‘But…’ Diane continued. ‘We do allow volunteers in to sit for just a few minutes and have general conversations with our residents.’ She cocked her head to one side and opened her hands out. ‘It helps them.’
Morton smiled. ‘My wife Juliette and I would very much like to volunteer to come and chat with your residents,’ he said seriously.
Diane smiled. ‘Of course, that would be real nice. I’ll just go and get you some badges and get you signed in, then I’ll take you to the lounge.’ Diane left the room.
Morton turned to Juliette with a grin.
‘So she’s got dementia—tread very carefully, Morton or you’ll get thrown out,’ Juliette whispered.
‘I will.’
Diane returned with a form to complete and two badges. ‘If you fill these in, I’ll take you through.’
Having completed the forms and pinned on their badges, Morton and Juliette followed Diane in through a security-coded door, along a long warm corridor with glass walls overlooking two spacious lounges.
Diane stopped at the end of the corridor. ‘That lounge over there is for residents who have some degree of independence—they come and go as they please to their rooms. This side’ —she indicated to the room beside them— ‘this is where residents with more complex needs come. I suggest we go in here.’ She tapped another keypad then pushed open the door.
Morton gazed around the room. He reckoned that there were around twenty elderly residents dotted about on chairs that could cater for double that number. A handful of carers were doing a variety of jobs around the room.
Diane turned to face them and spoke in a low voice. ‘Okay, when you speak to someone with dementia, you need to speak in short, simple sentences. Speak more slowly than usual and avoid asking too many questions. The two ladies I’m going to take you to often get confused and say things that don’t make any sense. Obviously don’t raise your voice and avoid speaking about them as if they weren’t there. If they say things that you know are not true, don’t contradict them, but just keep quiet. Okay?’
‘Fine,’ Morton agreed.
‘Let’s go over and see these two lovely ladies, here,’ Diane said loudly. She led them over to two elderly women and crouched down in front of them. ‘Ladies, we’ve got some volunteers in to come and chat with you for a few minutes. This is Juliette and this is Morton. Juliette, this is Clarissa; Morton, this… is Velda.’
Juliette sat next to Clarissa and instantly struck up a conversation of sorts.
Morton smiled and waved awkwardly, then sat beside Velda. From nowhere, his eyes glistened with moisture as he took her in. His grandmother. She had a lined, round face and short, style-less white hair. He studied her features, wanting to absorb every detail, knowing that it would likely be the one and only time that he would ever see her. Her grey eyes held something that resembled acute grief to Morton, as though they were sheltering some great loss inside.
He wiped his eyes and finally spoke. ‘Hello, Velda.’
‘Hello,’ she responded, eyeing him up and down. ‘I expect you’ve come to fix the vacuum, have you? I told the store it was broken…oh, sometime last week. I’m sure it’s the thing—you know—the motor? That’s always the problem. Always.’
‘Yes, I think you’re right,’ Morton said quietly.
‘Alice will be here soon,’ Velda said. ‘You remember her, don’t you?’
‘I know her, yes,’ Morton answered.
‘Of course you do. She used to look after me. You don’t come see me.’
‘I’d like to see you more often, but I live in England.’
Velda sat up straight and looked at her friend beside her. ‘Did you hear that? He lives in England now. We didn’t know where he went. Now he fixes vacuums.’ She waved her hand towards Diane. ‘Hey, Missy—did you feed the…the…’
‘Dog?’ Diane said. ‘Yes, Velda, I fed the dog.’
Velda shook her head. ‘Always the way. Always.’ She turned back to Morton. ‘She’s twenty-three—doesn’t look it, but she is.’
‘She’s a lovely person. Very kind,’ Morton said, receiving a warm smile back from Diane.
‘Who is? The cook?’ Velda laughed. ‘You should try his meatballs—urgh! Every day I have them for breakfast with some other…I don’t know. Just awful.’ She pushed closer to Morton and scrunched up her face. ‘You’re new—I haven’t seen you before. What do you want?’
‘I came to see you,’ Morton said softly.
