by Emma Fraser
‘Do you have Annette’s address on you?’
Paper rustled as she flicked through her diary. ‘24a Howth Gardens.’
I wrote it down. ‘Thanks, Sophie. I’ll take it from here.’
But almost immediately Lucy was put to the back of my mind. That afternoon Dr Goldsmith, Mum’s GP, came on one of his regular visits. When he suggested we go into the kitchen and closed the door behind us, I knew I wouldn’t want to hear what he had to say.
‘Your mother is failing. You should prepare yourself.’
‘How long?’
‘It’s difficult to say with any certainty. A couple of weeks – a month perhaps – if we’re lucky.’
The crushing pain in my chest made it difficult to speak. ‘Isn’t there anything more you can do?’
‘All we can do now is make her as comfortable as possible. I’ve increased her morphine. It will help with the pain but will make her more sleepy. Have you talked to her about hospice care?’
‘No! Mum would hate that. I’ll look after her here.’
‘In which case I’ll arrange for nurses to come in.’
‘Thank you. Just tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it.’
The nurses came in twice a day but it was me who washed her hair, soaping the thinning locks between my palms, gently massaging her bony scalp, me who helped her on and off the commode the nurses had supplied, both Mum and I initially rigid with embarrassment at this unexpected and unwished for intimacy, but sooner than either of us would have expected becoming deft at it, occasionally giggling when Mum tooted unexpectedly. Despite everything, there was a joy to our days. As Mum’s life drew to an end we discovered a closeness we’d hitherto been unable to find and the time before Mum got really bad was bittersweet. I read to her and we talked more than we had done before. We reminisced about Mum’s boss at the library, Miss Walker, about places we’d visited together, we discussed books we’d both loved, and we laughed and argued as we hadn’t done in years. I told her again about how I’d won the Curtis case and she listened, her eyes shining as I described how I’d felt when the not-guilty verdict had come in. I didn’t tell her about Lucy Corrigle or that, with every week that passed, my career was slowly withering on the vine.
As Dr Goldsmith had warned, the increase to her morphine made her sleep for hours at a stretch although it did seem to ease her pain. As the days passed, her breathing became more laboured, and she was growing ever weaker, eating little, rarely managing more than a mouthful or two before she’d push her plate away. One afternoon, after I’d helped her sit up in bed, she patted the empty space beside her.
‘Time’s running out, Charlotte. I need to tell you what happened after I arrived at Greyfriars.’
Chapter Eighteen
Olivia
1950
Time slipped by as if she were living in a fog. To begin with she slept for long periods of time, rousing only when one of her aunts came into her room. She was dimly aware of being washed gently and being fed sips of chicken broth before she would slump back gratefully into a dreamless sleep.
If it weren’t for the meals that appeared at regular intervals, Olivia wouldn’t have been able to guess the time of day, or even if it were day or night. Edith kept the curtains closed, insisting Olivia needed the darkness to help her rest. A small lamp had been left by her bed, should she need it, but otherwise the only light was from the flickering fire kept lit in her hearth or from the oil lamp Edith carried with her.
But as the days passed, eventually the headaches came less often and with less severity and Olivia spent longer periods awake. It was then that the pain of being apart from Ethan would rip her in two. Sometimes when her spirits were at their lowest, most often in the darkest part of the night, she would decide to write to him, to tell him she had changed her mind – that she was going to have his baby and he should divorce his wife and marry her instead. Then morning would come, the cold light bringing reason with it. She could never be happy with Ethan knowing she had deprived two children of their father.
But yet, an insistent, niggling voice said, aren’t you depriving the child you are carrying? Doesn’t he, or she, deserve to know their father? How did one weigh up the happiness of one family against that of another? In the end, it always came down to this – Ethan was already married.
Lying in bed, trying not to think of Ethan, and staring into darkness, she listened to the familiar creaks and groans of the house as it settled down for the night, recognising the banging of a shutter that never did catch properly. There were other noises too – unfamiliar and, at times, unsettling. She put it down to the fact that every time she’d been at Greyfriars in the past it had been summer and winter was bound to bring with it different sounds – the wind fiercer than she remembered – moaning and shrieking down the chimney breast in her room. But it wasn’t just that. Sometimes she thought she heard the sound of light pittering and pattering from the floorboards above her, and several times she was certain she’d heard footsteps stop outside her door, before they’d move away. Once she was sure she heard the sound of childish laughter and, recalling the story of the drowned Lady Sarah, began to wonder whether Lady Elizabeth’s ghost really did walk Greyfriars searching for her child. By morning she’d dismissed her over-heated imaginings of the night before – the scurrying sounds above her were bound to be mice or rats. Greyfriars, being surrounded by the sea, had always been a haven for rodents and without Donald the ghillie to keep them under control, no doubt they’d multiplied. And as for the footsteps, why, her aunts were bound to pass her room from time to time.
