Free The Blue Book by A. L Kennedy

although she can’t currently say so – this sense of struggle is enjoyable and what she’d hoped for. She wanted the din and fight of a genuine journey, of something large being achieved.
    Derek, in contrast, is much quieter than he has been and she guesses he’s fallen asleep.
    Good. So I can stop failing to comfort him.
    Her efforts have been mainly useless and uninspired. She has cleaned up the bathroom, set a cool cloth on his forehead – which he liked – refilled his water glass.
    Which he did not like – the water bounced back up and out of him as soon as he drank it.
    Horrible how sad he’s got about this – a bit of his holiday spoiled by a misfortune and him not feeling the way that he’d want. He’s disappointed – as if he’s five and needs his mum to get him through it.
    Horrible and – again – cute.
    So he’s abject and I find it appealing. Does that mean I’m peculiar?
    I don’t think so. We tend to those we love and more so when they’re troubled.
    Not that I’m being his mother. Not that.
    Too many wardrobes and antimacassars and ottomans involved with that.
    Ottomans or ottomen?
    Undoubtedly there are stewards and sundry other members of staff who are practised in the ways of mal de mer and its relief and she should probably call them – but Derek really wouldn’t want strangers pestering in at him.
    Tomorrow morning – we’ll check on his progress then and decide the best course.
    And meanwhile – because he’s well out of it – she won’t have to keep on throwing him perky sentences of invalid-encouraging stuff.
    It doesn’t matter.
    It’s all right.
    There’s no need to worry.
    You’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine. You’ll be all right.
    She didn’t necessarily believe these things were true, but they seemed constructive, padded out uneasy pauses and have been – naturally – a distraction.
    Can’t beat me for that. Past master. Past mistress, I suppose, except that sounds louche.
    And distracting Derek has prevented her from being forced to hear what she’s saying and saying inside – the slither and pelt of that.
    Noise is all I’m full of and no one should have to tolerate noise. It’s harmful to health and safety.
    She folds her arms, adjusts, clutches her shoulders. There’s a shiver in her breath and she can’t stop it, has no way to halt the fretting as her time sheers by.
    Let me yammer away for long enough and I’ll maybe just drown myself out.
    Which doesn’t make any kind of sense – my only emergency plan and it makes no sense.
    She’s been talking crap again, inside and out – but it doesn’t matter. It’s all right. There’s no need to worry. She’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine. She’ll be all right.
    Some people whistle, or doodle – Beth chatters. It doesn’t mean that she’s silly, or callous, or weak.
    You understand about this. You’re an understanding person.
    And, like Elizabeth, you’ve attempted to lighten a mood when no positive information was to hand – so you’ve made something up, built it out of optimism and eagerness to please and if you thought of it as mainly music rather than meaning, you’ve been able to absolve yourself for passing on information that’s actually false. And if the information is good – has good intentions – then it might even end up making itself true. Any word can work a spell if you know how to use it.
    Plus, honesty does have its savage side – you’re well aware, quite frankly, that it wouldn’t always be your first or even last option. The fabrications of kindness, of courtesy, of optimism: they’re very necessary – and, by accident, or in a pressured circumstance, there may have been occasions when you haven’t been utterly accurate in what you’ve