by Dan Scottow
Clumps of crocosmia litter the landscape, their vibrant orange flowers arching into the air from spiky green foliage. Wide wooden frames, painted gloss black, surround the glass. Lucy sees a net curtain fall from a downstairs window.
The setting is astounding. Lucy is unsure if she has ever seen anything so beautiful. So peaceful.
A buzzard hovers in the air, fixed to its spot, watching some unsuspecting prey on the ground below. It swoops down out of sight. The driver hands her a card with his number on it.
‘Taxis are hard to come by in these parts. You might need that,’ he says, smirking.
She pays him, retrieving her case, and watches as he begins his tedious journey back. Trudging through long, wet grass towards the front door, she knocks loudly with her knuckles.
3
Lucy
The door opens almost immediately. A tall woman in her late sixties stands before Lucy. She has greying blonde hair, which is in a long plait over her shoulder, and dangles down to her waist. A fringe covers most of her forehead. She wears a black housecoat and leans her left hand on a silver-topped ebony walking cane. Lucy’s eyes dance fleetingly over the pale tendrils of a large ugly scar which decorates the entire left side of the woman’s face, spidering out from the corner of her mouth, up towards a milky-looking eye. The agency had pre-warned her, but nothing could prepare her for the reality. The woman self-consciously fiddles with her braid, tugging it closer to her cheek. She seems to struggle using her right hand, and Lucy notices for the first time that the arm doesn’t hang correctly. Another injury, she assumes.
‘Yes?’ the woman asks, eyeing her suspiciously.
‘I’m from the care agency. I’m Lucy.’ The woman seems to relax at the words. She holds out her hand.
‘Diana Davenport.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Davenport.’
‘Well, I suppose you had better come in.’ Diana steps aside, and Lucy sees inside the house for the first time. The front door opens to a hallway, tastefully decorated, homely. Wood-panelled walls on each side, painted white. Dark oak floorboards, a long taupe runner on top. Three doors to the left, and one directly to the right, another dead ahead at the end of the corridor. On the right of the hallway sits a wide wooden staircase with thick bannisters. Lucy enters, glancing around, placing her bag on the floor. Diana heads to the right, and Lucy follows. As they pass the stairs Lucy’s eyes flick towards a large dark stain on the floorboards at the foot. Diana notices the direction of Lucy’s gaze
‘The first two doors to the left are my bedroom and bathroom, both off limits, apart from when you are cleaning,’ she says, matter-of-factly. Lucy stops.
‘So, am I to clean the house as well? I thought I was here to help your husband?’
‘You’ll be responsible for caring for Richard, along with all household duties. Preparing meals, laundry, and cleaning. Will that be a problem? I think the money is adequate for the level of work required.’
‘No, that’s fine, I don’t mind.’ And she didn’t. The pay was indeed better than anything else Lucy had seen advertised.
‘You will have the entirety of the upstairs,’ Diana continues. ‘The ground floor is mine. You may use the kitchen, of course, but when you’re off duty, I’d prefer you to stay upstairs if you’re at home.’
As they walk through the doorway Lucy finds herself in a large lounge. There are two small sofas arranged in a L-shape around a coffee table, facing a wood burner against the adjacent wall. A double sash window to the right looks out to the front of the house, beneath which sits an antique chest with leather straps and buckles holding it tightly closed. The floorboards are mostly covered by a huge Persian rug, a dining table and two chairs sit in another corner. On a small side table sits an old-fashioned telephone with an answering machine. A Welsh dresser leans against the far wall, beside a door. Diana turns and limps slowly towards it. Lucy scurries dutifully behind her. She opens the door, leading Lucy into an amply sized country kitchen. A huge Belfast sink sits beneath a window, set into a solid oak square-edged worktop. The window has a spectacular view out to the garden, and the loch beyond. The wooden panelling from the hall continues through the entire ground floor.
‘It’s not modern, but it has everything you need. The groceries are delivered weekly, weather dependant, and Richard and I eat dinner promptly at seven each evening, so if you could base your timings around that, please.’
