Distraction

Chapter Eighteen

It was the early afternoon sun, lighting up the garden that made up Dorothy's mind. She sipped her elderflower wine, a small glass, just enough to bolster her confidence, not too much to get her tiddly. This was home, a home she and Gordon had worked too bloody hard for. The years she'd slaved at the shipyard, the days he'd missed of their children's lives, all for what? This house. This life. And no pushy young man from the estate agents would talk her out of it. Oh, he might have put up a persuasive argument to her daughter but Dorothy wasn't moving. She much preferred the young girl, the Southern one, even if she did sound like she'd get a part in Eastenders.

Dorothy pottered around the conservatory, dead heading begonias. Grasmere Vale Retirement Village, what a ridiculous name, there wasn't a vale for fifty miles. Oh it might be able to offer her 24-hour nursing staff and a life without stairs, but would her lodge have a conservatory, space to grow begonias? She fanned herself, a vain effort to ward off the heat beating through the glass. Silly, silly woman. Fancy drinking in the conservatory at midday in this heat.

She collected her glass, wiping her brow, and headed for the kitchen, away from the sun. Her legs stopped, her body floated, but she grabbed the doorframe, taking a deep breath to clear her head. She needed a glass of water but the room swirled again, this time sending her flailing into the wall. She groped her way to the kitchen, her legs barely able to carry her. Her abdomen tightened, her stomach cramping, forcing the air from her body.

Where was her panic alarm? It'd be on the table in the hallway, of course, where she always left it, not around her neck where it should be. She staggered along the hall, pulling herself along the dado rail, blinking, trying but failing to see the familiar large red button of her alarm.

The doorbell rang. Oh, thank God.

Dorothy rested against the wall, just a few more yards.

'Help me.' But her words were barely whispered.

She forced her feet to move but after two steps, her strength failed and she fell against the door. The pain across her chest increased as she slipped down, hitting the side table and she lay on the floor, gasping, trying to suck air into her lungs. Her eyelids felt like lead gates but she fought to keep them open. She'd survived poverty, abuse, a still-born daughter. She'd been oppressed, turned down for jobs, rejected for promotion but if life had taught Dotty Kilburn anything, it was that you didn't survive by being weak. Her fist banged on the door and she closed her eyes, willing the visitor to have heard her.

Help me. The door isn't locked.

Slowly, the door opened and Dorothy raised her head, wanting to thank her saviour, but the effort was wasted. Looking down at her was a familiar, but dispassionate face.

The door closed again and tears trickled from the corners of Dorothy's eyes. Her only hope was to fight for ten more minutes. Ten more minutes when the estate agents were due.

Ten Minutes.