Pause.
Lucy stroked her grandmother’s shaking hand. Agnes couldn’t point for long. Anguish pulled down the corners of her mouth.
‘Gran, I think he’s gone for good.’
Agnes shook her head.
Pause.
Pause.
Pause.
Lucy lifted her grandmother’s hand again and smoothed the skin, as if to ease a deep bruise, the wound that still believed an old friend might yet turn up to redeem himself. So much of their relating had now been transferred to a meeting of hands. It replaced the voluntary. silence that had once been a communion. Lucy reached over and took the alphabet card. She had something to say that had never been said: