‘Can I help you?’
I find myself looking into the smiling face of a young nurse. ‘I’m trying to find my mother.’
‘Okay, what’s her name?’
‘Rebecca Penrose.’ It’s as if uttering my mother’s name has opened a well of despair. I begin to feel the room spinning.
‘Oh dear,’ says the nurse. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ I whisper, but my lips have gone numb. The nurse leads me to a chair. ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumble. ‘I feel so silly.’
‘No need,’ replies the nurse. ‘It happens all the time. You sit here, and I’ll get you a drink of water.’
I close my eyes and force myself to remain calm. Who would have believed that I had once worked in a hospital almost exactly like this? Then Michael died and I found I could no longer bear the frightened looks of the patients, or the uncertain faces of their loved ones, so instead I took a part-time job as a practice nurse: blood tests, cervical smears, nicotine patches. In and out; minimal interaction. Just the way I like it.
‘Here you are,’ says the nurse, handing me a cup of water. ‘Your mother is stabilised but heavily sedated.’ She glances at her watch. ‘I’m afraid there’s not a lot I can tell you until the consultant comes back to review her test results in the morning. Rounds are at eleven. I can arrange for you to speak with him afterwards if that’s convenient?’ She gives my arm a gentle squeeze. ‘Why don’t you have a quick visit and then go and get some rest? Do you have someplace to stay?’ I nod. ‘Leave your number with the nurse at the desk. We’ll call you if anything changes.’
I edge my way towards a bed in the far corner of the room. My mother is intubated, a ventilator doing her breathing for her. Her face is pale, her skin rice-paper thin. A blush of broken capillaries on her cheek hints at the drinking problem that has plagued her for most of her life; a dependency that escalated after she was cast out of her beloved Plymouth Brethren because of her younger daughter’s sin. A tiny vein in her neck pulsates rhythmically. Everybody wants to live.
‘Mum?’ I lean forward to whisper. This place is too eerie, too quiet, for normal conversation. ‘It’s me, Katie.’ Her eyelids flicker but there’s no response. I check her stats. Decent oxygen, steady heart rate, blood pressure good. I reach forward and take her hand – something I haven’t done for many years. ‘Mum, it’s Katie. I’m here.’ I think I feel her hand grip mine, but reason that it’s probably an involuntary motor response. Her perpetual pinched expression is gone, and she looks almost pretty. Was she ever pretty? On the mantel at our house in Cornwall is a family photo from when I was small and we were all still a family. My father, large, imposing but still with a sense of playfulness around the eyes, rests a hand on my shoulder. My mother, the stern matriarch, stares resolute into the camera. My sister Grace and I, pale and blank faced, are clearly doing exactly as we are told.
‘I’m going to go now, Mum. I expect Tam needs feeding.’ My throat feels tight and I’m having trouble swallowing. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’
It takes less than an hour to reach the bridge and cross into Cornwall. Following the road that echoes the curves of the River Tamar, I arrive in Calstock just after midnight. I park my Mini in the shadow of a railway viaduct that arches high above my mother’s terraced cottage, and, for the first time in hours, I relax. Moonlight shimmers on the river opposite, and the cloying scent of honeysuckle drifts in through the half-open car window. Forcing myself from the car, I head towards the house. The wrought-iron gate gives a familiar whine as I pull it shut and make my way into the tiny front courtyard. The wisteria, which has framed the doorway for as long as I can remember, is now overgrown, the gnarled branches jealously entwining themselves amongst my mother’s prize-winning climbing roses. The door itself, once a bright periwinkle blue, is chipped and faded; the wall lantern which hangs in the alcove, dark. I fumble for the front door key, grateful for the glow of a nearby streetlight. My hand trembles as I slip it into the lock and push open the door.
‘Give me strength,’ I mutter, before crossing the threshold into the gloom. I grope for the light switch, jumping back when my fingertips graze something slick and furry. Switching on the light, I find it’s the fur collar of my mother’s old winter coat hanging on the rack. I slip my hand into the pocket to check for a spare key for Adam, and my knuckles disappear deep into the thick wool. I can feel coins, a sweet wrapped in sticky paper, and something rectangular, smooth, and shiny; paper. Or is it cardboard? Holding it up to the light, I see that it’s a photograph of my sister, Grace, and me, taken many years before, when I was nine and Grace nearly thirteen. It’s a series of photo booth shots of the two of us smiling, posing, sucking our cheeks in like models. Grace, as always, is in the foreground, dwarfing me – I’m little more than one eye and half a cheekbone.
I slip the photos into my pocket and glance into the front room. The old settee is still there, now covered with a throw, as well as the two high-backed Queen Anne chairs that we were forbidden from sitting on as children. Behind that lies a small display cabinet of glass animals my mother started collecting not long after she had been ostracised by her fellow Brethren; forcibly cut off from all communication with former church members, family and friends because of the scandal of my teenage pregnancy.
I carry on into the kitchen, a narrow strip of white that hums in the fluorescent light. As I near the back door, the room widens out just enough to allow for a small expandable table. Once there had been room for four chairs, enough to suit a small family, but time and circumstance mean that only a single chair remains. I run my fingertips along the faded Formica countertop. There is no well-used spice rack or matching tea and coffee canisters, only a single jar of decaf and a stack of yellowing newsletters from the local community centre. The sound of a cat’s high-pitched whine draws me to the back door.
‘Tam,’ I call to my mother’s bad-tempered tabby, ‘is that you?’ I slip off the safety chain and turn the latch. The rusty lock groans in protest and from somewhere in the past comes the sound of voices.
‘Open the door, Kat.’
I am twelve and Grace has just turned sixteen. It is two in the morning and I have been awoken by the sound of pebbles hitting my bedroom window. I come downstairs, push aside the net curtain on the back door and see her. Grace is wearing a black miniskirt and lace vest, her neon-pink bra straps just visible on her narrow shoulders.
‘Grace?’ My eyes widen as I open the door. ‘Where have you been? Mum’s been going mental.’
‘Let me in.’ My sister’s voice is tight. ‘There isn’t much time.’
‘You are going to be in so much trouble,’ I whisper, sneaking two biscuits from my mother’s hiding place in the pantry.
‘Does it look like I give a shit?’ Grace reaches past me and grabs a handful of custard creams. ‘Donna-Marie and me have got ourselves jobs at a hotel in St Ives. Live in.’
‘But what about—’
‘There’s no bloody way I’m going to work for one of Mum’s nutty church friends. I’m sick to death of Brethren rules! No telly, no music, no books, no friends except Brethren, no college.’ Grace ticks off the indignities one by one. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking suffocating.’ Opening the utility drawer, she reaches in, tears two large bin bags from the roll and hands them to me. ‘Now be a good little sister – go upstairs and fill these with my things.’
The faint chiming of the mantel clock reminds me of just how late it is. If I’m going to make it back to the hospital for the consultant’s rounds at eleven, I’d better get some sleep. But first, I must ring Adam.
‘How is she?’
‘Intubated, but with good stats.’
There’s a long pause before he speaks again. ‘The longer she’s on life support—’
‘I know, honey. I know.’
‘Raj has agreed to swap shifts with me tomorrow so I should be able to get to the hospital by eleven.’
‘That would be great; reall
y great.’
‘If you speak to the consultant before I get there you need to ask about scans. Have they decided on CT or MRI? Will they be doing an echo and a CA? Don’t let them fob you off.’
‘Yes, Adam. I will ask all those things.’
‘I know how much you don’t like to cause a fuss, Kate, but this is important.’ He sounds slightly irritated that I’m not embracing his proactive approach, but I’m tired. Every thought, every word seems to take enormous effort. It’s as if my brain is slowly and methodically shutting down. I need to sleep.
‘Have you rung Grace yet?’
‘It’s late. I’ll ring her first thing in the morning.’
‘Kate.’
‘There’s nothing she’ll be able to do tonight anyway.’
‘Promise you’ll ring her first thing?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Adam clears his throat as if preparing to say something difficult. ‘Have you taken your medication?’
‘What?’
‘Your meds. Have you taken them?’
I try not to let the irritation creep into my voice. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Just make sure you do.’
Once again, I am the naughty child. ‘I’m going to get some sleep, Adam. You should as well.’ My mobile feels as if it’s stinging my cheek. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at eleven. Love you.’ I put the phone down before he can question me any further. I realise he’s only looking out for me, but sometimes I just want to be left alone.
I make my way upstairs, passing my mother’s bedroom and not even daring to glance into the gloomy space beyond the door. I go into the second bedroom. Once it had been painted bright pink, an indulgence my father had agreed to shortly before he left us. Twin beds had sat at either end of the small room, both dotted with stuffed animals that Grace and I had squirrelled away from church jumble sales. After Grace left for St Ives, it changed to a single, and when I was fifteen, there came the sudden addition of a second-hand cot for Michael. Now, however, there is just a single guest bed stacked high with old clothes and half-filled charity shop donation bags. Books dot the floor and, abandoned in the corner next to the wardrobe, there is a small mountain of battered suitcases. I catch sight of something on the bed and float, ghost-like, towards it. I feel my stomach lurch and then, almost collapsing onto the mattress, pull the bundle of soft fabric towards me. It’s a grey hoodie with the words Edgecombe Hall Swim Team emblazoned across the front in white lettering. Michael often stayed with his grandmother on weekend breaks from boarding school. ‘Too far to travel’ was his excuse for not coming home, though I sometimes wondered if it was because he didn’t want to be around his stepfather. Lifting the hoodie to my face, I breathe in deeply, desperate for a whiff of Cool Water – or even Lynx – body spray.
‘He wasn’t happy at that school, you know,’ my mother had declared on the afternoon of Michael’s wake. ‘He would have come back home but for Adam.’ She had refused a glass of sherry, but was somehow managing to slide a third slice of chocolate gateau through her rigid lips.
‘Do we have to talk about this now?’
‘You spoiled him,’ my mother muttered, before turning to make her way back to the buffet table.
‘What did you say?’
‘Every whim, every impulse,’ she turned, her voice cutting through the low-level hum of conversation, ‘you pandered to. If you hadn’t allowed him to go to that school, he wouldn’t have gone swimming that night and wouldn’t have—’
‘How can you say that?’ I remember feeling furious beyond belief. ‘He wanted to go! He won that scholarship.’ I felt an overpowering need to justify myself. ‘All I ever tried to do was the right thing by him.’
‘The right thing!’ My mother’s eyes were two dark pits. ‘How would you know what the right thing is? You’ve never repented for your sins.’
‘MICHAEL WAS NOT A SIN!’
I felt heads turning, an awkward hush descending. Before she could speak again, Adam was beside me.
‘Grace is going to drive you home, Rebecca.’ His voice rang with the authority of his years as an A&E consultant. ‘Perhaps it might be best if you don’t get in touch for a few days.’
Those few days lasted for nearly a year. If I hadn’t made the first move – a colossal effort – I doubt I would have ever heard from my mother again.
4
I wake early, Michael’s hoodie still clutched against my chest. The morning is grey and overcast, filling the room with a thick, sludgy light. It takes a few seconds for me to remember where I am. I switch on the bedside lamp, and its soft glow momentarily forces away the gloom.
After a quick shower I wander down to the kitchen. Tam is waiting for me by his food bowl. I scan through the pantry for cat food, to find only a single remaining tin. As I struggle with the ring pull, the cat’s hungry cries fill the room.
‘Okay, okay,’ I empty the contents into his bowl. I even dare to give his tortoiseshell-coloured head a gentle stroke. ‘I guess it’s just you and me for now.’
I take my cup of black tea – given that there’s no milk, bread or even crackers in the house I have to wonder what she lived on – and finally get down to what I’ve been putting off since last night. I ring Grace.
‘Hi, Kat!’ Grace is her usual breezy self, probably relaxing in bed while Simon makes a full English for her and Ellie.
‘Grace, it’s about Mum.’
Time seems to suspend itself in her silence.
‘What’s happened?’
‘She’s had a stroke. She’s in hospital.’
‘What?’
‘Deep breaths, Grace. Long and slow.’
In the background I can hear her daughter asking what’s wrong.
‘Everything’s fine, Ellie. Go downstairs and eat your breakfast.’ Grace exhales deeply and I hear a door click shut in the background. ‘It’s not fine though, is it, Kat.’
‘She’s on a ventilator.’
‘Shit.’
‘Her stats were good when I saw her last night.’
‘I should come.’ Grace’s voice is beginning to sound panicky. ‘Simon’s leaving on a business trip tonight and won’t be back until Tuesday. I’ll have to arrange cover at work. Maybe Ellie can stay with friends, but I’m not sure—’
‘Easy, Grace.’ It’s hard to believe I’m giving the advice for once. ‘The MRI and the other tests this morning should indicate what the …’ I pause, uncertain of how to phrase the next statement, then realise there’s no point in holding back, ‘what the damage is.’
My sister begins to cry.
I force my own emotions deep inside, into that place I rarely choose to go. ‘Adam and I are meeting with the consultant this morning. I’ll let you know everything as soon as I can.’
‘I’ll get to Devon as soon as possible. I just need to sort out teaching cover.’
‘Don’t worry, Grace.’ Then, lying with an ease that surprises me, I add, ‘Everything will be fine.’
It’s still an hour before it’s time to leave for the hospital. I decide that if I’m going to be sleeping in the guest room for the next few nights, I might as well make myself useful and tidy up a bit. I pick through the donation bags by the bed: motheaten cardigans, old slippers, some faded pillowcases. The books on the floor are more surprising: romance and historical fiction; clearly charity shop finds, as scribbled in pencil on the yellowing first pages are various prices, ranging from ten to fifty pence. My mother was always a stickler for a bargain, but romance? As Brethren, her reading material would have been censored. Just authorised scriptures and an approved version of the Bible. Novels, magazines, and newspapers would have been strictly forbidden. And even after the Brethren had withdrawn from us, essentially excommunicating us at every level, my mother would still follow church customs and practices, including only reading the approved texts. As a die-hard fundamentalist, she even insisted that I kept all my university Biology and Chemistry books out of her sight. Evolution was h
eresy after all. Now, spread out before me on the worn carpet were Rosamunde Pilcher, Barbara Cartland, Catherine Cookson, and novels from other authors with titles like Lord of the Scoundrels that I had never heard of before. When did all this happen?
I tidy the donation bags away in the corner and stack the paperbacks next to the bed. The suitcases are odd; out of place. My mother never left Cornwall. She didn’t even come to Exeter to attend my wedding to Adam. Why on earth would she have a collection of suitcases? I begin sorting through them, deciding to stack two smaller ones, Russian doll-like, inside the largest. I flick the latches and dust fills the air. Tam, who has been watching my efforts from the windowsill, lets out a sneeze, and I jump.
I look inside the suitcase. My eyes register it, but my brain can’t compute. A familiar, desperate panic floods my brain. The suitcase isn’t empty. Inside sits a black rucksack, the words Animal stitched across the front in grey lettering. I feel my heart rate quicken and force myself to take a few calming breaths. The last time I saw this rucksack it was in the box of Michael’s things I had collected from Edgecombe Hall after his death. Unable to face dealing with it at the time, I had left it at my mother’s house for nearly six months. Could she have taken it during that time as some sort of keepsake?
I carefully remove the artefact from its hiding place and lay it on the bed in front of me. As I try to open it, the zip seizes, and for a moment I wonder if the water rusted the metal.
Then I remember.
It wasn’t on the lakeside with Michael the night he drowned. The few things he did leave behind – t-shirt and jeans, his wallet still in the back pocket – had been carefully folded and placed on a rock by the water’s edge. His new Vans, tied together, had dangled from a nearby branch, and his iPhone was in the back pocket of his jeans.
The Lake Page 2