“You were a concert cellist, weren’t you Mother?” he says one day, reaching across to tap his mother on the arm. There is no response and he turns to Laura. “It’s hard to believe now, isn’t it, but she was actually quite famous. Not famous in the celebrity sense, not like people are today, but she was very well-known in musical circles. Played in the London Philharmonic for a couple of years, and in other decent orchestras. She used to get bored and then, suddenly, we’d be off to a different part of the country. Just the two of us. Made for an interesting life, anyway.”
Laura is shocked, and her face must show it, as Emil continues, his eyes shining.
“Yes, all that talent. It was one of the last things to go, you know. She was still able to get a tune out of her cello when she had forgotten how to make toast. I came in one day and found her holding a slice of bread in front of a two-bar electric fire. It was a terrible old thing, God knows where she had squirrelled it away, but she had this bread skewered on a fork, less than an inch from the element. A bit closer and she would have been toast herself!”
He laughs, but it is not a laugh that asks to be echoed.
“It’s cruel, isn’t it?” she says. “You must be so angry, seeing her like this when she was such an independent and amazing woman.”
“Oh, I used to be, believe me, but not any more. I had to let go of that, or I’d ruin what was left of my own life. And it didn’t help her at all. Sometimes I would even transfer my anger to her, especially in the early days, and I’d shout at her when she didn’t understand, or when she forgot something we’d agreed on only the day before. I’m ashamed of it now, but luckily she never remembered any of it. If you want to look for the positives of dementia – and there are few enough of them – at least the victims don’t bear grudges!”
He gives her one of his rueful grins and Laura knows he is right. She remembers the first incident with Lydia. It had been hard to establish exactly what had happened. Lydia had been relatively reasonable in those days and claimed to understand Mum’s difficulties, so there was no reason to think she was exaggerating. But then that meant Mum had behaved in an aggressive manner to a neighbour and that was a hard thing to believe, let alone discuss with her. So it had been a very difficult conversation and her mother had become angry. No, more than that, she had been outraged. How could they possibly believe that woman over her? She had practically thrown them out, all three of them, as even Robin had been concerned enough to join them.
The next day, Laura had the unenviable task of trying to build bridges. She was still working at the time, so she had to wait until Patrick came home to make her reluctant journey. There was no way the children were going to be exposed to any of this turmoil. Her heart had been pounding like a steam hammer as she knocked on the front door, not daring to let herself in as she would usually, but Mum had beamed at her as she opened the door. Clearly she had forgotten the whole thing and that was a blessing. At the same time, it told a sad story about the extent of her mother’s memory loss and so it was really not a blessing at all.
Laura looks across at her, sitting in the sun, a serene if somewhat blank expression on her face. She wonders what is going on behind those eyes. Is she still aware of what is happening to her or has all that passed? There has been denial, there has been anxiety, there has even been panic, but now she thinks her mother’s emotions may have transferred themselves to the people who love her and she knows they can be destructive.
“Thanks for that,” she says to Emil. “I hadn’t thought of it like that before.”
Laura has almost completely stopped thinking about the Linda mystery when Kelly calls. Her visits to Cavendish House take up a good chunk of the day and she is still going to her mother’s house once or twice a week for an hour or so. Her life is full of needs and demands that are part of the present, not the past.
“I knew how busy you were, so I just got on with it,” Kelly says. “It wasn’t that difficult, just time-consuming. Electoral registers are in the public domain and I’ve still got friends in politics so I managed to get hold of the one for Tonbridge. So now we know where he lives, will you come with me to see him? Please don’t tell me I wasted all those hours scanning through thousands of names!”
Laura finds it hard to take in Kelly’s words. What is she saying? Has she really gone ahead and tracked down the man even though they hadn’t agreed on it? And now she seems to expect Laura to come back onboard and go to visit him.
“I can’t believe you’re saying this,” she says. She knows her voice is cold and unfriendly but that is how she feels.
