Constance by Rosie Thomas

afraid that she’s letting you down.’
    ‘Me? How come?’
    ‘By dying before you are grown up. Before her job’s done, is the way she put it.’
    ‘But I am grown up,’ Noah said quietly.
    At last, Bill’s gaze slid from the television screen to his son’s profile. Noah’s chin was tipped to his chest. Through the mask of adulthood Bill could quite clearly see the child’s underlying features, even the soft curves of babyhood. Was the job ever done? he wondered. Probably not. Jeanette wasn’t quite fifty. No wonder she felt that she was leaving too much undone.
    ‘What happens now?’ Noah asked.
    ‘Once she recovers from the hospital and the operation, she won’t be too bad for a while. She may feel almost herself. I was thinking, perhaps we could go on a holiday. Somewhere we’ve never been, so there aren’t comparisons and memories waiting round every corner. Jeanette will have to decide about that, though.’
    A holiday? It would be hard to plan a trip to the Loire Valley or Turkey, Noah thought, with the prospect of death so close at hand. But he had no real idea; he had hardly ever thought about death.
    ‘That sounds like a good idea. And what about you, Dad?’
    Bill hadn’t yet had time to put the question to himself. Or perhaps had chosen to evade it.
    ‘I want to try to make it as easy as I can for her. Whatever’s coming.’
    Noah only nodded.
    ‘I need to ask your advice,’ Bill continued.
    ‘Go ahead.’
    ‘Should I tell Constance?’
    As soon as he uttered her name it seemed to take on a weight of its own, as if it occupied a physical space between them. Noah shifted a little sideways, away from his father, to make room for it. He rocked the beer bottle on the arm of his chair, still studying it with apparent attention.
    ‘Tell her that Mum’s ill, you mean? Doesn’t she know?’
    ‘I haven’t told her.’
    And Jeanette certainly would not have done.
    Noah considered further. ‘It’s going to be a shock for Connie, if she doesn’t even know that much. I mean, it’s bad enough for us, and we’ve kind of been in on it all along.’
    ‘The later it’s left, then the worse it will be.’
    ‘But it’s for Mum to decide. It’s their relationship, isn’t it?’
    ‘Exactly. It’s Connie’s as well as Mum’s. Don’t you think we should – I should – let her know? Jeanette, you and I, we’re her only family.’
    Noah shrugged. Here at last, in this raw new dimension, was a place where he could direct a jet of anger. ‘I don’t care. I only care about Mum. If she doesn’t want Auntie Connie around her, then she doesn’t. Simple as.’ He grabbed the bottle by the neck and tipped it to his mouth.
    ‘Maybe you’re right,’ Bill said. Half-truths and evasions and unspoken confessions crowded out of history and squeezed into the room with them. Their shadows cut him off from Noah at the moment when he wanted to feel closest to him. Neither of them spoke until Noah sighed and pushed himself to the edge of his chair.
    ‘Dad, I think I’ll go up. Unless you want me to stay with you? I could make a cup of tea, if you like.’
    ‘No. Go on up to bed. Get some sleep, if you can. Do you need anything?’
    ‘No, thanks. I’ll see you in the morning.’
    They both stood up. They hesitated, up until now not having had the kind of adult relationship that involved conspicuous hugging or shedding of tears. Noah rested his arm awkwardly round his father’s shoulders and Bill put his hand to the back of the boy’s neck. Noah was the taller by an inch. He inclined his head until their foreheads touched and they shuffled together, a rough two-step of grief. It was Noah who broke away first.
    ‘We’ll manage, Dad,’ he said.
    ‘Of course we will.’
    Noah hugged him briefly then dashed out of the room.
    Bill stood for a moment, then took the empty beer bottle off the arm of the chair and looked round for somewhere to put it. In the end he replaced it on the tray of drinks. He