‘Oh my goodness, are you all right, my love?’ she asks. Her lips are trembling and her mouth sags with worry, and she puts her hand further inside the window as if to touch Hector’s arm. ‘I did look, you know, I always look. I don’t understand how I can have missed you. Harry keeps telling me I shouldn’t be on the road any more, not if I can’t wear my glasses, you know, with the helmet on, but it’s so easy to jump on and go, you see. Are you sure you’re all right? When I think what might have happened . . .’ She shakes her head.
Hector smiles. ‘I’m fine,’ he says firmly. ‘Absolutely fine. No harm done at all. I needed to turn round anyway.’
‘Oh, heavens, aren’t you nice? What a gentleman. You don’t meet many like you these days, I can tell you. They’re just as likely to stick two fingers up at you as offer you a good morning. Now look, are you sure I can’t do something for you? Would you at least let me—?’
‘No, no, really, there’s no need.’ He wasn’t sure what she was going to offer to do, but he didn’t want her to do it. ‘I’m fine, you’re fine, that chap over there is fine. We’re all fine so there’s no need for you to do anything, and you really don’t need to worry. I was probably driving too fast anyway.’
‘Well, you should be ashamed of yourself,’ she says, suddenly frowning. ‘This is a residential district, you know. You could have caused an accident.’
Hector blinks. ‘Oh, er, well, yes, I suppose you’re right. I’ll be more careful.’
‘I should think so.’ She snaps her visor down and says, her voice muffled, ‘Young people zooming around the streets without a single regard for an OAP like me out for a ride,’ and wanders away, back to her bike.
‘Cheerio then,’ Hector calls out. She does not acknowledge him and he has the discomfiting feeling that her hearing is failing as well as her eyesight.
The engine is still ticking over, so he shifts into first gear and carefully pulls away, back the way he has just come.
He’s realized suddenly that now is not the time to confront Glenn with the news of the affair anyway. It’s Saturday afternoon – Sarah and Jake will be there, and Hector has no intention of allowing either of them to hear about it. Besides which, he’s so angry with his brother, whatever he wants to say would probably not come out right. He shakes his head. No. He will call Glenn at work on Monday and ask him to come round in the evening. They can thrash it out there, with no danger of being overheard by Sarah. With any luck, Hector will be able to convince Glenn to break it off and that will be the end of the matter.
The usual cold dread begins to seep into him as he nears home. What is he coming home to this time? Unconsciously, his foot eases off the accelerator and his speed decreases as he drives reluctantly along the road towards his driveway.
When he pushes open the front door, everything is quiet. He creeps into the hallway, concerned about disturbing her if she’s nodded off in the armchair. As he progresses along the hallway, he begins to notice a faint smell of gas, which grows stronger as he approaches the kitchen. ‘Not again,’ he says and runs quickly into the kitchen.
On the threshold, he stops dead and stares into the room, frozen with terror.
The gas ring is on and hissing gently. Smashed glass litters the table and the floor, along with some newspaper and, most disturbingly, a few dots of blood. One of the kitchen chairs is tipped over and underneath it Hector can see one of his mum’s purple suede slippers. Quickly he turns off the hissing gas and approaches the table. With sickening horror he realizes that the slipper is still attached to her foot, and she is lying prone on the floor by the table, her face pressed against the cold tiles. ‘Mum!’ he calls out, dropping to his knees, reaching for her, rolling her over on to her back frantically. He presses his ear to her chest but hears nothing. ‘Oh God, come on, Mum, come on,’ he whispers, placing his face close, his lips millimetres away from hers. He strokes her hair back from her face and holds his own breath; eventually he feels a faint, barely discernible stir of air on his lips. ‘Yes, thank you, God, thank you.’ He grabs a cushion from one of the dining chairs and pushes it under her head, then pulls out his mobile phone and calls an ambulance.
She’s taken straight into Accident and Emergency, jumping to the front of the queue of Saturday-afternoon sports injuries. Hector jogs along beside the trolley until finally he is prevented from going further and the last set of doors swing closed in his face. He stands there helplessly for a few moments until the man behind the desk calls him over to give his mum’s personal information.