“Oh, God. I was worried you’d be like this. Look, I couldn’t just sit and do nothing. We know that Mum knows something – knew something, anyway – about Linda’s disappearance. She talks about her being dead. She talks about evidence. Not in so many words, but that’s what I think she’s saying. I think we have a moral duty to ...”
“For God’s sake Kelly! Don’t start saying this is a moral decision. You’re curious! Why don’t you just admit it? You want to solve the mystery, and I can understand that, but don’t you think we’ve got enough stuff going on at the moment?”
And so it goes on. The conversation lasts for ten minutes or more. The arguments are batted backwards and forwards and it is only when Kelly talks about Hilda that Laura begins to soften. She talks about letting sleeping dogs lie, but she knows that, if it were one of her children who had disappeared, she would want to know what had happened, however many years had passed.
“OK, I’ll come. But only on the condition that we leave the minute it begins to look nasty. He’s hardly going to admit anything to us, is he?”
Kelly agrees. Yes, she knows it almost certainly won’t lead anywhere. She knows he was probably interviewed at the time. She knows he may not even agree to see them, but he is all they have. He may just remember something that will help them to work out what their mother was looking for. It’s a very long shot, and she promises to let it lie once they have explored it.
The man, Gordon Carpenter, is living in a flat near Tonbridge. If the electoral register is to be believed, he is the only tenant, which has also contributed to Laura’s decision. She can easily imagine Kelly deciding to go it alone, and she might put herself in danger. Suppose this man is a murderer? Suppose he thinks Kelly is about to expose him? He could still be fit and strong in his seventies, couldn’t he? It feels rash to be attempting this at all, but not as rash as letting Kelly risk her safety alone.
They decide to make the visit on Friday. Kelly is only teaching in the morning, so Laura will visit Mum just after lunch and Kelly will join her at Cavendish House about an hour later. They will leave Kelly’s car there and return after their visit, so Kelly can spend a little time with Mum before going home. Nothing could be simpler on the face of it, but the thought of it hangs over Laura’s head like a persistent little cloud.
“You’re quiet today,” says Emil the day before the dreaded visit. She is not even tempted to tell him why. It is fine to talk to him about her mother and all the dementia-related issues she has to deal with, even about Patrick, but this is different. It still feels like a secret, and she can hardly tell him when even Patrick has no idea what they are doing.
“Yes, sorry. One of those days when it all feels a bit much,” she replies, and then she feels guilty. She has blamed her mother for her low mood when actually she has been quiet and somewhat improved for a while now. What a lot of lies and half-truths she seems to be telling these days and how complicated her life is becoming. She remembers how simple everything was just a year ago. True, their schedule was manic, fitting in work and getting the children to school, feeding everyone and keeping the house going. But she knew what Patrick was doing and he knew what she was doing. They worked it out together and everything got done. There was no gulf between them then and she wishes it could be like that again, without knowing how to achieve it.
By the time Friday comes, Laura is half-inclined to phone Kelly a
nd call it all off, but she doesn’t. She knows that Kelly will be teaching and that her phone will be switched off. She also acknowledges, with a weary little sigh, that Kelly will almost certainly talk her round again, so there is little point. I’m Laura the Conformer, she thinks. I end up agreeing with everybody. It’s a wonder I have any opinions at all.
She is still in this frame of mind when Emil comes to greet her at the gate, but it is hard not to return his smile. It is one of those smiles that starts with the eyes and works its way down. She can’t think of a more expressive face than Emil’s, although she has tried, in the long minutes before sleep when it seems to pop up much more than it should.
“I was hoping you’d be along soon,” he says, falling into step beside her as they walk across the terrace.
Laura is not sure how to respond to this, but she supposes there must be a reason. “Oh, has something happened?”