Lucy nods.
‘I prepare my own breakfast, but you will need to feed Richard. He doesn’t eat much in the mornings. And usually just a little soup at lunchtime. He can’t really manage anything solid. His meals are liquidised. Freshly prepared, of course.’
Diana motions to a door on the right.
‘The utilities and laundry are through there. Everything you require should be in there, but if you find anything is missing, tell me and I’ll have it added to the list.’
They leave the kitchen through another door to the left which brings them back out to the hallway.
Directly to the right is a final door.
‘And this is Richard’s room.’
Diana opens the door, revealing a compact box room, with a view out to the loch. In front of the window sits a man in a wheelchair, his back to them. She steps inside. Lucy follows. She crosses the carpet, spinning the wheelchair towards them. The man’s face is heavily scarred, like his wife’s. The left side droops. His eyes stare blankly ahead. Lucy can tell he would have been handsome once. He is dressed neatly in a white shirt and cream chinos, his dark hair combed tidily. Clean-shaven. Well cared for. As if Diana had read her mind, she clears her throat, and says, ‘I’ve been looking after him up until now, but it’s getting a little too much for me.’ She nods towards her cane.
‘Hello, Richard,’ Lucy says.
‘You won’t get a response. He can’t move. Can’t speak. He’s… locked in. He needs total care. I assume the agency filled you in on everything you need to do for him?’
‘Yes,’ Lucy replies.
‘You’ll get the odd muscle spasm, his eyes may flicker, fingers move sometimes, but he’s pretty much static,’ Diana says coldly.
Lucy crouches down before him, so her head is level with his. She looks him in the eye.
‘Hello, Richard. I’m Lucy. I’m here to help.’ She smiles. His eyes wobble. Fluid wells in the corner of one, running down onto his cheek. She pulls a packet of tissues from her pocket, dabbing at the moisture. She straightens, turning to Diana.
‘You don’t mind if I talk to him?’
‘Do what you like. You’ll be wasting your time.’
‘Don’t you?’
Diana’s chin shoots up, lightning fast, resolute.
‘Of course I do. But he’s my husband.’
Lucy shifts her weight between her feet, fidgeting.
‘He makes noises occasionally,’ Diana continues, ‘but the doctors don’t know if he’s trying to communicate, or if it’s involuntary. There is brain function. Not much, but it’s there.’
Diana turns Richard back round to face the window, then leaves the room, and Lucy follows behind.
‘So they tell me you are an artist?’
‘Yes, I paint,’ Diana replies.
‘What sort of stuff?’
Diana looks at her, with the expression of someone who has just been asked a ridiculous question.
‘Abstract mainly. Figurative.’
Lucy nods.
‘My studio is in the outhouse, across the garden. It is absolutely off limits. You need not clean in there. It’s private. When I’m working I must not be disturbed.’
‘Okay.’
They return to the lounge, and Lucy takes it all in for the first time. Chunky woollen throws drape over the backs of the sofas, which are adorned with striped cushions. Lucy imagines this place to be extremely snug in the winter months, with the fire going. Above the fireplace is a gargantuan canvas. Broad swathes of thickly applied paint stand proud from the surface. Mes
sy brush strokes zigzag from one side to the other. Crimson and black, with flecks of white, and hints of brighter reds and oranges. Lucy takes a few steps back and looks up to take in the painting.
‘Is this one of yours?’
‘No. That’s Richard’s.’
‘He was an artist too?’
‘Yes. Much more successful than me. That’s one of the last paintings he did, before… the accident.’
‘It’s beautiful.’
Diana nods.
‘You’ll work every day. Richard usually wakes by five, so you’ll need to get him out of bed shortly after that. Once he’s washed and dressed and fed, the day is yours until lunchtime, and the same between lunch and dinner. I expect you to check in on him, but you don’t have to be with him twenty-four-seven. The evening routine is very much open to what works for you. You can put him to bed whenever suits you. After that you can do what you like, so long as you don’t disturb me.’