Look around the waiting room a moment. Can you see, sitting at the back of the room, one well-toned leg extended and resting on a chair in front, someone who looks familiar? Black, floppy hair, baby-blue eyes. We know who that is, don’t we? Look a bit more closely – are there tear stains on those smooth cheeks? And all for a sprained ankle. I wonder how he would cope in Hector’s shoes.
Hector is pacing now. His hair is standing on end from constantly running his hands through it, the crease between his eyes has deepened and he is biting at the skin of his lips. He starts, realizing suddenly that he ought to tell Glenn what has happened.
There is a phone on the wall inside a clear plastic hood. Hector walks to it and dials his brother’s number.
‘What’s she done this time?’ Glenn asks. ‘More burns?’
‘Glenn, you shit, you get here this second.’ A few people have looked up from their misery towards Hector, and he lowers his voice. ‘Just get here now.’
‘Right, OK, I’ll come. Just give me an hour or so. I’ll ask Sarah’s mum if she can look after Jake for a bit, but it’s going to take a little while to get him over there and then drive all the way back—’
‘Jesus, Glenn, stop making excuses and get moving. Your mum is lying unconscious in Casualty. Nothing is more important than that at this point in time.’
Twenty minutes pass. Hector paces the waiting area, rubbing his head, checking his watch, jumping every time the doors open and a doctor or nurse enters or leaves. He tries to see through the doors, tries to locate his mum in the room beyond, but it’s impossible. There are hospital staff everywhere and mingling with them are the friends and families of the sick and injured.
The outside doors open and Glenn and Sarah arrive, glancing around in dismay at the crowded room, the overriding feeling evident on their faces one of irritation.
Hector spots them and strides over. ‘Where’ve you been? Hi, Sarah, how are you?’ He glares at his brother, then leans forward and kisses Sarah lightly on the cheek.
‘We had to drop Jake off at a friend’s in the end,’ Glenn says defensively. ‘Sarah’s mum was . . .’ He stops and dismisses this thought with a quick wave of his hand. ‘Where is she then?’
Hector indicates the doors where he last saw his mum. ‘They took her through there. No one’s told me anything yet, but I suppose no news is good news.’
Glenn shrugs. ‘Maybe. Depends on what your definition of good news is.’
Hector glares at him, but at that moment they are approached by a young woman with a hesitant smile on her face. Hector walks over to her quickly.
‘Are you the doctor? What’s happening? Is she all right?’
‘Are you the son?’
‘Yes, I brought her in,’ Hector says anxiously.
‘One of them,’ Glenn announces, walking up. ‘I’m the other one. What’s going on?’
‘Perhaps you’d all like to follow me. I’ll explain everything, but let’s find somewhere quiet, shall we?’
She walks away towards a door, beyond which is a room with three sofas and a coffee table in it. Glenn and Sarah follow her in but Hector doesn’t move for a few seconds. The blood has drained from his face and he puts a hand against the wall to steady himself.
In the room, there are flowers in a vase on the table and pictures of flowers and clouds on sunny days on the walls. The walls have been painted lilac. It is in here that the doctor explains in a calm, matter-of-fact tone t
hat Hector and Glenn’s mum had a massive stroke at home, and another one after she had arrived in the hospital. The second one proved fatal. Hector stares at a framed print of sunflowers as he hears her telling them that they did all they could, but she had never regained consciousness. She had not suffered at all. At least her death had spared her that.
Sarah cries out, ‘Oh no!’ and covers her mouth with her hand, sinking down on to one of the beige sofas. Glenn glances at Hector, then sits down next to his wife and cradles her in his arms. Hector is counting how many sunflowers there are in the picture on the wall. There are eight in the picture above the sofa, and each one has fourteen petals. He looks briefly at his brother and sister-in-law comforting each other, then he wraps his arms around himself and goes out into the empty corridor.
Twenty minutes later, Hector and Glenn are sitting on either side of their mum, holding her cooling hands. She is there, on that bed, but you can’t really make her out because she’s so very tiny. She hardly raises a bump in the sheet. All the tubes and wires that connected her to life have been taken away. If you can see her face, she looks peaceful, but she doesn’t look like she’s asleep – she’s far too still to be sleeping. She is inanimate now and it’s already hard to imagine that she ever did move. It’s like looking at a representation of her; like a waxwork figure of herself, asleep.
