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front of the boat—it was a blowy day, white clouds flicking across the sky. She felt the breeze in her face and looked hungrily back toward England (her very first time leaving it) and forward toward France and thought she had rarely felt more alive.
    - - -
    â€œCome and have a coffee,” the message from Claire said on my phone. She’d been discharged, temporarily, and she sounded a little breathy, a little tentative, and I called her back—this was one thing I could manage—to arrange for us to meet up in the cozy bookshop coffee shop, where I thought she’d be more comfortable.
    Her nice daughter-in-law Patsy dropped her off and made her promise not to buy too many books. Claire had rolled her eyes when she left and said she loved Patsy, but everyone seemed to equate being sick with being four, and then she remembered she didn’t have to tell me that, and we cheered ourselves up by doing imitations of Dr. Ed sitting on the bed doing his empathizing.
    Then there was a pause during which, in a normal conversation, someone would have said, “Hey, you look well” or “You’ve cut your hair” or “You look healthy” (code for “Cor, you’ve gotten fat,” as everybody knows), but neither of us could say anything. In the hospital, with its crisp white sheets and Claire’s neat, spotless cream pajamas, she didn’t look well, but she seemed to belong there. Out here in public, she looked terrifying. So thin that she might break, a scarf tied artfully around her head that served only to announce “I’ve had cancer for so long I’ve gotten really good at tying scarves,” a smart dress that would have looked rather nice if it had fitted her but clearly didn’t as she was far too thin, and drawn-in cheekbones. She looked…wow, she looked sick.
    I got up to go fetch us some coffee and some chocolate brownie cake, even though she had said she didn’t want any, and I said she would when she tasted the homemade stuff they did in here. She smiled thinly and said, “Of course, that would be great,” in a way that wouldn’t have fooled a horse. I was conscious of her eyes on me as I limped across the floor. I still wasn’t at all confident with my stick and had basically decided to get rid of it. Cath kept trying to get me to come out, saying that everyone was dying to hear all about it, but that thought filled me with total horror. I did though desperately need to get my hair done. And some new clothes. I was in my daggiest old jeans and a striped top that had been absolutely no effort whatsoever, and it showed.
    â€œSo,” she said when I was back. The lady had agreed to bring over the tray, thank goodness. We shared a look.
    â€œWe’re like the old nag’s corner,” I said, and Claire smiled. The lady didn’t. I think she was very concerned that we were about to throw up or fall over in her lovely café. The chocolate brownie cake was exceptionally good, though, and worth all the weird looks we were getting.
    â€œSo…” Claire suddenly flushed a little and looked excited. “I got a letter.”
    â€œAn actual letter?” I said, impressed. I never got letters, just instant messages from Cath telling me some bloke was either totally fit or a right turd or both.
    She nodded.
    â€œWell, more of a postcard…regardless. He said he does need a new factory worker, yes. And I know of an apartment where you could stay.”
    I looked at her, totally taken aback.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWell, I didn’t…I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” I said, stunned and touched. “I mean, go to all that trouble.”
    â€œIt was two letters,” said Claire. “I hope that’s not your idea of hard work. I’ve talked you up quite dramatically.”
    â€œUh-oh,” I said.
    She smiled. “It was…it was nice to hear back after all this