“Well, yes and no. Mother had a terrible night. Kept the night shift on their toes until dawn, it seems, but she’s sleeping now. It’s just that I look forward to our little chats and I’ve brought my tablet along to show you an old recording of Mother playing Britten’s Sonata. It’s a real virtuoso piece – do you know it?”
Laura has to confess that she does not know Britten’s Sonata or any other sonata for that matter. However, she hates to seem rude and says she would love to see the recording. She goes to find her mother and brings her outside so they can watch and listen without disturbing the other residents.
“Wow!” is all she can think of to say as the recording ends. It is only a short section, lasting about five minutes. It is grainy and crackly in places, but there is a younger version of Emil’s mother. The cello almost dwarfs her diminutive frame, her long hair flows over one shoulder and her arm flashes back and forth. There is fire in her eyes when the camera pulls in for a close-up and her lips are tight with concentration, her jaw working. The sound she produces from the instrument is quite extraordinary.
Laura is wondering if her musical education has missed something when Mum shows a sudden flash of interest. “I used to play the piano,” she says.
Laura had not even been sure she was watching, but now she turns and takes her hand. “Yes, that’s right, Mum. I remember you telling us when we were kids, and you wanted us to learn but none of us wanted to.”
“I got right up to grade eight. I got a distinction. But then some girls teased me and called me a snob so I gave it up. I’ve always regretted it.”
“Well, never mind, grade eight is pretty good,” says Laura, but her mother pulls away and stands up.
“So many regrets,” she says and walks back into the house.
Laura decides not to follow her for the moment, but stays with Emil whilst he shows her some photographs. Here is his mother with this conductor or that well-known pianist. Here she is playing with this symphony orchestra or making that famous recording. None of it means much to Laura, but Emil is clearly very proud and she tries to take an interest. They are still sitting there, their heads quite close together as he flicks through his collection, when she hears her name being called.
It’s Kelly, and she is walking up the steps from the terrace with their mother in tow. There is a question mark across her neat features.
“Are you coming then?” she says. Laura has already leapt to her feet and is trying to prevent her face displaying how embarrassed she feels.
“Yes, yes of course. We were just … Mum was … I’ll tell you about it in the car. This is Emil, by the way,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.
But Kelly is already heading back to the house and only nods acknowledgement. There is a spark of disapproval in her grey eyes. “Come on, Mum. Let’s find you somewhere to sit. Laura and I will be back in a bit.”
Laura can read what she is thinking by her tone of voice. Kelly is shocked. What is Laura doing sitting outside with some man whilst her mother is alone inside? What indeed?
Laura unlocks the car but Kelly does not get in. Instead, she fixes Laura with a quizzical stare. “Is there something you want to tell me?” she says.
“What about?” Laura replies, although she knows full well what Kelly means. She feels her face burning again.
“Who was that man? And why were you all cosied up with him while Mum was inside? I’m not stupid, Laura. Look at you, you’re blushing like a teenager! And you’ve straightened your hair. Are you having an affair?”
“No!” Laura almost shouts. It’s typical of Kelly to be so direct, but she hadn’t expected that. The thought has never crossed her mind. Or maybe it has, but only fleetingly, to be dismissed almost as soon as it appeared. However, she has spent more time looking in the mirror recently, there is no getting away from that. She likes it when her hair shines and falls straight to her shoulders. She likes the way her eyes look bluer with a touch of eye shadow. She enjoys liking what she sees.
“What then?”
Laura almost tells Kelly to back off and mind her own business. She hasn’t done anything wrong and she has nothing to excuse. But she doesn’t. She tells her about Emil and how kind he has been. She tells her how lonely it is, taking so much of the responsibility and with so little support from Patrick.
“He’s just a friend. Aren’t I even allowed a friend now? Just because he’s a man, it doesn’t mean it has to be anything like that. I’m surprised at you, Kelly! You’ve got loads of male friends and nobody suggests you’re sleeping with all of them. That’s a terribly old-fashioned attitude.”