Hector can’t stand the unmovingness of her. He gazes at her face but no eyelash flickers, no pulse beats, no muscle spasms, no nerve twitches; no breath goes in or out. She is as motionless as an ornament. He has read accounts of people looking at their lifeless loved ones, expecting any moment that the person will open their eyes and ask for a drink, but he has no such feeling. He can see that she is no more likely to move spontaneously than the equipment around her.
You’ll notice that Sarah is no longer present. She went home in a taxi a few minutes ago. Hector is looking at Glenn as if he wishes he would go as well, but Glenn can’t see that because he’s got his head down on the mattress.
‘I can’t believe she’s gone,’ Glenn says quietly, his voice muffled.
‘No,’ Hector says simply.
Glenn raises his head. ‘I mean, the way she’s been lately, I’ve kind of been thinking that maybe, if she . . . But now that it’s happened, I can’t . . .’
‘I know,’ Hector says, putting his hand on his brother’s arm. ‘You shouldn’t feel guilty for thinking like that, Glenn. She had hardly any quality of life left. She was just stuck in a time when things were happy for her. And now she’s out of her misery.’
After half an hour or so, they reach an unspoken decision to leave. Each glances at the other and understands implicitly that it is time to go. Glenn kisses his mum’s hand then lays it down beside her on the mattress, takes one final look then bows his head and leaves the room.
Hector stands. There are tears running silently down his cheeks. He leans over his mum and wraps his arms around her for the last time, clutching her body to his chest. She does not return the hug. ‘Thank you, Mum,’ he says into her hair, mouth distorted with grief. ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done. I love you so much. I’m going to miss you every day.’ He kisses her cheek, then kisses it again, lingering there a few moments before laying her down on the pillow again. He strokes her hair away from her face and says, ‘Say hi to Dad for me.’ Then he walks quickly away.
Glenn drops him off but doesn’t stay long. He has to get back to Sarah and Jake. Hector understands and prefers to be on his own anyway. Glenn is moving back down the path towards his car really quickly. He’s almost running, as if desperate to get away. He probably is desperate; Hector is in a depressive mood.
In the kitchen, Hector is standing staring at the place on the floor that has become his mum’s last memory. He tortures himself, imagining what she experienced. Was there pain? Did she understand what was happening? Did she feel frightened? Did she call out for him? He closes his eyes as he realizes that if she did cry out, it was more likely to be for Charlie, her husband, dead for eighteen years, than for Hector.
Why did he go to lunch with Rupert? He didn’t have to do it that day. It could have waited until the following weekend, or they could even have met in the office during the week. But he and Rupert were old friends and he was looking forward to conducting their business over a pleasant lunch.
Ten hours earlier, that morning, Celia had said, ‘Where’re you going?’, touching his arm.
‘To work, Mum. I won’t be long.’
‘Work? Who works on a Saturday?’
Hector had stared at her. It was extraordinary that she knew what day of the week it was. Perhaps it was just coincidence.
‘Don’t go, Hector,’ she had said then. ‘I don’t want to be here all on my own today.’
He had smiled and kissed her. ‘You’re being daft. I’ll only be a couple of hours, then I’ll come home and make you some pancakes. All right?’
She had nodded uncertainly, but followed Hector around the house, as he had got ready to go out. He had felt irritated with her, but forced it down.
So her last conscious moments were alone in the kitchen, doing . . . what? The broken glass everywhere looks as if it used to be a thick mixing bowl. There is a carton of smashed eggs on the floor behind the table, and the gas ring was on underneath a large frying pan. Hector looks around at the pitiful last efforts of his sad and deluded mother. It looks as if Celia McCarthy had been trying to make pancakes.
He can’t stand to look at it any more and heads upstairs to bed. He doesn’t sleep but spends hour after hour remembering long-ago holidays, Christmases, school plays and poorly days. His mum had done her best every day to make the boys happy, holding their hands both literally and figuratively for as long as she could. He remembered her hand clamped on to his so tightly it hurt at his father’s funeral eighteen years ago, when he was just fifteen. The shocked whiteness of her face that day would stay with him for ever, and he had been totally unable to make her feel better.
