She couldn’t work out what happened next. She’d her route all mapped out: back over to the sink, put plant on draining board, fill jug with water, water plant. She had begun that journey, she knew she had, but suddenly the world stood still. She watched, in slow motion, as the planter slipped from her fingers and came crashing down on to the hard surface of the red, glazed kitchen tiles. It seemed that the sound took a great deal of time to travel to her ears. When it did, she jumped, startled, as though she had made no connection between the shattered bits of plant pot and the explosion of sound all around her.
She looked at the floor helplessly. Dried soil had scattered everywhere, dangerous splinters of ceramic lurked in the grouting between the tiles. What if she forgot, and walked here in her bare feet? She reached in under the sink for the dustpan and brush. Within minutes, perspiration was beading across her forehead, and anger at her own helplessness was making her weep with frustration. No matter what she did, her two hands would not work together. The dustpan kept facing the wrong direction, the brush pushed the soil to the left, or to the right – wherever the dustpan was not. It was as though these two inanimate objects had acquired a mischievous mind of their own, and had decided to tease without mercy the old woman trying to clean up her kitchen at four o’clock in the morning.
She sat down, breathless, the job only half-done. Maybe Gemma would call again in the afternoon. If so, she’d get her to finish it. She was much too downhearted to continue. Alice reflected that her old age was now an inescapable process of becoming more and more aware of her own body. Even five years ago, she’d never have needed to think about it: her physical self had operated independently of her will. A few aches and pains here and there, sure, but she’d been lucky. Now her stroke had plunged her into a new knowledge of things that didn’t function as they should. This was no longer dying in small steps. This was a huge leap into the darkness.
She filled her hot-water bottle very carefully, suddenly terrified of the kettle full of potential danger. She made her way slowly up the stairs. She’d love a bath, but even that simple pleasure was forbidden unless there were someone else in the house. She’d ask Gemma to stay a bit later, tomorrow. A shower wasn’t the same thing, at all; she wanted to lie down and be soothed by lots of hot water.
Shivering, she climbed into bed. She must remember not to fall asleep downstairs, in future. She’d grown far too cold. She might even have to give in, at this rate, and put James’s electric blanket on the bed. That is, if he’d let her. Everything seemed to be fraught with so much peril these days.
*
‘Alice? Where are you?’
James made his way rapidly down the hallway to the kitchen. He opened the door and the clouds of smoke burned his lungs, made his eyes water.
‘Jesus Christ!’ he cried, frightened now. ‘Alice? Alice?’
She was not in the kitchen. He opened the back door, and the smoke was sucked out into the stormy morning. A large saucepan had burned completely dry on the cooker. He fumbled at the switch underneath, turning off the heat. Then he grasped the handle of the pot in a bunched-up tea-towel and fired the whole lot out into the back garden. He looked around him, quickly. The floor was unusually dirty, bits of soil everywhere, but everything seemed to be safe. Now where was his mother? His heart pounding, dreading what he was going to find, he ran back to the sitting room and wrenched the door open.
A cup and saucer sat innocently on the table beside her armchair, her rug was folded carefully, and draped over the back. Gemma had given her tea just before she left, and her medication, so what had she done then, where had she gone next?
He took the stairs two at a time and paused for a moment outside her bedroom. He didn’t want to frighten her. He knocked on the door, smartly.
‘Alice? Are you in there?’
There was no reply. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The bed had been slept in, thank God – for a moment, he felt a great wave of relief. He’d been terrified she’d gone wandering, out on the streets all night long. He felt the sheets – still warm. She couldn’t be far, then, but why wasn’t she answering the mobile? If everything was all right, why wouldn’t she answer the phone?
He knocked on the bathroom door, and opened it almost at once. There was no sense of her being in the house – some instinct told him she was already gone, roaming around God only knew where. He was just about to leave when something caught his eye. Curiously, he bent down. What on earth was the mobile doing in the bath? He picked it up and put it into his jacket pocket. This was not looking good – the burnt saucepan on the stove, the mobile left behind, no sign of Alice anywhere. He’d try Mrs McGrath first, and then he was going to the police. He hoped he wasn’t already too late.
*
Alice pulled her coat more tightly around her. It had gone very cold, and she didn’t like the feel of the strong wind through her nightdress. She’d remembered to put her boots on, though, so at least her feet were warm. She hoped that Brutus and Rusty wouldn’t get too restless waiting for her to come home. It was too bad that they’d run out of dog food: she wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Peggy had done it deliberately, just to annoy her.
There were an awful lot of cars on the road this morning. There must be something going on in the village, but surely Mam would have told her? At least she wouldn’t have to cross the road. She was only allowed to go as far as Mr Courtney’s because it was on the same side as Abbotsford, and she didn’t have to leave the footpath, not even once. But it seemed a much longer walk than usual, today.
Alice felt in her pockets for her mitts. They weren’t there, she must have left them on the table in the hall. Instead, her fingers closed around a key that she had never seen before. What was it doing in her pocket? She buttoned her coat up to the neck, and stuck her cold hands into the sleeves. When she looked down, she saw that the ends of her dress were getting wet. She was puzzled: this wasn’t a dress that she recognized. Had she taken one of Peggy’s, by mistake?
