‘I’ve got to go out, darling, I’m sorry. Can you let the others know when they’re back?’
She nods, her face anxious.
‘I’m sorry. See you later, sweetheart.’
I drive quickly across the island, my palms sweating. The island flashes past but I barely notice; all I can think about is Sarah’s message and what might have happened. As I pull up outside Jean and her husband Christopher’s house, a stone cottage not far from the school, I spot Sarah’s car just in front of me. She opens her door and steps out and we greet each other with a hug.
‘What’s happened?’ I ask her, my voice filled with panic.
‘He didn’t say exactly, just that we should come over.’
I follow her through the small garden and we knock on the door, standing close beside one another. It’s at least some small comfort to have Sarah here next to me, but I still can’t stop the thoughts and questions that are whirring inside my mind. Christopher answers the door, his eyes red and an apron tied around his waist. These past few months have aged him and there are deep lines etched between his eyebrows.
‘Oh, thank you for coming,’ he says shakily, opening the door wide. ‘Hopefully you might be able to talk some sense into her. The others are inside. Would you like some tea?’
He leads us into the hallway, where framed school photographs line the walls, Jean pictured in each one at various ages, surrounded by grinning school children. On another day I might pause to find Jack, Lorna and Sarah in one of these photographs and Molly and Olive in another, but not today.
‘What’s happened, Christopher, is everything OK?’
He sniffs slightly, wiping his hands on his apron.
‘I’ll let her tell you. Come on through.’
He leads us into the small living room where Jean sits on the sofa, surrounded by our friends. Brenda sits next to Jean, Tess, Joy and Harry share an armchair in one corner, Morag perches in another and Kerstin and Emma are on the floor. In the middle of the room is a coffee table piled with tea things, books stacked on a glass shelf below. Christopher weaves his way between the women and pours from a large teapot, handing Sarah and me a mug each.
‘Thank you, Christopher,’ I say, not telling him that the tea is cold. Sarah and I take it in turns to lean over and kiss Jean on her cheek. Then Kerstin and Emma shuffle to make room for us on the floor.
I look across at Jean, trying to meet her eye, but she looks away.
‘I’m sorry about all this fuss,’ she says somewhat stiffly. Her face is pale but she’s still wearing her usual light covering of make-up, the pale pink lipstick that normally suits her feeling unnaturally bright against her now.
Christopher collects a handful of empty mugs and retreats to the kitchen.
‘I told him it’s my choice,’ says Jean gruffly, ‘but he won’t listen.’
Jean runs her hand along the arm of the sofa. There’s a small table at her side with a lamp resting on a stack of books. The whole room is filled with books. It always has been but each year more seem to appear, new shelves built by Christopher in different spots around the cottage to accommodate Jean’s ever-growing collection. I remember her lending Molly books about the environment earlier this year, and when she was younger an old edition of classic fairy tales. This island has no library, but we do have Jean.
‘What choice, Jean?’ I ask her, trying my best not to sound too frantic, but failing.
Jean sighs, looking across at me now and glancing around at the others too. My friends look up at her, each poised and waiting to hear what she has to say.
‘The hospital called today,’ she said. ‘They want me to go back and start chemotherapy. But I’ve decided I’m not going to.’
It feels as though the floor has suddenly fallen away. There’s a brief silence.
‘Why the bloody hell not?’ says Morag.
Jean sighs again, shifting stiffly on the sofa.
‘That was Christopher’s reaction too.’
Beside her, Brenda takes her hand.
‘But really, Jean, why not?’
Jean runs a hand through her grey hair, glancing briefly towards the window. The two deckchairs are still propped out in the sun and I think about sitting there with Jean just days ago, watching the butterflies.
‘I saw what it did to my mother. It was awful, just awful. And in the end, it didn’t seem to make any difference.’
