Mary inched her way over to the window and peeped round the curtain. She looked down at the gravel path that led from her front door to the gate. For hours she had watched that path and it had not changed. It seemed such a short distance when viewed from her bedroom window, but even from up here it looked daunting. From the front door it was positively frightening.
Just opening the door was a trial. The idea of putting a foot on that path scared Mary half to death. But she would do it someday. She'd had enough of sitting indoors, of being dependent on other people for her shopping. She hadn't had a decent haircut for years. She tried to hide her disability by cutting her hair with the kitchen scissors - and a terrible sight she looked too, she thought, as she observed her reflection in the dressing table mirror.
Mary didn't go outside for anything. Even the dustbin had to be put out by her neighbour. Goodness knows what they made of it. They must think I'm mad or something, she thought as she walked across the room and sat down on the bed.
Mary was at a loss to know how she had arrived at this position. If anyone had suggested three years ago that she would be imprisoned in her home by her own agitation, she would have laughed at them. But that was before she had lost her husband, and then her child had been injured in a road accident. The first had happened because he wanted someone younger and prettier, the second because Mary had not being paying enough attention. Oh yes, she could make excuses for herself - she had been shocked by her husband's vindictiveness; she had been preoccupied with worrying where the next meal was coming from; she was on tranquillisers given to her by the doctor. Mary could go on.
Everyone tried their best to explain the reasons. "It could happen to any one," Betty, who lived next door, had said. "We can all have a moment of lost concentration. And God knows you had more reason than most."
But when it came to the crunch, the reason that Jenny had been hurt was because Mary had been careless. She had been slow to react when Jenny let go her hand, and in a flash the child had been lying in the road. Looking back now, Mary could see that was when her trouble started. It had not been obvious at first, absorbed as she was with visiting Jenny in hospital; it had been heartbreaking to see the young body broken and hurt. But Jenny had rallied and recovered, and it had been Mary herself who was seriously damaged by the experience.
"Mummy, Mummy, where are you?" Jenny's voice echoed through the house and cut into Mary's thoughts.
Mary looked at the clock. She had not realised it was so late. Usually she was in the kitchen preparing tea by the time Jenny came in, brought home by a neighbour who quickly disappeared before getting involved in Mary's problems.
"Mummy, I'm in the Easter play. I'm going to lead the donkey on to the stage. John and Billy are going to be the donkey," yelled Jenny as she burst into the bedroom.
"How lovely," said Mary as she gathered the child in her arms and buried her face in the soft fair hair. "I'm sure you'll do it beautifully."
But the child pulled back. With her head on one side and a frown on her face, she looked straight at her mother.
"You will come to see me, won't you, Mummy?" she whispered.
Mary closed her eyes, and fought against the sickness that was rising in her stomach.
"Please, Mummy. Aunty Betty says she'll take you in the car. You won't have to walk far!"
Mary opened her eyes and looked at her daughter - this beautiful child who deserved so much and got so little. It was such a simple request. How could she refuse her?
"Yes," she said quietly. "I'll come to see you."
"I WILL come to see you," she repeated as much to herself as to the child. Struggling against the mounting panic, she took Jenny's hand and forced herself to go downstairs.
The next morning after Jenny had gone to school, Mary felt even more determined. She had promised her daughter she would go the school play, and it was inconceivable that she could disappoint her. With her heart thumping, she edged her way across the hall and slowly opened the front door. She grasped the doorpost as the pathway seemed to come up to meet her, then she took a breath and looked upwards. There, at least, was clear sky - nothing that could leap out at her or whirl round her head. She let go of the doorpost, took a step outside, and immediately closed her eyes against the swirling world.
With her eyes still closed, she took another step - and another. Hardly daring to breathe, she opened her eyes - and found that she was alone in the middle of the path, too far from either the door or the fence to reach for support. A strange mixture of elation and fear pushed her on. Clenching her fists, she forced herself to take the few short steps to the gate; to Mary, it seemed like climbing a mountain.
Grabbing the nearest thing, Mary was relieved to feel the hard knotted wood of the gate beneath her fingers. Her heart was thudding and there was a lump in her throat - but she had done it. Her only problem was getting back indoors.
Feeling confused, Mary looked up and down the street. A nearby mountain ash surprised her with its beauty, but the sense of panic was still with her. She needed to go back, but she wanted to stay where she was. She dreaded being seen by one of her neighbours but hoped that one would come to help. But there was no one there when Mary turned towards the house. Making up her mind, she let go of the gate and dashed up the path, almost falling over the doorstep in her rush to get inside. Slamming the door, she leant against it.
She had done it! It had been dreadful - but she had done it. And she would do it again. Not today - today she had to calm herself and cope with the things that she had been unable to do while she had been planning this venture. But to-morrow - tomorrow she would do it all again. Mary knew it would not be easy - perhaps it would never be easy. But she could do it! She would do it for Jenny's sake - every day until the school play - and afterwards, perhaps she would do it for her own sake.
The next few days, Mary took the monumental journey to the front gate, and every time it proved to be a trial. By the fourth day she was wondering whether the play was all worth the effort, then she remembered Jenny's trusting face and her determination was renewed.
On the sixth day, Mary was gripping the gate, once again summoning up the courage for her return journey, when a car pulled up.
"It's nice to see you out," called Betty as she got out of the car and came round to join Mary by the gate. "I'm just going to pick the children up from school. Why don't you come with me?"
"Yes," said Mary, then quickly changed her mind when she realised that she would have to cross a glaring expanse of pavement to reach the safety of the car. "No," she muttered. "I'd better not."
"You'll be all right," said Betty firmly, and without stopping for a reply, she pried Mary's hand off the gate. "Come on."
Mary found Betty's impatient confidence irritating. Betty did not understand the problem. How could she, when she'd never bothered to ask? Just as Mary opened her mouth to explain, she realised that she was already dragged across the pavement and being firmly propelled into the car. She sank into the seat and soon found, with relief, that if she did not look out of the window, the feeling of panic was bearable.
Outside the school, Mary stayed in the car and waited with trepidation, fearing Jenny's reaction to seeing her outside the house. But when she came, Jenny pulled open the car door and threw her arms round Mary.
"Mummy, you are coming to the play, aren't you!" she shouted, more a statement than a question.
Mary thought about that dreadful walk from the house to the car, then purposefully put it from her mind.
"Yes," she said, "I'll be there."