Chapter 21

He brought the teapot over and put it on the cork table-mat in the middle of the table before opening the pantry door and rummaging in the fridge for the milk-jug. Laurie sat and let him, watching him slightly warily.

As Phil sat down and folded his arms again, waiting for the tea to brew, Laurie muttered, “I told her not to do it.”

“You told her not to do it?” Phil repeated. “Ah, I see.” And he did, in a way. He wouldn’t be in Laurie’s shoes for anything.

Laurie worked his thumb over and over one of the whorls of wood in the table top. It was smoothed from long use. “I hate it, Phil,” he said in a low voice. “I hate not being able to do all the simple things. It makes me feel useless, having them all run round after me.”

“You’d rather let the plants die than accept help?”

Laurie bit his lip and continued to worry at the knot in the table. “It sounds daft when you put it like that,” he said.

Phil didn’t say anything.