“I was a projectionist,” says Madeleine. “In the cinema, on the south side of town. Did you know that about me? It’s a skilled job. People don’t appreciate that. I was good at it too. We’re meant to be modest, aren’t we? About our skills. But surely enough time has passed so I can say it, if only to you. You’ve been such a constant friend to me, haven’t you, uh …”
“Ruth.”
This is their regular route. Around the walls of Arkady, every day at three o’clock in the afternoon, pushing Madeleine’s wheelchair along the gravel path in a clockwise direction. They’ve reached the turning that leads through the orchard to the pond. It’s early autumn and the apples have not yet fallen from the trees; that is still to come. For now, there is the scent of fruit to enjoy, heavy and on the verge of the c
