The Last Letter from Your Lover

Hargreaves said, on his rounds, some time later. ‘Looking forward to going home, are we?’
    ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said politely. She had no idea how to convey to him that she didn’t know what that home was.
    He studied her face for a moment, perhaps gauging her uncertainty. Then he sat on the side of her bed and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘I understand it must all seem a little disconcerting, that you might not feel quite yourself yet, but don’t be too concerned if lots of things are unclear. Its quite common to get amnesia after a head injury.
    ‘You have a very supportive family, and I’m sure once you’re surrounded by familiar things, your old routines, friends, shopping trips and the like, you’ll find that it’s all popping back into place.’
    She nodded obediently. She had worked out pretty quickly that everyone seemed happier if she did so.
    ‘Now, I’d like you to come back in a week so that I can check the progress of that arm. You’ll need some physiotherapy to recover the full use of it. But the main thing is simply for you to rest, and not worry too much about anything. Do you understand?’
    He was already preparing to leave. What else could she say?
    Her husband picked her up shortly before tea-time. The nurses had lined up in the downstairs reception area to say goodbye to her, bright as pins in their starched pinafores. She still felt curiously weak and unsteady on her feet, and was grateful for the arm that he held out to her.
    ‘Thank you for the care you’ve shown my wife. Send the bill to my office, if you would,’ he said to the sister.
    ‘Our pleasure,’ she said, shaking his hand and beaming at Jennifer. ‘It’s lovely seeing her up and about again. You look wonderful, Mrs Stirling.’
    ‘I feel . . . much better. Thank you.’ She was wearing a long cashmere coat and a matching pillbox hat. He had arranged for three outfits to be sent over for her. She had chosen the most muted; she didn’t want to draw attention to herself.
    They glanced up as Mr Hargreaves put his head out of an office. ‘My secretary says there are some newspaper men outside – here to see the Cochrane girl. You might wish to leave by the back entrance if you want to avoid any fuss.’
    ‘That would be preferable. Would you mind sending my driver round?’
    After weeks in the warmth of the ward the air was shockingly cold. She struggled to keep up with him, her breath coming in short bursts, and then she was in the back of a large black car, engulfed by the huge leather seats, and the doors closed with an expensive clunk. The car moved off into the London traffic with a low purr.
    She peered out of the window, watching the newspaper men, just visible on the front steps, and muffled photographers comparing lenses. Beyond, the central London streets were thick with people hurrying past, their collars turned up against the wind, men with trilbies pulled low over their brows.
    ‘Who is the Cochrane girl?’ she said, turning to face him.
    He was muttering something to the driver. ‘Who?’
    ‘The Cochrane girl. Mr Hargreaves was talking about her.’
    ‘I believe she was the girlfriend of a popular singer. They were involved in a car crash shortly before . . .’
    ‘They were all talking about her. The nurses, at the hospital.’
    He appeared to have lost interest. ‘I’ll be dropping Mrs Stirling back at the house, and once she’s settled I’ll be going on to the office,’ he was saying to the driver.
    ‘What happened to him?’ she said.
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Cochrane. The singer.’
    Her husband looked at her, as if he was weighing something up. ‘He died,’ he said. Then he turned back to his driver.
    She walked slowly up the steps to the white stucco house and the door opened, as if by magic, as she reached the top. The driver placed her valise carefully in the hallway, then retreated. Her husband, behind her, nodded to a woman who was standing in the hallway, apparently to greet them. In late middle age, her dark hair was pulled back into a tight chignon and she was dressed in a navy two piece. ‘Welcome home, madam,’ she said, reaching out a hand. Her smile was genuine, and she spoke in heavily accented English. ‘We are so very glad to have you well again.’
    ‘Thank you,’ she said. She wanted to use the woman’s name, but felt uncomfortable asking it.
    The woman waited to take their coats, and disappeared along the hall with them.
    ‘Are you feeling tired?’