Lucy doesn’t reply, simply waits for further information. Diana holds her free hand to her temple, massaging gently, closing her eyes for a moment.
‘I’ll leave you to explore the top floor on your own. I can’t manage the stairs.’
She stands aside, and Lucy gets the impression Diana is bored of her already. She steps out to the hallway and ascends the staircase, carrying her bag with her.
‘The bedroom is to the left!’ Diana calls from below.
The steps lead up to a large U-shaped landing which wraps around the central staircase. One large room spans most of the left side of the first floor. A bathroom, linen cupboard and a small box room on the right side. She turns, opening a door. The space is wonderful. Double aspect windows look out across the loch to one side, and the woods on the other. The light is immense. Even on this grey day, it’s beautiful. She heaves her case onto the bed, crossing to the window. The vista is stunning. She smiles. A small couch and a coffee table are against one wall. A chest of drawers and a large oak wardrobe on another. Apart from that, the room is bare. But Lucy doesn’t mind. The view is to die for. She hears movement from below, as Diana hobbles across the wooden floor. Lucy returns to the bed, opening her case, and unpacks her belongings.
4
Diana
She can hear the girl moving around upstairs, unpacking no doubt. She is attractive, late thirties, shoulder-length wavy brown hair, piercing blue eyes. Quite striking-looking really. Richard would have approved. But when she smiles, it seems fake. It’s all an act. It’s what she thinks people want to see. Diana was the same when she was younger, until she met Richard. He helped to refine her. Tune her. Make her the woman she is today. Lucy seems pleasant enough. Didn’t stare for too long at Diana’s face, which is always a good sign. And the girl didn’t recoil when she first saw her husband either. She was tender. That’s what he needs. She would be a suitable fit. Diana would reserve further judgement until she tasted Lucy’s cooking. She hears some grunting coming from the room next door, but she can’t face it right now. Her duties as a nursemaid are relieved, thankfully. She loves Richard, of course she does. But she can barely manage to look after herself. And Richard needs a lot of help.
She sighs, hobbling towards her bedroom. A creak on the stairs draws her attention. She turns, Lucy is at the top.
‘I was wondering if there is any internet connection here?’ she asks.
Diana purses her lips.
‘No, I’m afraid not. I don’t have anything like that here. There’s no mobile reception either, unless you’re very lucky. There’s a phone, but it’s not for idle chat. It’s the only point of communication here, so keep it free if you can. My agent likes to call from time to time with information.’
‘Okay.’ Lucy retreats back up to her room.
She wonders how a youngster will cope being this remote. No connection to the outside world, besides the landline. Lucy is quiet. Diana appreciates that. She needs peace. The constant headaches she has since the accident make it hard for her to cope with noise and chatter. She continues her journey to the bedroom, pushing the door open with her elbow. It swings inwards, and she limps inside, bumping it closed again with her bottom. She has learned to be resourceful. She crosses to her dresser. Pulling out a drawer, she rummages through bottles of pills. Her leg is giving her trouble. It comes and goes, but today it is excruciating. Which did she last take? It was hard to keep track.
She picks up a jar of Vicodin. She has to get these mailed over from the States. But they’re good.
A little bit too good.
She leans on the dresser and unscrews the lid, pouring two into her palm. She pops them into her mouth, throwing back her head, and swallows without a drink. Closing her eyes, she yearns for the release they offer her. Closing the drawer, she crosses to her window. The rain pummels the glass, distorting her view outside. She doesn’t mind. She didn’t move to Scotland for the weather.
Richard groans again from his room.
More footsteps above her. Her house guest is busying herself. Diana wants to ask her to see to Richard. His noise is beginning to irritate her. She opens her door, sticking her head out.
‘Lucy!’ she calls upstairs.
The girl darts out from her room obligingly, leaning down from the top of the stairs.
‘Hello!’ she replies cheerfully, almost saluting like a soldier.
‘I know you’ve only just arrived, but would you mind checking on Richard?’