‘Hmm, I bet you did. Not a bad place I’ve got here, is it?’ Velda gazed happily around the room. ‘Real nice—we bought it…I don’t know…Hey! Missy, when did we buy this place?’
Diane made the pretence of thinking for a moment then shook her head. ‘A long time ago.’
Velda agreed. ‘Yeah, a long time ago. It’s got a television!’
‘Really? What do you like to watch?’ Morton asked.
Velda blew out a puff of air but said nothing.
‘Do you want me to take your photo, Morton?’ Diane asked.
‘Yes, that would be lovely—thank you.’ He handed her his mobile.
‘Smile!’ Diane chirped.
‘I knew you’d come back for me, Jack,’ Velda said. ‘I’m sorry for what I did.’
She thought he was Jack. ‘That’s okay,’ Morton said. He felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach. He looked at Diane, then at Juliette, desperate to ask further questions in the guise of his father. But he just couldn’t do it.
‘Can you get those cars switched off?’ Velda barked at Diane. She turned to Morton with an apologetic shake of her head. ‘I keep asking…can I have a hot chocolate?’
‘I’ll rustle you one up shortly,’ Diane said. ‘Just you keep on chatting to your visitor—he’s come from England.’
‘England?’ Velda exclaimed. ‘I went there once.’ She looked at Morton then laughed. ‘With you! And now you’ve got a car vacuum or something?’ She sagged down in her seat. ‘Always the same. When’s my mother getting here? She’s late again. She would love England. Do you remember Buckingham Palace?’
‘Yes, I do—you’re allowed inside now,’ Morton said.
‘Who is? The cook or my mother? They’re both dead.’ Velda laughed exaggeratedly, then wiped her nose on the back of her hand. ‘I’m about ready for bed. Missy, get rid of this man—I don’t want to talk about vacuums.’
Diane stood up. ‘Okay, I think it’s probably time to let these ladies have a rest now.’
‘Yes,’ Morton said, standing up. He leant down and touched Velda’s hand. He knew it was probably forbidden, but he didn’t care. ‘Goodbye, Velda. It was really lovely to meet you.’
Velda withdrew her hand, a look of disgust on her face. She grunted something and turned away, muttering her displeasure to her friend.
He and Juliette followed Diane from the lounge back out into the corridor. Morton watched Velda through the glass walls until she was out of sight.
‘Thank you so much for that,’ Morton said, his throat tightening with emotion. ‘I really appreciate it.’
‘I know you do, honey. I just wish she were a little more present.’
Morton fished in his pocket for one of his business cards. ‘I know you can’t say too much, but perhaps you could drop me an email every once in a while, to tell me how things are.’
‘No problem—poor Velda don’t get no visitors—so I’m glad someone’s taking an interest in her.’
‘What, no visitors at all?’ Morton asked, slightly appalled.
Diane shook her head. ‘None.’
‘Fits with the way your aunt is,’ Juliette mumbled.
‘Right…’ Morton’s sentence tapered off and he offered Diane his hand to shake.
‘Pleasure to meet you. Follow me,’ she said, leading them back over to the reception desk to sign out.
Morton left the building, overwhelmed by a peculiar concoction of emotions that brought hot, bittersweet tears to his eyes. The great satisfaction at ha
ving finally met his grandmother was barbed with her debilitating illness, which had inevitably tarnished the occasion. Any hopes that he had held of her being able to help him find his father were wholly obliterated. Could he even take anything from what she had said about her being sorry for what she’d done?
Then there was the revelation that nobody visited her, which wrenched at his core.
Juliette instinctively pulled him into an embrace, as the tears broke free and coursed down his cheeks.
Chapter Ten
21st November 1950, Cow Hollow, San Francisco, California, USA
Velda woke slowly. For the past two weeks, the transition from sleep to waking had been difficult. Sometimes the unspeakable terrors playing out in her nightmares were eased by the opening of her eyes; other times the agonising process of surfacing from sleep and facing reality was excruciating, as she desperately tried to hold onto the thin, wispy hopes that had been contained in her dreams, as though she were wafting a net around, trying to catch something translucent and ultimately intangible.
