Free Dying to Know You by Aidan Chambers

what?”
    “When he told you about his father’s death, did you tell him about your wife’s?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because in my experience, when I’m upset, and I tell someone, and they say, ‘Oh, I’ve been through that too’ and start telling me about it, I always feel worse. Seems to me when someone tells you about something that’s really upsetting them, what they want is for you to listen to their troubles, not talk to them about your own.”
    “I don’t know. I think it’s good sometimes.”
    “Perhaps.”
    “And you never told him what he was doing for you?”
    “No.”
    “Well, as I say, I think that explains a lot.”
    “A lot about what?”
    “His illness.”
    I’d forgotten. Talking about myself, answering her question, I’d forgotten. Panic in the guts again.
    “What’s happened?”
    “Fiorella,” Mrs. Williamson said.
    “What about her?”
    “She broke it off.”
    “What! Why?”
    “He won’t say.”
    “Oh Lord! When?”
    “While they were camping.”
    “But that’s weeks ago.”
    “He came home sooner than expected. He looked dreadful. I asked him what was the matter. He said Fiorella had dumped him and burst into tears. I haven’t seen him cry since his father died.”
    “But he wouldn’t explain?”
    “No. For a few days he was all right. Or seemed to be. Very low, of course, but going to work. I thought he’d get over it. But then he suddenly got worse. He was getting his bike out to go to work one morning and had a sudden panic attack. Shaking all over, struggling for breath, sweating, couldn’t stand, couldn’t even hold a glass of water. Since then he hasn’t been to work. Mostly stays in his room. Won’t talk. Eats very little. He’s lost a lot of weight. I don’t know what he does all day. Stares at the wall or sleeps as far as I can make out.”
    “The doctor?”
    “Yes, of course. He couldn’t get any more out of Karl than me. Depression, he says. Because of the breakup.”
    “So what has he done?”
    “Prescribed antidepressants. Offered to arrange for Karl to see a psychotherapist, but Karl refuses. I can’t get him to leave the house. Won’t take any exercise. And for someone as active as him …”
    “Have you talked to Fiorella?”
    “No.”
    “Wouldn’t that be a good idea?”
    “I like Fiorella. But to tell the truth, I never thought it would last.”
    “Why not?”
    “They’re both very young, young for their years. They’d fallen head over heels, but it was more passion than good sense. I was never sure what she found so attractive in Karl. In most ways they were chalk and cheese. She’s a clever girl. Beautiful and talented. I got on well with her. But her parents weren’t happy about it. They are very well off. Professional people. Didn’t think a plumber was good enough for her.”
    “How d’you know?”
    “Karl told me. And Fiorella used to joke about it. I think she quite enjoyed going against their wishes. Probably the first time she had.”
    “So it’s not just a lovers’ tiff?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “No hope of them getting together again?”
    “I’m not sure it would be a good thing if they did.”
    “You must be worried sick.”
    “I am. I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid of what might happen if he goes on like this much longer … I’m desperate, to be honest.”
    By now I was so upset I needed to collect myself, and I could see Mrs. Williamson was on the edge of caving in as well.
    Time for that panacea to which the English resort in times of crisis.
    “Look,” I said as levelly as I could. “How about a cup of tea while we take stock?”
    She looked at me with a faint smile and said, “I’d like that. Thanks.”
    Ten minutes later we were sitting at the kitchen table exactly as Karl and I had sat that first time, had even talked while I made the tea about cooking and housekeeping, as he and I had. The relief of distraction. The comfort of familiar everyday chores. The