‘What are they doing?’ whispers Tamsin. ‘They’re biting Stripey’s tummy. Make them stop, Em.’
‘It’s fine, sweetie, they’re having their dinner. Small kittens have to get milk from their mums. They can’t have ordinary milk until they’re a bit bigger.’
‘Milk from their mums? Stripey isn’t a cow!’ Tamsin starts to giggle and soon she’s rolling on the floor, holding her own tummy. May is chuckling too and Emily can’t help joining in. The cat looks at them balefully and the two kittens carry on suckling. The other tabby isn’t moving. Emily stops laughing and reaches out a finger to touch it.
‘I think we need to help this one to find where the food is,’ she says. ‘It’s very sleepy.’
Gently, she eases the kitten towards its mother’s side, making room between the two other guzzling ones. To begin with it doesn’t react but after a moment or two, Emily sees its nostrils twitch and it starts to search. She moves it forward further and it latches on, feebly at first but with growing gusto.
‘So you’re a vet and a midwife, as well as a childminder, a publisher and a housekeeper?’ Andy’s voice makes Emily jump and she looks up, stung by the words, but he’s smiling down at her and his eyes are warm. She smiles back doubtfully, deciding he probably doesn’t mean any harm even if there’s a sort of challenge in what he says. Does he think she’s setting herself up as some sort of superwoman, or what?
‘Stripey’s done it all herself,’ Tamsin says. ‘She’s very clever. Emily didn’t do anything.’
‘Cheers, Tam,’ says Emily. ‘But she’s right. Your cat has a mind of her own.’
May’s frowning. ‘You hadn’t better move her yet, Andy. She’ll only bring them back here if you do. Cats like to be in charge of where their babies live. I’ve seen it before. She might even hide them somewhere if you disturb her.’
‘I can’t leave them all night really. They might need help getting used to feeding. We’ll put them back in the wardrobe – Stripey likes it there. I’ll fetch them in an hour or so. We’d better go home for your tea, Tam.’
‘But I was going to draw my hobbit hole. I want to go back with Emily,’ Tamsin wails.
‘No, Emily’s worked hard enough today. We’re going home now.’
‘I don’t mind, honestly,’ Emily says. ‘We were just …’
‘It’s tea time. Come on, Tamsin. See you in a little while, May. Oh, and thank Julia for me, Emily, would you?’
Tamsin sticks her bottom lip out but seems to realise she hasn’t got a choice here and takes her dad’s hand.
‘Bye, Em,’ she says. ‘See you soon. Will you draw our den for me?’
‘I’m rubbish at drawing, but I’ll take some photos,’ Emily says as they leave the room. She tries to glare at Andy but his back’s turned.
After they’ve gone, it seems very quiet. Stripey’s purring is the only sound to be heard. May looks sideways at Emily.
‘He didn’t mean to be rude, you know,’ she says, ‘it’s just that Andy likes to stick to his rules. He thinks Tamsin needs keeping in check. He’s probably right, too. She’d wrap him round her little finger if he didn’t make a stand now and again.’
Emily shrugs. ‘It’s OK. I don’t really mind if she goes home or comes back with me. It’s up to him. He’s her dad, after all. I’m just the temporary childminder.’
‘Yes, you do mind. And I don’t blame you, it’s natural. You’ve enjoyed being with Tamsin, haven’t you?’
Emily feels her face burning. Does she seem that needy to May? ‘I’ll make the tea,’ she says.
‘Isn’t Julia coming over?’ asks May, when they’re halfway down the mugs that Emily likes to use.
‘She said it might be too much for you if we both come over and keep you talking. Why, did you want her?’
‘Oh, well, if she’s too busy,’ says May, sniffing and pursing her lips.
‘Not at all. I’ll text her.’ Emily sends a quick message, and a couple of minutes later, hears her gran yoo-hooing from the back door. She leaves them alone together as she puts a load of washing in and checks that there’s nothing out of date in the fridge. May’s well known for keeping things long past their sell-by date.