Today, the simple natural act of waking up had been like the collision of two great planets. She had dreamed of the bridge again. Her mother was there, standing in the centre on the outer edge, beckoning her over. There was a wind—terribly loud—that snatched her mother’s final words as she spoke them. Velda had moved closer and closer, desperate to hear what she had to say to explain herself. The closer she got to her mother, the noisier the wind became. Her mother’s auburn hair was billowing furiously, as she tried to mouth the words more clearly. The dream ended as it always did: with her mother tumbling backwards, followed by darkness. Just total darkness.
Velda began to sob before she had even opened her eyes. She knew where she was—she was no longer on the bridge; she was in her bed. Alone. She had lost Joseph again, only this time he was irretrievably gone. Two weeks ago, Joseph’s brother David had knocked on her door. She had known from the acute sadness that had contorted his face and his inability to speak that something had happened to Joseph. Something terrible.
‘David? What is it?’ Velda had pleaded.
He had handed over a telegram, still unable to speak. It is with deep regret that I officially inform you that your son Sergeant First Class Joseph Jacklin has been missing since November 1st, 1950 as the result of participating in Korean operations. A letter containing further details will be forwarded to you at the earliest possible date. Please accept my sincere sympathy during this time of anxiety. Major General Charles H McCormack.
Whilst those around her had sagged down in sobbing, boneless heaps, Velda had been consumed with an ugly rage that had first reared its head following her mother’s death. Crushed by the vision of a future now lost, she had vented her anger on the house. In the handful of seconds before she had been restrained, anything within Velda’s reach had been obliterated. Tables had been turned over. Chairs had cracked the sitting room windows. The lower panels of internal doors had been kicked in. Ornaments and vases had lain in hundreds of pieces on the wooden floor.
‘Velda, stop crying and sit up. You need to take your pills,’ her sister, Beatrice said, handing her a handkerchief.
Velda wiped her eyes and opened them fully for the first time this morning. The wilting dread of another day hit her. Take her barbiturates. Take a bath. Take a walk. Back to bed. Doctor’s orders.
Beatrice was standing beside her, that same caring but supercilious smile looking down on her, as it had done ever since their mother had died in 1945. She was barely a year older than Velda, and yet had slipped somehow effortlessly into their late mother’s vacant role.
‘Here you go,’ Beatrice said, her uncurled fingers revealing the plump pink pill that Velda had to take twice a day. In her other hand was a glass of water.
Velda swallowed down the pill and watched expressionlessly as Beatrice pulled open the curtains. She needn’t have bothered—outside was a solid mass of drizzly grey.
‘We’ll need an umbrella for our walk today,’ Beatrice said brightly.
‘You can go by yourself,’ Velda uttered.
Beatrice emitted a short laugh. ‘Oh, come on; the fresh air will do you the world of good.’
‘You don’t actually want to go out in that, Beatrice,’ Velda replied. She had heard the doctor’s orders—that she shouldn’t be left alone—spoken over her in bed, as though she were some kind of uncomprehending infant.
‘Of course I do,’ she retorted, trotting over to Velda’s wardrobe and pulling open one of the doors. ‘How about this today?’ Beatrice held out a blue and white gingham dress. ‘I’ve always loved this one.’
‘Sure,’ Velda said dismissively. She had learned that it was easier to just accept Beatrice’s suggestions rather than to question them.
‘Excellent—do you want me to help you get dressed?’
‘I can manage,’ Velda answered.
‘See you downstairs, then,’ Beatrice said. With a twirl of her skirt, she left the room.
She took her time getting ready. What was the hurry? She dressed, brushed her teeth and styled her hair—but for what, or whom? It did her good, Beatrice always insisted, to make herself presentable and take care of her appearance. Downstairs, she found a cup of coffee waiting for her and Beatrice sitting upright with her chest pushed outwards, her face beaming. How she maintained this constant sunny disposition was beyond Velda’s understanding.
Velda went towards her usual armchair but Beatrice raised a hand. ‘Don’t sit down—you’ve got a guest.’
‘Where? Who?’
‘In the dining room. It’s David Jacklin.’
