Parallel Life Read Free Page A

and we don’t have time to start planting trees.’
    Miriam Goldberg frowned. ‘Harrie, what about you?’
    â€˜Me?’ She leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling. She was a qualified jeweller and was carrying on in the business created by her grandfather after the collapse of the cotton industry. She could match stones, mend a watch and make platinum shine like an item stolen from clear night skies. ‘I’m just here,’ she concluded. ‘I’m just carrying on carrying on.’
    â€˜Still taking the don’t-jump-off-the-roof pills?’
    â€˜Of course.’
    Miriam shifted in her chair. This girl was stunning enough to be a fashion model, though she was no coat hanger. All curves were present and correct, so she wasn’t sufficiently skeletal for a life of cocaine and catwalks. She had brains enough to have passed with flying colours every exam on her list, yet she had chosen to sell fripperies in the bigger of the family’s two shops.
    â€˜When are you going to start thinking about yourself, Harriet?’
    â€˜Harrie.’
    â€˜You are brilliant, talented and beautiful.’
    â€˜Gee, thanks.’
    The therapist stood and walked to the window. She knew Harrie’s reasons for staying in Bolton, but they were as flawed as any impure diamond on a cutting bench. ‘There are carbon deposits in your arguments.’
    â€˜Then I’ll never be set in eighteen carat.’
    â€˜The flippancy hides a multitude of worries. When did you become a worrier?’
    â€˜Can’t remember.’
    â€˜It’s been always, hasn’t it?’
    Harrie indulged in a second jelly baby. She chewed thoughtfully, taking care to swallow before replying. ‘I can’t remember not being worried. Dad’s never been there, Mum’s always seemed an airhead, and no one ever took care of Ben. Woebetide has been the nearest thing to a parent since Gran lost the use of her legs.’
    Miriam turned. ‘Tell me about Woebetide.’
    Oh, God. Harrie thought about the woman who had slipped easily into the position of Gran’s carer. Woebetide was no oil painting. In fact, her exterior had frightened off a long line of Jehovah’s Witnesses and double-glazing salesmen, yet she had intelligence to spare and an accent that had defied thirty years of exile from her beloved Mayo. She was kind, noisy, firm and loving. With no children of her own, she had been nanny and housekeeper for the whole of Harrie’s lifetime.
    â€˜How did she get her name?’
    Harrie laughed aloud. ‘She woe-betided everything. It was, “Woe betide anyone who breaks one of the new plates,” and, “Woe betide whoever took the cream off the top of me trifle,” – except, of course, she says “troifle”. The house has staircases, bedrooms, bathrooms and a Woebetide. She’s part of the scenery that comes to life occasionally. If the house were sold, she’d be included in fixtures.’
    â€˜So she comes to “loife”?’
    â€˜Yup.’
    â€˜And you love her.’ This was not a question.
    â€˜With all my heart. And Gran. She’s always been a marvellous woman. Even with MS, she never complained. I remember when she first found out she had it – she came home and said that she would soon be able to sit down and forget all about jewellery. Sometimes, when she thought no one was watching, she would shed a tear. But she’s brave and naughty. She’s exactly how we should all be in old age. She certainly rages against the dying of the light.’
    Miriam Goldberg smiled and returned to her seat. ‘Harrie, the tablets are helping, but only you can climb out of the pit.’
    â€˜It’s not a pit; it’s a swamp. Quicksand.’
    â€˜Suicidal?’
    â€˜No. I’m not brave enough and not sufficiently cowardly.’
    Miriam sat down and placed clasped hands on her desk.