As she throws away three suspect yoghurts and a rather furry piece of cheese, Emily can hear the reassuring murmur of the two older ladies deep in conversation. There are bursts of mirth every now and again and she can hear the tail end of a very familiar story. The friends are reliving a particularly awful drama presentation in the church hall, where not only did the curtain fall in the usual sense, but it also fell off the rails completely, knocking the vicar off his feet and demolishing half the scenery.
‘And they had the nerve to say it was my fault because I pulled too hard,’ Emily hears May say, ‘but it was Charles who was to blame. He was supposed to check them before we started but he … was busy somewhere …’
Emily thinks that the two ladies would probably like more time to chat, so she takes a cloth and begins to wipe down the kitchen surfaces. A high shelf with a row of ancient containers on it catches her eye. There’s a square Bovril tin, a Bisto drum and a tall canister that used to hold Cornish fairing biscuits. Intrigued, she takes the Bovril one down and gives it a shake. It rattles. Emily glances towards the living room but the others are still chortling away merrily. She knows she’s being incredibly nosy but she can’t resist lifting the lid.
Inside the tin is the most random collection of objects that Emily has ever seen. There’s an empty green glass perfume bottle, a tiny china cat minus its tail, a Christmas bauble studded with fake rubies, a child’s sock and three brass buttons, tarnished now but clearly once meant to grace a grand outfit of some sort. Mystified, Emily reaches for the next tin, but hears May calling to her. Overcome with guilt, she quickly refills and puts the lid back on the Bovril tin and heads back to the living room.
She’s relieved to see that May looks much better now. There’s colour in her cheeks and her eyes are sparkling, but Emily thinks it’s time for a rest for both her charges, and with difficulty, extracts Julia and escorts her back across the road.
Later, still pondering the significance of the collection in the tin, Emily shoos her gran off to bed and clears away in their own kitchen, stretching tired shoulders. It’s hard work being in loco parentis. Should she nip over to May’s again before she turns in? Maybe she could ask her about the tins … or even have a peep in the other two? Andy must have fetched the kittens and Stripey by now – there might be some tidying up to do. She goes to the front door but sees Tristram disappearing into May’s kitchen again. That’s odd. He’s been spending an awful lot of time there this week. Tristram sees her and waves. Emily waves back, putting the idea of further investigations firmly out of her mind. Tristram’s a good man. May will be well looked after tonight.
Chapter Thirty
May looks across at Tristram as he sits in the chair by her bed, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, for all the world as if he’s lounging in a cocktail bar rather than the bedroom of an elderly lady.
‘Have you finished your cocoa?’ Tristram asks, leaning forward to take her mug.
‘Yes, thanks, it was lovely. How do you make it so creamy?’
‘Trade secret. If I told you, I’d have to kill you, as my son-in-law says.’
May settles herself more comfortably on her heap of pillows and sighs with relief. ‘Thank you for sorting everything with Trevor for me.’
He sighs. ‘That was no problem but I wish we didn’t have to discuss dying, especially with a solicitor. It’s so depressing, even at my young age. I hope you’re not planning on going anywhere yet? You’ve got years left in you.’
‘Everybody should make sure they’ve sorted out their finances. I hope you have?’
He nods. ‘All neatly documented. It’s very simple.’
She smiles at him. He’s a very attractive man, she thinks, with his twinkling blue eyes and weathered skin. The short beard suits him. She can see why
he’s always been a magnet for women. As a teenager, he’d had to fight them off. He’d laughed them into bed, but he was never a good long-term prospect even then. She wonders how he feels about being alone now, although with Gina and Vince home, he can’t really be lonely.
‘Do you ever think of marrying again, Tris?’ she asks him.
He eyes her warily. ‘Why did you bring that up?’
‘Oh, just wondering.’
‘Not matchmaking, are you, by any chance? There’s only one woman in this village that’d tempt me to have another try at matrimony.’