Kelly has to concede this is true and she apologises. They get in the car and then she turns to Laura and promises to be more supportive. Yet Laura can tell she is not entirely convinced. She has known Kelly since the day she was born, watched her develop into the person she is. She knows she is still suspicious that something is going on and Laura feels a strange tingle of excitement. Of course it is nothing like that. But what if it were?
The journey is uneventful and conversation is sporadic and strained, even if it has a veneer of normality. They hardly discuss their mother at all, but make sallies into safer territory, such as Kelly’s work and what they will find when they get to Tonbridge. Laura is hoping that it will come to nothing, that the man will either be out or refuse to see them, but she does not say that. Instead, she reminds Kelly of her promise.
“You don’t need to repeat it. I know what I said,” says Kelly.
They park in a side street and Laura uses her phone to direct them to the flats. There are three blocks in a semi-circle, set around a patch of grass and straggly shrubs, littered with torn plastic bags and discarded beer cans. The block they need is at the far end and Laura is even less happy about ringing the bell by the time they get there. However, it will take a lot more than a bit of peeling paint and a few sad little piles of soggy cigarette ends to discourage Kelly.
“Here we are, Flat 3C,” she says brightly, ringing the bell for several seconds. “In case he’s deaf,” she adds. There is no sound from the intercom. The flats have a security system which requires visitors to identify themselves before the communal door is unlocked, but it seems Gordon Carpenter is either out or not receiving visitors.
“Come on,” says Laura. “He’s not in. Let’s get back to Mum. She might be wondering where we are.”
“Don’t use her as an excuse, Laura. She won’t even remember we were there. I’ll give it one more try and then we’ll go.”
She raises her hand to the stainless steel panel with its six stainless steel buttons but, just as she is about to ring again, a crackly voice makes them both jump.
“Hello?”
“Er, hello, is that Mr Carpenter?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Um, it’s a bit complicated. My name’s Kelly and my mother’s got Alzheimer’s. We’re tracking down people from her past to help fill in some gaps in her life story and we think you might have known her. We’d be very grateful ...”
“Wait a minute.”
They w
ait, and then there is a figure behind the glass door, but it can’t be Gordon Carpenter. It is a large man with a barrel chest and a thick neck, but he doesn’t even look fifty. He opens the door and looks them up and down, but his expression is relatively friendly.
“Well, go on then,” he says.
“I’m not sure we’ve come to the right place,” says Kelly. “We were looking for a Mr Gordon Carpenter, but he would be much older than you. In his seventies, at least. We believe he might have known our mother when she was about eighteen, and she’s in her sixties now.”
“That’ll be my dad,” says the man. “But I think you’re wasting your time. He’s a miserable old sod at the best of times but he’s in pain today. He’s got arthritis and he can’t get out. Can’t afford a decent wheelchair. Can’t even afford a bottle of whisky to help take the pain away.”
He looks at Laura, who is wearing a nice summer dress and, as Kelly has noticed, has taken some care with her appearance. Kelly is still in her school clothes, so she is smart too, if still a little more alternative than most teachers. Laura can see the calculations taking place in the man’s head and she knows that Kelly will have too. She opens her mouth to suggest that they have troubled him enough, but she is too late.
“Well, we can’t run to a wheelchair, but if a bottle of Scotch would cheer him up I’d be very happy to provide one,” says Kelly.
The man rubs his forehead. It is oily, and he wipes his fingers on his jeans.
“I don’t know. Have you got any identification? You could be the social snooping around for all I know.”
“Look, I’ll be straight with you,” says Kelly. “We think your dad took a shine to our mum back in the late Sixties. She agreed to meet him but she took a friend along and we think the friend started to see your dad instead so we wondered if he had stayed in touch. Our mum wrote this sort of diary, but now she’s losing her memory so quickly and we are trying to get in touch with all her old friends before it’s too late.”
The Art of Forgetting Page 12