It was almost always Aunt Edith who tended to her. Three times a day she would bring Olivia meals. She’d plump her pillows and help her sit up, placing another pillow on her lap so that she could rest the tray. Olivia had almost no appetite, and the food wasn’t very appetising; lumpy porridge for breakfast, soup for lunch and tinned meat with boiled potatoes for supper, but Edith would stand over her until Olivia had eaten sufficient to satisfy her aunt. Then she would help her out of bed and onto the commode which had been retrieved from somewhere and placed in Olivia’s room. It was mortifying. Olivia couldn’t see why she couldn’t walk the short distance to use the lavatory but Edith insisted that bed rest meant bed rest and besides she’d been a nurse and was well used to emptying bed pans. Olivia didn’t have the strength to argue. The business with the commode dispensed with, Edith helped her back into bed, and washed her tenderly, almost as if she were a little girl. Next Edith checked her blood pressure and ankles and hands for swelling before tucking her up again and leaving her to sleep.
As her aunt moved around the room, Olivia studied her from under her eyelashes. It wasn’t just her physical appearance that had changed, but also her manner, and she seemed a far cry from the brusque, down-to-earth aunt of her childhood. Aunt Edith had always been quieter, more serene than her two sisters, but this was different. There was no serenity about her now. Her eyes had an odd blankness to them and she seemed nervous and ill at ease, often starting at the slightest noise.
She was efficient and kind when she was looking after Olivia but she said very little and as soon as she’d finished her nursing tasks, she’d leave, as if she couldn’t bear to spend time in the room with her niece. Inconceivable though it was, Olivia wondered whether she still blamed Olivia for what had happened that last summer. She longed to ask if Findlay had survived the war, and if he had, whether he and Edith had made up. But nothing about her aunt suggested she’d welcome that sort – or any sort – of personal question.
Georgina popped her head around the door occasionally to ask how she was feeling, but she too rarely stayed to talk. She too had changed.
She was still beautiful, her thick hair although dashed with strands of grey, still burnished copper, her skin still porcelain white, although with more freckles than Olivia remembered, and there were lines on her face that hadn’t been there before. All that was only to be expected – a natural part of gettin
g older. But it was the change in her personality that perplexed Olivia. It was as if all the joy had gone out of her. It was almost impossible to believe that Georgina was the same woman who’d lit up Greyfriars all those years ago. As if once she’d been a chandelier and now she was a single, guttering candle.
As the weeks passed, and the headaches and nausea continued to ease, Edith brought Olivia jugs of water so she could wash herself; a small, but welcome act of independence. Although Olivia might have been feeling better physically, mentally she was lethargic and miserable and the darkened room didn’t help her spirits. With nothing but the regular visits from Edith and the sporadic ones from Georgina there was little to distract her from thinking about Ethan. She needed something to keep herself occupied, or else she would surely go mad.
The next time Edith came to her room she broached the subject.
‘Do you think I might get up today and sit in the armchair? I haven’t had a headache for days now. That must be a good sign.’
Edith crossed over to the window and opened the curtains a crack as if scanning the outside for an answer.
‘I don’t see why not,’ she said finally. ‘I’d like to take your blood pressure first though. And check your hands and ankles.’ When Edith was in nursing mode, she was confident and certain, reminding Olivia of the woman she’d been when Olivia was a child.
Olivia dutifully held out her hands for inspection. They were still swollen but not nearly as badly as they had been. Edith gave a little grunt. ‘And your ankles?’
‘I think they’re better too.’
Edith lifted the blanket covering Olivia’s feet, letting in a freezing draught of air. She prodded Olivia’s ankles gently with her fingers. ‘Still swollen but very much better. Very well, you can get out of bed and sit up but only for an hour or two after lunch and you have to promise me that you’ll keep your legs raised.’
‘I promise,’ Olivia said meekly, feeling like the nine-year-old child she’d been when she’d last seen Edith.
Her aunt helped her out of bed and into her dressing gown. She settled her into the armchair next to the window and, retrieving a blanket from the bottom of the large wardrobe, covered Olivia until only her chin was exposed to the chilly air.
Olivia looked out of the window. It was grey but not raining, the sky low, and the trees and rhododendrons obscured the view in the way they hadn’t when she’d been a child. A cockerel crowed, followed later by the mooing of a cow. It was then Olivia realised that she had heard no footsteps crunching on the gravel outside the house, no chiming doorbell, no knock on the door. Who milked the cow? Kept the buildings in repair? Agnes had said that her aunts didn’t have a daily and never went to the village but until this moment it hadn’t occurred to Olivia that they had no help at all.
Were her aunts now so poor that they couldn’t afford a lad to come from the village to cut back the bushes? And others to help in the house even for a few hours a day. As Agnes had said, there were bound to be several villagers who would be glad of the chance to earn some extra money when money was still so tight for so many. Someone like Agnes herself, for example? Her aunts couldn’t enjoy running up and down stairs countless times to see to her and the house could do with a good paint – a good clean, even more necessary. The Guthries had been wealthy once and all that money couldn’t possibly have disappeared. After all, they could afford to send her an allowance every month – the one that had enabled her to go to university and pay for her lodgings, food and clothes as well as the occasional treat. She’d even managed to save a little and had subsequently opened a savings account with the post office. The thought that they might be doing without to ensure she was taken care of financially simultaneously worried and warmed her. Perhaps she could use some of her savings to help them? It was her house too, or would be soon, and the subject needed to be broached at some point. And if she were going to be here for the foreseeable future – the future after the baby was born was still a closed book – shouldn’t she make a contribution to her keep?