‘Oh my God,’ Velda muttered, the blood draining from her face. She suddenly felt weak and fragile, as if she were made of thin glass that might shatter at any moment.
‘Stay calm—I think it’s good news.’
‘What?’
‘Go see him.’
Velda’s legs were feathery and light, yet they managed to carry her across the hallway to the dining room. David stood from a chair with a wide grin on his face.
‘Velda! He’s alive! Joseph’s alive!’
‘Are you kidding?’ Velda yelled.
David held up a thick envelope. ‘We had this from him today—he’s coming home!’
Velda burst into tears and threw her arms around him. Joseph was alive and well. A thick dark shroud, that she hadn’t been aware had been encasing her body, suddenly fell away from her.
Her heart breathed again.
David broke their embrace and opened the envelope. ‘Here—there’s a letter for you.’
‘For me?’ Velda snatched the letter. She studied her name, scribed in his beautiful handwriting.
‘Well, aren’t you going to open it?’ David laughed.
Velda took her time slicing into the envelope. Inside was a single sheet, short. My Dear Velda, Contrary to popular belief I’m actually alive. I’ve got a few holes where I shouldn’t have, but I’m still here. Listen, Velda, I know I should have listened to you. My time out here and all that’s gone on has taught me a few things. When I get home I’m going to divorce Audrey. I’m not expecting you to come running back, but it’s just something I need to do. I hope you’re taking good care of yourself. Yours, Joseph.
‘What’s he saying?’ David asked, craning his neck to get a glimpse of the letter.
Velda folded it over and smiled. ‘Nothing that concerns you, David Jacklin.’
‘Okay. Well, I’ll leave you to it—I’m Joseph’s postman today—I’ve got a few more deliveries to make. Next stop Audrey’s house.’ David grimaced. ‘I’m not sure how the news is going to go down over there.’
‘Audrey?’ Velda enquired, finally looking up from the envelope. ‘I can take hers for you—I’m going out that way.’
‘You sure? It’s the other side of town.’
Velda smiled. ‘Absolutely—Beatrice and I were just about to leave.’ Velda extended her hand for the letter.
David opened the packet
, then stopped. ‘You despise Audrey. Are you really going to pass it on to her?’
‘Sure I will.’
David raised his eyebrows.
‘I’ll go there right away—once I’ve made a fresh coffee—my last one will be ice by now.’
‘If you’re sure and you promise to give it to her.’
‘Yes, I promise.’
David reluctantly handed over the letter. ‘See you later, then.’
‘Goodbye, David.’
‘Bye, Velda. Take care now.’
Velda clutched both letters in her hand, waiting for the gentle click that indicated the closing of the front door and David’s departure. When it arrived, she hurried back into the kitchen and filled the aluminium kettle with water.
‘Well?’ Beatrice asked, appearing at the doorway, eying the letters in her hand. ‘I take it, it was good news about Joseph?’
Velda nodded. ‘The best—he’s coming home.’
‘That’s wonderful news—is he okay?’
‘I think he got hurt, but he’s okay.’ She rushed over to Beatrice and hugged her tightly, continuing to cry. ‘He’s alive, Bea!’
Beatrice held her sister then said, ‘He is still married, though, Velda.’
‘I know.’ Velda carefully set the letters down, hers covering Audrey’s. ‘Why don’t you go and run yourself a nice bath before we go for that walk? I need a coffee and time to digest the news.’
Beatrice looked at the clock. ‘At this time of the morning? What an indulgence.’
‘Exactly,’ Velda replied. She took her sister’s hands in hers and met her gaze. ‘Listen, Beatrice,’ she began earnestly. ‘The last couple of weeks have been—without the obvious exception—the worst in my life; I hit the bottom and you helped me through it and I can’t thank you enough. Right now, I would just like a few minutes to myself to take it all in. Then, we can go for that walk. Hell, we can run, sing and dance, Beatrice!’
‘Well…okay, then,’ she agreed. ‘If you’re sure.’
‘Positive,’ Velda said, reaching up and pecking her sister on the cheek.
Beatrice fluttered from the room.
The Missing Man Page 8