Page 13 of The Inn on Bluebell Lane
Several minutes ticked by and Gwen kept reminding herself of all that, trying to keep calm. She wasn’t normally a nervous person. David had used to call her unflappable. “My unflappable Gwen,” he’d say with an affectionate smile. “What would I do without her?”
The memory made Gwen’s eyes sting. Goodness, she wasn’t usually this emotional, either. David had been gone for twenty years now, although sometimes it felt like the blink of an eye, and she’d fight a wave of surprise that he wasn’t there in the armchair in the sitting room with the paper and a cup of tea when she turned around, or lying next to her when she woke up in the morning, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. But, mainly, over the years, she’d just got on with things—the house, the B&B, the grandchildren and chickens, a vegetable garden and village life. And she had so much to keep her busy and to be thankful for, she knew that, truly.
Perhaps it was having Matthew back, along with Ellie and the children, and now having this… concern that made Gwen feel as if life had suddenly become very precious, very fragile, like a bubble that could so easily pop from just the lightest touch. A single brush of a fingertip and it was gone, forever. She didn’t want to let the little things get in the way of enjoying all that life had to offer—right now, waiting for a consultant to come in, her tense little confrontations with Ellie seemed silly indeed. At least this was putting them into perspective, she thought, grateful for small mercies. She wouldn’t make any more silly remarks about the coffee, or anything else, from now on, she promised herself.
“Gwen?” A woman with a sandy bob and smiling eyes poked her head around the door. “I’m Anne Jamison, and I’m going to be doing your biopsy today.”
Gwen swallowed hard as she nodded.
Ms. Jamison looked at her notes. “I believe you’ve been briefed on the procedure?”
“Yes, I think so.” She knew so, but somehow, she couldn’t say as much. Her throat had gone very dry, and her heart was beating far too hard.
“It’s a needle biopsy, and it should take around twenty minutes,” Ms. Jamison explained. “I’ll numb the area with a local anaesthetic before I take the sample. Depending on how it goes, I might need to put in a single paper stitch, but most likely no more than that. You can go back to work right away, but I always advise patients to take it easy for the rest of the day, just because.” The smile she gave Gwen was full of kindness and humor. “Be kind to yourself, because, why not?”
“Okay,” Gwen murmured. She wasn’t exactly sure what being kind to oneself entailed. She just wanted to be home, in her kitchen, Toby at her feet, the kettle on the boil… that sounded like heaven, right about now. Maybe that was being kind to herself. It felt like it, at any rate.
“Right. Let’s get started, shall we?” Ms. Jamison continued briskly. “Do you have any questions?”
She should, Gwen thought, but right now her mind was completely blank. Silently, she shook her head.
“Then I’ll have you sign this consent form and we’ll be on our way.”
Taking a steadying breath, Gwen took the pen she was offered.
As good as the consultant’s word, twenty minutes later it was all over. Gwen had a single paper stitch, a slightly tingly numb area near her shoulder, and a promise that she’d have the results of the biopsy in a week or two.
A week or two? Gwen couldn’t help but think that second week would go very slowly, if that were the case.
Still, she tried to stay optimistic as she drove back to Llandrigg. When she’d found the lump several months ago, her GP had advised a biopsy “just to be on the safe side.” She hadn’t said the dreaded C word right away, but, of course, she was thinking it, and so had Gwen.
“Even if it is cancer,” she’d told Gwen at the end of the visit, after Gwen had had a very little wobble, “it is very treatable. Breast cancer has a terrific five-year survival rate—five out of six women.”
Yes, Gwen had thought, but somebody had to be that lonely one out of six, and in any case her GP was only talking about five years. What about after that? Gwen was only sixty-eight. No spring chicken, certainly, but she’d hoped to have more than five years left, certainly. A few more than that, anyway.
She pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind as she turned down the lane toward Bluebell Inn. Just a precaution, her doctor had said. And, anyway, she’d know what was going on in one—or two—weeks.
Back at the house, Matthew was making a racket upstairs; he seemed to have got every tool from the shed and was operating them all at once. She hadn’t expected him to get out the power tools quite so soon; she’d wanted to think things through carefully before making any decisions, but last night Matthew had been full of determination and excitement, and knowing what a difficult few months he’d had, she hadn’t been able to bear dampening his enthusiasm in the least.
Now, already fighting a tension headache from the stress of her appointment, Gwen winced at the noise as she switched on the kettle. She’d have a cup of tea and order her thoughts, and then she’d go see what Matthew was up to, maybe offer a gentle word of caution if she could.
A sudden, bloodcurdling shriek had Gwen tensing even more.
Ben ran into the kitchen, grinning gleefully, with Josh following behind, scowling and fighting tears.
“Give them back!”
“Don’t you know they’re for babies?”
Ben danced around the kitchen table, holding something above his brother’s head, pushing his shaggy hair away from his face as he grinned tauntingly.
“Give it back!” Josh fairly screamed, fists clenched, face red. He reminded Gwen a little bit of Matthew at that age, slender and small but so very determined. And, right now, making a lot of noise.
“Boys,” Gwen protested faintly, overwhelmed by the noise, the chaos. “Boys…”
“Give it back!” Josh screeched again. “You’re always so mean, Ben! I want my card!”
Gwen only just managed to keep from putting her hands over her ears.