‘Julia? Yes, I thought so. You could do a lot worse.’
‘I’m almost afraid to try, May. I rather think that beautiful lady has it in her to be the love of my life.’
May feels a strange pain in the region of her heart. Why has she never inspired this kind of love? They sit quietly for a few minutes, but it’s a comfortable sort of silence, the sort that old friends can have without worrying. Eventually, May’s drooping eyelids tell Tristram that it’s time to go.
‘You’ve got a glass of water, some humbugs, a clean handkerchief and your phone handy,’ he says. ‘Anything else you need before I go home?’
‘Yes. I want to ask you something.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Tris, would you take me to the beach tomorrow?’
‘But you’re not fit, love. You’ve been really poorly.’
‘I know that as well as you do. We could take our time. Just for a little while? You could even borrow a wheelchair, couldn’t you? I’m sure there’s someone in the village would have one knocking about.’
Tristram strokes his beard, his brow furrowed. ‘I don’t know … It seems a bit crazy. You should be resting.’
‘There’ll be plenty of time for that when we’re both pushing up daisies.’
He laughs. ‘I’ll see what I can do. So long as you’re on the mend tomorrow. If not, there’s no way I’m taking you anywhere.’
May’s face lights up. ‘And one more thing.’ She rummages under her pillow and pulls out an oblong case. She hands it to Tristram and he opens it, raising his eyebrows.
‘But … this is Charles’s gold fountain pen. Why on earth would you give that to me, of all people?’
May sighs. ‘I just couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. I bought it for him when we got engaged. Please take it off my hands, Tris, even if you never use it.’
They look at each other for a long moment and then without saying any more, he closes the box, puts it in his pocket and, leaning down, hugs May tightly before he leaves the room. She hears him whistling an Irish jig – he often does that to entertain her, and usually follows it with a little River Dance routine to make her laugh. His feet are tapping away on the kitchen tiles now. He’s doing the dance even though he knows she can’t see him from her bed.
How many men of eighty are still nimble enough to do that? she asks herself. There’s life in the old dog yet, as they say. It’d be a shame if he ended his years without a woman to cuddle, although May’s always thought the need for constant bouts of physical contact between men and women (or men and men, in her husband’s case) is a bit overrated. Now and again can be great fun but not all the time, for pity’s sake. She’s aware that not everybody feels the same about it, though, and to be fair, she’s had a few nice surprises in that area in her time.
Leaning back on her pillows again, May reviews the last couple of days. For someone who’s normally fairly pragmatic, her emotions have been all over the place. Following the brush with death and short stay in the hospital, May has given the matter of her next steps considerable thought.
Without the letters or any other delightful objects to fill her life with their magic, she’s aware that her body will wind down fairly quickly. All that’s left is to decide whether to move everything along with more speed now. Perhaps this is a good time to make a dignified exit.
May feels as if she might at last have learned how to love. She’s witnessed its power enough times, and seen so many men and women of all ages going head over heels for each other and making silly mistakes. Her susceptibility to the memories of everyone else have given her an insight into all kinds of second-hand love, but over the years there was only one man who really touched her heart, and that wasn’t for long. Through their belongings, May has absorbed some of the deepest feelings of the Pengelly residents and many others. Now, after years of nothing more than friendly connections with the people around her, May’s heart has been deeply touched by these last weeks surrounded by Julia, Andy, Tristram, Emily and Tamsin. They’re more important than family to her, but she doesn’t think they really need her. They’ll mourn her in their own ways, but their lives will continue happily without May in them. Can she do it?
There are three choices. May could continue to read Don’s more peaceful letters, which would mean she can go on as normal, just slowing down gradually, she supposes, and still collecting enough memories to keep her ticking over. That leaves her open to the vagaries of the whole thing, though; she has no point of reference because she doesn’t know anyone else who’s stretched this ability to its final limits. She won’t be in control any more.
