Free Letters From Prague by Sue Gee Page B

dare not move for fear of showing her distress.
    Harriet approached her. She touched her arm. Susanna shut her eyes, and shook her head. Other people came to admire the tapestry.
    â€˜Susanna,’ said Harriet quietly. ‘Let’s go outside.’
    Tears fell on the polished floor.
    Their guide had marshalled the group around him: he began to describe the tapestry, commissioned from a convent in Liège. He pointed out the dancers and the dance, announcing, Harriet was dimly aware, that an early-music quartet would be playing the great hall later in the week. He pointed to the lovers, to their delicate glance of desire. It was thought they were portraits of the son of the house and his betrothed bride, who died, aged seventeen, in childbed.
    The tourists murmured. Susanna looked at the floor and wept. Harriet put her arm round her and shepherded her across the room and out through the door to the garden. Two seats were occupied by couples; Marsha, on the third, was swinging her legs, contentedly stripping stalks of lavender.
    â€˜I’m so sorry,’ said Susanna brokenly. She fumbled for her bag, for the clasp. ‘Don’t take any notice.’
    â€˜Don’t be ridiculous.’
    Marsha had looked up and seen the tears. She frowned. Harriet made an incoherent gesture. Susanna had found a handkerchief. Her shoulders shook. Marsha slid off the seat and scrunched on the gravel towards them.
    â€˜What’s the matter?’ The scent of lavender clung to her: she put out a hand towards Susanna and withdrew it again. ‘Why don’t you come and sit down?’
    They made their way to the garden seat. Little birds hopped about in the fruit trees, and pecked at ripening pears. A bumble bee sailed past on a current of air. It could not have been a more beautiful morning.
    â€˜Have you got a headache?’ Marsha asked.
    â€˜Sort of –’ Susanna blew her nose and wiped her eyes.
    â€˜Smell this.’ Marsha held out a lavender stalk; Susanna sniffed, and tried to smile.
    â€˜Lavender’s blue, dilly-dilly …’ Marsha, who had quite a sweet voice when she put her mind to it, began to sing, trying to comfort.
    â€˜Lavender’s green.
    When I am king, dilly-dilly,
    You shall be queen.’
    Susanna covered her face and sobbed. Harriet and Marsha looked at each other. Harriet wanted to ask Marsha to leave them alone, but felt that was unfair; she did not know, herself, whether to go or stay. Not since she had wept on Victoria station, saying goodbye to Karel all those years ago, had she known anyone cry like this: uncontrollably, in the middle of the morning, in a public place. What should she do?
    Marsha got off the seat and touched the purse that hung round her neck. ‘I’m going to look at the postcards. I’ll come back in a little while.’
    Harriet, in familiar London, would have issued automatic instructions: come straight back, don’t talk to any strangers, don’t spend all your money, be sensible – Here, in a foreign city, an unknown public building, she simply nodded in gratitude. Marsha was already sensible, she’d be okay for a bit. ‘Don’t be too long.’
    â€˜I won’t.’ And she left them, entering the tall doors to the gallery with a smile to the attendant, poised and grown-up, as Harriet turned back to Susanna.
    â€˜What can I do for you? How can I help?’
    Susanna, at last, stopped crying. She blew her nose again and wiped her eyes and she sat beside Harriet looking straight ahead: at the well-cut grass, the well-trained fruit trees. Water poured from the mouth of a small bronze lion head, set in the wall, into a shallow basin; a sparrow flew down and alighted; it began to bathe, busy and contented.
    â€˜Tell me,’ said Harriet, watching the bird. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’
    Susanna said slowly, ‘I’ve been like this all my life.’
    Harriet felt a prickle of