He thinks about her illness, the cruelty of early-onset Alzheimer’s that started eight years after she was separated from her beloved Charlie, when she was only sixty. He remembers the agony of watching as day by day she forgot her life, her family and her loved ones, finally retreating into the comfort of long-gone days when her husband was still alive, conjuring him up from her memory.
Finally Hector is asleep. It’s just after three a.m. It’s not a restful sleep and he tosses and turns all night, waking at eight o’clock the next morning to the realization that his mum is dead.
And now here he is arriving for work on Monday morning, forty minutes late. His face is drawn and grey and his eyes are red rimmed. Darren, his assistant, watches him as he moves slowly towards the door to his office, his shoulders slumped over, head low.
‘Can I get you anything, boss?’ he asks, but Hector shakes his head without looking up. He moves into the office and closes the door gently behind him. Darren goes back in the main office and tells the other two people working there, Moira and Carl, that something is very wrong. ‘He seems very down and depressed, not his usual cheery self, and should probably be left alone as much as possible today, OK? He looks like he hasn’t had much sleep all weekend, and I daresay—’
He is cut off suddenly by a loud explosion of laughter from the office behind that makes Moira start in her seat. All three turn to look at the door to try and understand this inexplicable change in attitude, then Carl and Moira turn to Darren, eyebrows raised. He is utterly baffled and can offer nothing more than a shrug.
Chapter Ten
OF COURSE, I am oblivious to Hector’s tragic day. At exactly the same time as he and Glenn are looking at the still, soundless shape of their mother in the hospital, I am prowling the flat, about to embark on a rather sad evening of my own. I’ve got a hunger pang, but there’s nothing in the flat to eat. No, that’s not strictly true. There’s lots of food, but everything there turns my stomach over. Even bread seems just too . . . bready r
ight now. I’ve tried to settle in front of the telly with a glass of water – tea and coffee are banned from the flat – but I’m so fidgety. I’m up again, heading to the fridge, even though I know exactly what’s in there – a lump of cheddar, some cold ham, a jar of pickled onions, six eggs, a tub of margarine. I stare at them, imagining eating them, testing to see if I fancy any of them. I most decidedly do not.
I slam the fridge door in angry frustration. I know there are Bourbon biscuits in the cupboard, but in my head they feel like sawdust in my mouth. I need something less . . . biscuity.
I head back to the sofa and try to watch television. A woman has just won £32,000. Terrific, except she was on £125,000 and then said that Pride and Prejudice was written by Jane Eyre. I tut and shake my head at her stupidity, but I have no idea who really wrote it, or who Jane Eyre is.
At last the adverts come on. They’re better than the actual programmes sometimes. I wish I could dance as well as that car.
Suddenly my attention is seized by the supermarket advert. I am alert, poised, ears pricked, nose quivering, tense and ready. The advert is full of delicious, fresh, juicy produce being sliced, diced, peeled and squeezed in short, mouth-watering chunks. I’m staring now, frozen like the hounds from The Blooding, water drooling from my mouth. I know now, more certainly than I have ever known anything, that satisfaction will only be had by the immediate, gluttonous, wet and crunchy consumption of cucumber. Cucumber in cubes, cucumber in slices, cucumber in massive, cold chunks forcing their way over the back of my tongue and down my throat.
Within two minutes I’m driving fast along the bypass towards Sainsbury’s. It closes at ten o’clock on Saturday night, so I’m in a bit of a hurry. It’s half past eight now, so in fact I’ve got loads of time, but I’m hurrying anyway. The thought of cool, delicious cucumber slipping between my teeth is eclipsing any other rational thought.
As I speed along through the darkness, I get an inkling of what it must be like to be addicted to something – the intense, obsessive longing for something, and the acute pleasure in the anticipation of knowing that that desire would soon be fulfilled. I had a boyfriend last year – Tom Brown or Black or Jones – who was a really heavy smoker. Thirty or forty a day. If we were on our way to bed in the evening and he only had three or four left, he would have to rush out to the offie to get a couple more packs, just so that he had plenty for the morning, or during the night. He made absolutely sure that he never, ever ran out. It used to irritate the hell out of me, this dashing out at all hours, because it made me feel second best to something. Here in my car on a Saturday night doing eighty miles an hour, I finally understand him.
Thanks For Nothing, Nick Maxwell Page 14