She walked close to the kerb, stepping over every second crack in the stone, the way she and Peggy always did. You won if you got to fifty, without lifting your eyes from the ground.
The blare of a horn startled Alice, and she stepped off the kerb in fright. A car swerved, missing her narrowly, splattering her from head to toe with dark, mucky stuff. Dismayed, she looked down at her coat. It was ruined. Mam would be cross now.
She tried to brush herself down, using her sleeves, but her left arm didn’t seem to be working too well. Maybe she’d be able to clean herself off once the muck dried. She was here, at last, and Mr Courtney’s shop was open.
She pushed hard at the glass door, wondering why the bell didn’t sound. She looked around her, puzzled. Things didn’t seem to be in their usual place. And Mr Courtney wasn’t behind the counter, either. Instead, there were two girls Alice had never seen before, giggling and nudging while they placed cans and bottles on the shelves, nodding in her direction. Dismayed, she looked down at her coat again. She must look like a right sight.
*
‘Yes, sir, can I help you?’
James stood at the counter, a young garda half his age getting up to speak to him.
‘My mother is missing. She’s not well, she had a stroke recently, and . . .’
‘How long has she been missing, sir?’
‘I don’t really know. At least, she slept in her bed last night, so she probably went off early this morning . . .’
‘Have you checked with the rest of the family, sir, and the neighbours?’
‘Yes. Well, not all of them – she’s not in the habit of spending time with her neighbours . . . Look, she had a stroke a couple of weeks ago, and I’m afraid she’s off somewhere, not knowing where she is. She knows she’s to have this mobile with her, but I found it in the bath.’
He was beginning to get impatient. Were they going to wait for something ridiculous like twenty-four hours before they even started to look for her?
; ‘What’s your mother’s name?’
James cut across him, rudely.
‘When are you going to start looking for her?’
The garda looked at him levelly.
‘As soon as we have her details and a physical description, I’ll radio the local squad car to keep a look out for her. I can’t do that until you give me some information, sir.’
‘I’m sorry – I’m sorry. I’m just terrified that something has happened her.’
The garda nodded. James took a deep breath: what might Alice look like now, if she’d left the house heedlessly, unaware of herself?
‘Her name is Alice Keating, she lives at “Woodvale”, 27 Avonmore Grove. She’s seventy-six years of age, tall – five foot eight – white hair usually in a bun.’
‘Have you any idea what she’s wearing, sir?’
‘No, I’m afraid I never even checked. She has a green raincoat, and a heavy tweed overcoat which she wears in the winter . . .’
He stopped. He was aware that he was babbling.
‘I’ll check to see which coat is missing. I’ll phone you.’
‘When did you last see her, sir?’
‘Last night, about eight o’ clock – my daughter saw her. She said she was fine. I rang the house phone this morning and then the mobile, when I got no answer. That was about ten o’clock.’
‘And you went to the house?’
‘Yes – and a saucepan had burned dry – the place was full of smoke. There was dirt all over the kitchen floor – it’s not like her.’
‘All right, sir. I’ll put the word out. If you think of anything else that would help, let us know.’
‘Should I make sure there’s someone at her home, in case she comes back?’
It seemed such an obvious thing to do that James felt immediately foolish.
‘Don’t answer that,’ he said, grinning in spite of himself.
The garda smiled back at him.
‘Go back and phone everyone you can think of that she might have gone to see. Have the neighbours keep an eye out. And I suggest you check out the local shops. Don’t worry – she won’t have gone far.’
James hoped he was right. He remembered Alice telling him of a time when he had gone missing as a toddler, when the whole road had turned out in force to search for him. She had been distraught: she’d even sent someone to get his father from work when they’d been searching for over three hours without success. Eventually, they’d found him: asleep in a neighbour’s garden shed, clutching a small fistful of dinkies, totally unaware that he’d strayed.
Now it was time to pray for the same again: only this time, their roles had been reversed.
*
Alice had forgotten whatever it was she was looking for. Perhaps if she walked up and down the aisles once more, it would come to her. She didn’t think she’d run out of tea – she’d never run out of tea, not once in all her married life. Bread, perhaps, or milk? She continued her search, stopping now and then to peer at items on the well-stocked shelves.
Suddenly, someone caught hold of her elbow, but gently. She turned to face a blonde young woman with brown eyes.
‘Mrs Keating?’
Alice thought for a moment. She was doubtful. She started to shiver, suddenly cold to her bones.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked the young woman. It wasn’t a name that felt familiar to her, but then, nothing felt familiar right now. She noticed the way this young woman was dressed in a very sensible rain-jacket: big and bright yellow, one that no one could miss on the dark country roads.
‘Your first name is Alice, isn’t that right? I’m Ann. Why don’t we get you home now and out of those wet clothes before you catch cold?’