Her head began to throb. But one didn’t ask about money and she didn’t feel strong enough to raise the subject of the house or her future here. No doubt one, or both, of her aunts would at some point. Life would be so much easier if one could only say what was on one’s mind. In the meantime, perhaps she could suggest employing Agnes? Edith was making up Olivia’s bed with fresh linen, folding the corners of the bottom sheet into precise envelope shapes.
‘Aunt Edith, I can’t remember if I told you that the night I arrived, the train was late and I spent the night at the inn in Balcreen?’
Edith gave the blankets one final smooth and turned. A little frown puckered the skin between her eyes. ‘Why didn’t you write earlier? Your letter only arrived a few days after you did. If we’d had more notice we would have arranged for someone to meet you.’
Olivia doubted that. Despite their care of her she still believed they would have found a way of preventing her from coming.
‘I’m sorry. I should have. But what I was about to say was that while I was at the inn, I met Agnes again. I played with her when I was a child. She’s about my age. Perhaps you remember her?’
Edith shook her head, eyeing Olivia warily.
‘Agnes’s parents have sold the inn and are planning to go and live in Canada with their other daughter,’ Olivia continued.
Edith’s expression hadn’t changed but she had begun to tap the side of her leg as if impatient to be gone.
‘Anyway, Agnes wants to go to Edinburgh or Glasgow to find a job in domestic service,’ Olivia hurried on, ‘and I wondered, if it was all right with you and Aunt Georgina, if while Agnes is applying for posts whether she might come here for a few hours every day? If she’d like to. She could help look after me, keep me company – perhaps do a bit of light housework and cooking.’
Olivia was about to continue when Edith interrupted her.
‘Absolutely not! I hope you didn’t say anything to her to suggest it might even be a possibility. Georgina and I manage fine by ourselves. We like it like that.’
‘It wouldn’t cost very much —’ Oh dear now she was travelling down the very road she had promised herself she wouldn’t go, ‘and I would be happy to pay for her time.’
Edith picked up the soiled bed linen from the floor. ‘It is not a matter of money. I’m sorry, but it’s completely out of the question.’
‘Then might I invite her to visit me?’ Olivia hated the plaintive note that had crept into her voice. She was no longer a child and she mustn’t let Aunt Edith intimidate her. ‘She would be company for me.’
Edith picked up the lunch tray and pursed her lips. ‘Georgina and I do not welcome visitors. I’m sorry, I know you must find it lonely here, but Georgina and I like the solitude. And we didn’t invite you to come. The words weren’t spoken out loud but they hung in the air as clearly as if they had been.
‘It was just a thought,’ Olivia finished lamely. ‘I didn’t mean to cause offence.’
Edith’s smile seemed forced. ‘No offence. You weren’t to know. Georgina and I had rather too much company during the war. We like it here on our own.’
But what did they do to entertain themselves? Read? Listen to music on the wind-up gramophone? How could that possibly be enough? For these two women who had once had such active social lives? What had changed them so? It had to have something to do with what had happened to them when they were prisoners. Or had Edith’s break-up with Findlay broken her heart?
‘What was the war like for you?’ It wasn’t just that she wanted to have someone to talk to, she truly wanted to know.
The dishes on the tray rattled and Edith gripped the tray so tightly, her knuckles turned white. ‘Neither Georgina nor I have any wish to remember that time.’
‘I’m sorry. Of course, if you don’t wish to speak of it.’ Every attempt to create a bond with her aunts seemed doomed to end in dismal failure. Was it because of what had happened in 1939 and her part
in it? Or did Edith suspect Olivia wasn’t married and disapproved? She’d certainly never once asked about the baby’s father.
‘Might I go down to the library and select something to read?’
‘No! Absolutely not. Dr Morton was very clear that you must have complete bed rest.’
Dr Morton hadn’t returned. Edith had said that, as a trained nurse, she was more than capable of monitoring Olivia.
Edith’s voice softened. ‘But I can select some books for you and bring them upstairs. Although I don’t want you reading for more than an hour or two at a time.’
‘That would be kind. Thank you.’
As Olivia waited for Edith to return she stared out of the window, remembering the lunches and games on the once manicured lawn. What would Mother and Father think if they knew the predicament in which she’d found herself? She stifled a sob. She knew how they’d feel. Appalled and bitterly disappointed.
But once their shock had worn off they would have welcomed her home, looked after her, protected her, perhaps even agreed to look after the baby while she finished her studies. A vision of a baby sleeping under an apple tree outside the house in London, her parents looking down proudly – because no matter how disappointed they might have been to begin with they would fall in love with her baby as soon as it was born. In the vision, her child was cosseted and cared for by his grandparents – along the way she had decided it would be a boy. She’d finish her degree, do a postgraduate law degree, then her articles – perhaps in the firm her grandfather had established – before deciding what area of law to practice in. No. There was no decision required. She’d work as a prosecuting counsel – defending the poor, the disenfranchised, the inarticulate. She would be their voice, their salvation.