‘Not a problem.’
She bounds down and enters Richard’s room, closing the door behind her. Diana hears muffled noises as the girl chats away.
She’ll soon get bored of that, Diana thinks.
Richard’s groaning gets louder. She crosses to the door, pressing her ear against it.
‘What’s all this noise, hey?’ she hears Lucy chirp.
More moaning.
‘Shall we look out of the window together. The loch is so beautiful.’
The noise stops, and Diana retreats to her room, perching on the edge of the bed. She glances down at flecks of paint on her nails, picking at them with her thumb. She crosses to the dressing table to retrieve an emery board. She looks briefly at the struts which used to support an oval mirror. She removed it years ago, the sight of her scars first thing every morning too depressing. Lucy’s room was the only place in the house with a mirror these days, aside from a small cabinet in the bathroom. She’d learned to ignore that. She had no use for them. She wore what she liked. She never saw anyone, so what did it matter? Unless she counts her agent. Valentina arrives unannounced occasionally. Diana hates visitors at the best of times, but when they turn up without warning, she finds it troublesome. She leans across the bed to her side table, grabbing two plastic pots. She unscrews the lids, popping two Sertraline into her mouth, followed by a Citalopram. One for anxiety, the other for depression. She forgets which is which. Doesn’t care. She takes so many pills these days, she’s amazed she doesn’t rattle when she moves. She picks up a half-empty glass from her bedside table, swigging a mouthful of water. It’s old, dusty. She screws up her face.
As the chemicals work their magic, Diana reclines on top of the feather duvet. Her head sinks into the soft down, her eyes close. The cool cotton feels wonderful against her cheek, and she smiles to herself. She hears Richard’s door click shut, and footsteps skipping up the stairs, as she drifts away.
5
Lucy
It’s quiet downstairs. She has unpacked and seen to Richard. He seemed agitated. It surprised her that Diana had asked her to start so soon, but she doesn’t mind. She’s here to work, after all. She had heard some shuffling from below, drawers opening and closing. Footsteps. But now silence.
She sits on the edge of the bed, checks her watch. It’s early afternoon. Glancing out the window, she sees the rain has stopped. She grabs a light denim jacket from her wardrobe and heads downstairs, pressing her ear against Diana’s door. Slow, steady breathing from inside. Is she snoring?
She creeps down th
e way to Richard’s room, peeping in. His chair is where she left it earlier, beside the bed. His eyes are closed, his head lolls to one side. A trail of saliva runs down his chin from the corner of his mouth.
She wonders if he is cognisant. Closing the door quietly, she returns to the lounge area. The fire has long burned out, and the room is cooler now, a sooty smell lingers in the air. A thin layer of dust covers most surfaces. She wipes at a shelf with one finger, rubbing it on her thumb. This place will definitely keep her busy. She glances at the painting above the mantel. Something inside her stirs. She has never really understood abstract art, but this is different. Taking a few steps backwards, she bumps into the edge of the sofa and sits. From a distance, the canvas makes more sense. Close up, it appears to be a random mess of colour, but from a few metres back, she can make out the shape of a figure. A female, writhing in flames. It is powerful. Frightening.
Something about the picture makes Lucy uncomfortable. But she feels compelled to look at it anyway. She has to force herself to tear her eyes away. Wrapping her arms around herself, she shivers. The only noise comes from an ancient-looking clock on the mantel.
Tick-tock, tick-tock. Mesmerising. Almost hypnotic.
A swallow darts past outside, singing excitedly, shaking Lucy from her reverie. She stands, approaching the window. The contrast between the disturbing scene depicted in the painting and the surrounding landscape is amazing. She crosses to the front door, opening it and stepping outside. She follows a narrow gravel path round the side of the cottage. A small garden, no more than ten metres or so, slopes down towards the banks of the loch. A small shingle beach separates the garden from the water. The grass is shorter to the side and back of the house, more like a lawn. An old mower leans against the side wall. Rusting. Heavy-looking. Lucy wonders who has mowed the grass.