Page 28 of A Helpin g Hand for the Village Nurse

‘Is it a bad time?’ Ottilie asked. ‘I could come back. Or, you know, see you around. I didn’t mean to disturb you; just trying to be neighbourly. I am new here after all, and as I said to you yesterday, I feel I need to make an effort to get to know people.’

Florence paused, but then she seemed to brighten. ‘You’ve come at a good time actually. Yes, come in and have a cup of tea. I do have company already, but if that doesn’t bother you, there’s always room for one more.’

Ottilie followed Florence through a cramped hallway to an equally cramped living room. Every surface was covered in odd ornaments, mismatched and with seemingly no trends or taste to speak of, only a random magpie collection of trinkets. Some were old, some were modern, some traditional and tasteful, some tacky. Ottilie felt sure that each one must have a history that granted it a place amongst Flo’s belongings, and maybe one day she’d ask about it.

There were photos nestled in between them – Ottilie presumed they were of family – some black and white, some sepia, some faded colours. Every inch of wall space was filled with old watercolours and tapestries and yet more photos. There was a glass display case crammed with bone china all belonging to perhaps half a dozen different tea services – again, none of it particularly matched in tone or taste– and a bookcase stuffed with tatty books.

The many questions Ottilie had about the vast collection of stuff were forced out of her head when she noticed a man was sitting on a sofa draped in crocheted blankets and embroidered throws, balancing a cup and saucer on his knee. He looked up at Ottilie’s arrival in some confusion.

‘This is the nurse,’ Florence announced.

His frown gave way to a look of understanding, and then something like annoyance.

‘I’m Ottilie…’ She stuck out her hand. ‘And you must be…?’

She wasn’t certain but wondered if this might be the famous grandson. If so, he hadn’t wasted any time coming to visit. Whether it had been prompted by guilt or concern didn’t matter; Ottilie approved. At least he cared enough to drive straight over either way.

‘Heath,’ he said, shaking her hand stiffly. He looked even more annoyed when he let go than he had before.

‘Hello, Heath. It’s nice to meet you in person.’

‘Is it?’

‘Of course!’ Ottilie said, taken aback by the brusqueness. Hadn’t they sorted out their misunderstanding on the phone the previous night?

‘I’ve been telling Ottilie all about you,’ Flo said, showing Ottilie where to sit. Right next to Heath, as it happened, and Ottilie was certain that was no coincidence because there were plenty of other spots available. But she sat down anyway, body folded in tight, not anxious, exactly, but perhaps a little guarded.

‘I’m sure you have,’ Heath said flatly.

‘Good things,’ Ottilie replied.

He put his cup and saucer down on a side table and stood. ‘I expect you two need to talk, so I’ll clear off.’

‘Already?’ Flo looked crestfallen.

‘You don’t need to go on my account,’ Ottilie said.

‘You only just got here!’ Flo added.

Heath turned to her. ‘I’ve been here two hours, Gran.’

‘So you can only spare two hours for me nowadays, can you?’ Florence pouted. ‘On a meter, am I?’

‘Of course not, but I’ve got things to do. I’m sorry…’ He bent to kiss her on the cheek.

Ottilie noticed suddenly how tall he was. Florence wasn’t exactly huge, but he towered over her. He had to be at least six feet tall, maybe more. His hair was a thick chestnut, longer on top and cropped at the back, his eyes a dark brown. The notion that he was actually quite handsome was a vague one in the back of Ottilie’s mind. There was too much else going on for her to really acknowledge it. Like why was he suddenly leaving? Was it because she’d arrived? A quick glance at the table revealed that he hadn’t even finished his cup of tea.

‘I’ll call over next week,’ he added.

‘Don’t say it and not mean it.’ Florence looked like a disappointed toddler. ‘I know you: out of sight, out of mind.’

‘That’s not fair, Gran. I visit when I can.’

Florence glanced at Ottilie before she turned back to him, but Ottilie couldn’t read it. Was there some silent message there for her, a cue, something she was meant to do or say at this point? If there was, Ottilie hadn’t got it.

‘Right you are then,’ Flo said, seemingly content to leave things at that. ‘Next week? I’ll bake.’

‘Sounds good.’

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