The second option is to go cold turkey with the memory harvesting, which could be dangerous, especially now the recent heavy influx of Don’s more emotional family history has taken its toll on her health. She’s finally plucked up her courage to dip into the vitriolic letters in very short bursts, reading snippets about the family feud that tore them apart. The effect of those letters has been drastic. With jangling nerves, she read of the anger and grief that rifts can cause, but worse was to come. Charles’s death left many questions unanswered, and May has knowledge of it that lies heavy on her heart.
If she risks giving up her memory-gathering completely, May thinks her body will soon start to suffer quite badly. She imagines growing frailer and less steady on her legs and wonders how long it’ll be before she loses her marbles or is crippled with arthritis. Not a tempting prospect.
On the other hand, the final choice of leaving this life on purpose isn’t something to do lightly. Most people don’t have any say in the matter of when they die unless they do something very drastic to hasten the Grim Reaper’s visit, but May has power. She can go whenever she wants to. The problem is, how soon should she do it?
The only thing holding her back is Barbara. Not Aunt Barbara, but a much smaller version, named for the woman who bequeathed the necklace in a last generous rush of family feeling. May says the name in her head. She hasn’t let herself think about small Barbara for a long time.
She was fifty-seven when she realised she was pregnant. Still nowhere near the menopause and feeling so young and fit, she didn’t give much thought to the dangers of her occasional dalliances. Charles was preoccupied with his own affairs, and May was careless just once in the last year.
One of the lucky ones who don’t pile on weight in pregnancy, May was able to disguise her condition for some months. By this time she wasn’t socialising much anyway, spending a large part of the year travelling to far-flung places, so her disappearance for a while didn’t cause a stir. She holed up in Yorkshire in a soul-destroying home for unmarried mothers and made the necessary arrangements as efficiently as she did everything else. When the time came, Barbara’s birth was easy. Passing for forty was no problem – May didn’t want any publicity as one of the oldest first-time mothers in Britain, although not having current medical details to produce caused some concern.
She put her baby up for adoption without a backward glance, or so she told herself, secure in the knowledge that a wonderful couple had been found to take Barbara and give her a loving upbringing. May made sure the new parents were aware that she would rather not be contacted in the near future but that her personal details must be made available if Barbara wanted them when she came of age.
As the years since Barbara’s milestone birthday have gone by, May assumed her daughter had no interest in meet
ing her birth mother. Recently, though, with her own passing looming closer, May has wondered more and more about the girl, or woman as she is now. Surely the combination of genes that created her daughter must have resulted in a rather unusual human being? Barbara’s father had been talented and intuitive, much like May’s own Pa in character. Their brief physical relationship had been a joy to May. Passion, romance and fun in equal quantities. What amazing traits might have been passed down through the generations? Is Barbara out there feeling confused and troubled about her talents, if she has them? What should May do?
The thought of the appalling upheaval there will certainly be if she tries to find her daughter exhausts her. She can’t face it, and it could be deeply unwelcome for Barbara. But she must do something.
May reaches for the writing set that lives in her bedside cabinet. Bedtime has always been a good moment for attending to awkward correspondence. She’s dealt with one addressed to Julia already and filed it. This letter doesn’t take long to write and she doubts Barbara will ever read it, because she has no address to post it to. At least it’s all there on paper, she thinks. Sealing the envelope, May writes ‘For BARBARA – in case she ever comes searching. Please keep safe’ in large letters on the front and then adds the only other information she has – her daughter’s new name, Grace Clarke.
She kisses the letter for luck and pushes it right into the middle of the bundle in the brown envelope. She has a feeling they won’t be disturbed again for a while. Julia will have no desire to read them, from what Andy has said, but she will never throw them away. If she eventually writes her book and uses the letters as a theme, she’ll find Barbara’s envelope. May has faith that she’ll put it away safely, if so.
Soothed, she settles down to sleep. There are still a few jobs left. She longs to be on the beach just once more, and she wants to help celebrate Tristram’s birthday. But most of all, May needs to talk to Emily again.
59 Memory Lane Page 19