Alice looked around her. There was no one she knew here. The shop was almost silent, the two young girls chewing gum, staring at her. She began to feel frightened. Alice was a nice name, and this Ann seemed kind.
‘Yes, yes – that’s a good idea. I need to go home – I’m in a hurry; my children will be waiting for me.’
‘Let me give you a lift. My car is just outside. It’s an awful day, isn’t it? You must be absolutely soaked.’
Alice allowed herself to be steered out of the shop. There was no sign of Mr Courtney – neither he nor Mrs Courtney was anywhere to be seen – and she didn’t like it here any more. The young woman opened the rear passenger door of a waiting car. There was a man standing beside it, taking a last pull on the cigarette cupped in his right hand. She had known someone else, once, who used to smoke like that. The half-memory disturbed her. But this man was clean, not covered in coal-dust, and his blue uniform reassured her. She looked again at the young woman who was holding her arm. She smiled at Alice, and Alice felt that she might know her, after all. That smile reminded her of someone, too, someone she had once been fond of.
‘We’re going to drive you home now, Mrs Keating. Your son is waiting for you.’
Alice frowned. She fingered the key in her coat pocket. She struggled to make the connection that was prodding at her, trying to break the surface, like a swimmer coming up for air. Suddenly, she got it.
‘I live in a house with three others!’ she said, triumphantly.
The woman called Ann turned and smiled at her.
‘That’s fine; we’ll have you back there before you know it,’ she promised.
Relieved now that she had said what was important, Alice put her head back and closed her eyes. So tired, so very tired.
*
James was standing at the front door, waiting. Thank God they’d found her so quickly. Wandering around the local Spar, of all places. It wasn’t even the one she normally went to; there was another one much closer by. Luckily, the owner had spotted Alice, dressed in nightie and tweed coat, white hair flowing, and had had the sense to call the Gardai. James had wept with relief.
‘She’s not hurt, Mr Keating, just very confused. I don’t think she knows who she is. She told us she lived in a house with three others.’
The young garda spoke kindly, in a low voice, before she opened the car door for Alice. James nodded, shocked into silent grief as a pinched face, framed with wild white hair, peered up at him from the back seat. For one insane moment, he thought of the witches from Macbeth. This was the wrong woman: this was some other poor mother who’d plodded off into the murky distance, looking for something to understand, something that finally made sense.
‘Thank you, thank you both very much. I’ll look after her now.’
‘Do you need a lift to Beaumont Hospital, sir?’
The driver spoke courteously to James, his arms folded, leaning on the roof of the squad car.
‘No, thanks, Guard – I’ll get her cleaned up first. Our GP is meeting us there in an hour.’
‘Goodbye, Mrs Keating.’
Ann had held out her hand to Alice. She shook it gravely.
‘Goodbye,’ she said.
She turned to James, smiling.
‘What a nice young woman,’ she said.
Then her face clouded over. She peered at him, tucking strands of hair behind her ears as the wind caught them. She was looking at him shyly, half-quizzically, her head a little to one side. For a moment, she resisted his hands on her arms.
‘Do I know you?’ she asked.
*
James brought her straight into the kitchen, where it was warmest. He had no idea how he was going to approach the idea of a bath, or a change of clothes: to her, he was a complete stranger.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ he asked politely, keeping his distance from her, terrified she would take fright, and bolt like some startled animal if she felt crowded.
‘Yes, please,’ she said, pulling her coat around her, folding her arms decisively.
Carefully, he took things out of the kitchen presses and off the dresser shelves that he knew would be familiar to her. One of her best china cups with its fluted saucer, the yellow teapot, the willow-patterned plate she always used for biscuits. He took t
he carton of milk out of the fridge and placed it on the table in front of her while he filled the kettle.
‘Where’s the jug? You know I hate cartons or bottles on the table!’
Her sudden tone was sharp, the way James remembered it from time to time when he was a child.
He wheeled around from the sink to face her.
‘Alice?’ he said, hardly daring to hope.
‘James?’ she asked, suddenly inhabiting her own face again.
He must take this carefully. He didn’t want to alarm or upset her. He knelt down beside her chair, taking both of her cold hands in his.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked her gently.
‘I seem – have I had another turn?’
Her voice was full of dismay, like a child’s.
He nodded.
‘Just a little one. You went out . . . into the back garden with just a coat over your nightie. I’m afraid you’ve got a bit mucky.’
She looked down at her boots.
‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘That’s a bit of a mess.’
He smiled. He felt that her return was fragile, he didn’t trust it.
‘Not to worry. We can get you cleaned up after our cup of tea.’
‘Yes. That would be nice.’
They sipped at their tea silently. James hoped she would remember something, that she would ask a question – anything, about anything at all – so that he could try and reassure her. He felt edgy, not at all certain that his mother was solidly planted in herself, sure of who she was again.
Finally, she put down her cup.
‘James?’
At least she still knew him, still remembered his name.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s getting very late. It’s time for Elizabeth to come home for her tea now.’
She stood up very carefully, while he fought for control of his face, his words. He couldn’t speak.
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