Our house has burnt down! All we have left are the clothes we’re standing up in.” The magnitude of what had happened was still dawning on Anita. Their house had burnt down to the ground. Everything was gone.
The phone seemed to have been stunned into silence. It was a moment before Roz repeated, “Burnt down?” Her incredulity still suggested that Anita’s timing was inconsiderate.
“To the ground.” Anger subsided. The effort of saying those few words out loud left Anita shaking from her core. Feeling as if her legs were about to give way, Anita threw out one hand in search of support. It grazed the red-brick pillar and, with this incidental action, she was transported to Hampton Court.
Whenever Anita wanted to ground herself, she escaped from the library or the office, walked the length of the Processional Gallery in the Tudor Palace, pausing by a deep windowsill. There, she placed her left hand within the etched outline of another. The cool stone had acquired a sheen, suggesting that many people - ladies in waiting, grace and favour tenants, paying visitors - had been moved to do the same, and she felt connected to them all. Others had engraved initials, dates, regimental details, but this person (someone who hadn’t mastered the skill of writing) chose to leave something infinitely more personal, something a child might have done.
