An Enormous Yes Read Free Page A

Hanna’s eyes were still turned inwards; focused on some unspeakable loss. Was she recalling her husband’s death, the horror of the telegram, the mass grave in France she had never seen?
    She tried another tack. ‘Remember Papa’s gallantry medal?’ she prompted, having fetched it from the Treasure Box and placed it in her mother’s hands. As recently as last December, Hanna had recognized that six-pointed star, but now it might as well have been a piece of junk for all the reaction it induced.
    Nonetheless, she refused to lose heart. In the past, her mother had seemed to rally when she heard various well-known songs and hymns, especially the Lourdes hymn, ‘Immaculate Mary’. Despite its dirge-like tune, it had sometimes raised a smile of recognition. Perhaps its endlessly repeated ‘Aves’ were soothing, like a mantra.
    ‘
Ave, Ave, Ave, Maria
,’ Maria sang, with all the conviction she could muster.
    No response.
    Undaunted, she continued. ‘
In Heaven, the blessed thy glory proclaim
…’
    Unlikely, she thought, that her father would be proclaiming Mary’s glory, although, as a child, she had always felt distinctly muddled when reciting the Our Father.
Our Father Who art in Heaven
was obviously her dad. His photograph had confused her even more. The Almighty, as she knew from His pictures, wore a flowing white robe and had long hair and a beard, so why was her father wearing army uniform, with a crew-cut and no facial hair at all?
    ‘
Ave, Ave, Ave, Maria
…’
    At least twenty
Aves
, by now, yet not only had her mother failed to respond, she had actually nodded off. Which didn’t reflect too favourably on her own talent as a vocalist, or as a carer, come to that. She seemed to be failing in all departments – unless it was simply the new drug that had lulled Hanna into an almost vegetative state. Perhaps Amy was right and she wouldn’t actually notice if she was sent away for a week.
    Still unhappy at the thought, she removed the medal from her mother’s lap, tucked the rug more securely round her legs and tiptoed out of the room, leaving the door ajar, of course. Then, wearily, she trudged upstairs, glad of the chance to snatch a rest herself. As her mother’s nights became increasingly disturbed, she’d had to train herself to doze with one ear open, so she could instantly go down to help, at the slightest sound of movement or distress.
    Only as she stretched out on the bed did she realize how hungry she was. Her mother ate little now, and preferred slushy foods like soup or Complan, and it seemed pointless, if not self-indulgent, to cook solely for herself.
    Closing her eyes, she remembered Hanna’s weekly baking sessions: apple dumplings, fairy cakes, sultana scones, jam tarts; delicious smells of cinnamon and hot pastry wafting through the cottage. Taking a scone from the cooling rack, she crammed it into her mouth, still warm, followed by another and another. She continued eating piggishly, voraciously – although a thousand scones or cakes or buns couldn’t satisfy her greed. Good Catholic girls weren’t greedy, not for food or love or sex – all the things she craved. Good Catholic girls denied themselves and shouldn’t even think of sex.
    Long ago, in the absence of a man, she had taken to sleeping with her heroes – John Donne, Caravaggio, Dante Gabriel Rossetti – romantic, sensual geniuses who would never abandon her, or tire of her. Unbuttoning her blouse, she let her fingers stray across her breast: John Donne’s fingers, knowing exactly how and where to touch. His beard was on her belly now;exquisite roughness and softness mixed; his full sensuous lips travelling lower; his roving hands doing everything he promised in his poem: going before, behind, between, above, below …
    She lay back, recovering, aware of her heart thumping through her chest. No one ever warned you that you could still feel lust at the age of sixty-five; still long for a thousand men. Men, scones …