The Nightingale's Nest

by Sarah Harrison

  She was such a voluble, straightforward girl that I asked her directly: ‘How did he get those terrible injuries?’

  ‘Oh, in the war, like everyone . . .’ She waved a dismissive hand. ‘He was out east with Uncle Chris.’ She glanced at me. ‘Did you find it frightfully off-putting? I forget – I’m so used to it I don’t notice it any more.’

  ‘I found the same.’

  ‘In fact -’ she leaned towards me with a wicked, confidential grin – ‘I think he’s rather attractive.’

  When we reached the Tottenham Court Road it transpired that Christopher Jarvis had given her the taxi fare, but I absolutely insisted on paying my share.

  The next morning I woke refreshed for the first time in a fortnight. It had stopped raining and the window admitted a cool, watery sunlight. The sky was patchy with high cloud. There were puddles on the pavement and the gutters ran with water. Even the sound in the streets was different – brighter, sharper, more resonant, as if a thick dust had been cleared away.

  I got up early and arrived at Crompton Terrace at nine o’clock prompt. I felt invigorated, both by the change in the weather and the fact that the long-awaited lunch party was over. It had been a trial, yet I had not only survived but enjoyed a good deal of it, and even emerged with some credit.

  But the storm which had cleared the air so wonderfully had exacted casualties. The last baby swallow lay on the floor of the porch, bedraggled and dead. And not just dead but crushed, flattened as though a heavy boot had trodden it underfoot. Very gently I collected a handful of leaves and moved it to the shelter of the periwinkles which romped around the edge of the front garden.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Your mother’s not well, Pammie,’ said my father. He was speaking on the public telephone, but I could hear the fear right through the loud, stilted voice he was using. ‘Can you come?’

  I realised as I replaced the receiver that I’d been guilty of thinking my parents indestructible. As far as I could recall they’d neither of them had a day’s illness. They were always there, always the same, as sturdy and immutable as a pair of standing stones. Since Matthew’s death I’d grown steadily away from them, so that our relationship was reduced to one largely composed of duty, tinged with a slightly wary affection. For my part, I’d taken them for granted.

  Now, the fear I’d heard in my father’s voice shot through my selfish independence like lightning. My parents were not indestructible. They were elderly, and shaken, and needed my help.

  It was a Friday night when he called, so at least I did not have to get in touch with the Jarvises; or not yet, anyway, I had the weekend to take stock of the situation. Once I got over the shock I rallied a little. After all, a couple with such strong constitutions, who had always enjoyed good health, were bound to be thrown by illness. Very probably it was nothing, a routine complaint of some sort. And if it made us all more aware of our situation, that could only be to the good.

  Dad had been very insistent I come right away. ‘She’d like to see you, have another woman about the place,’ is what he’d said, but I was pretty sure it was he who wanted me there. I put some things in the scarcely used small suitcase I’d bought to go on honeymoon and set off. There was a flower stall on the corner of the road near the bus stop; the man was packing up for the day but I bought a bunch of pink and blue stocks, scented country garden flowers for my city-bred mother.

  I used the journey across London to try and adjust my frame of mind. It was so hard, these days, to clear it of Crompton Terrace, its occupants and atmosphere, and to focus on anything else. Going home was like travelling to a foreign country: one I had visited in the past, but which was no longer familiar. I had to remind myself of the country’s language, landmarks and customs, and also of my place in it, and how the natives would receive me. To them I was Pammie, the daughter they loved but had never fully understood: first the tomboy whose company my father had enjoyed; then the brainy grammar-school pupil; then – for an eye-blink – Matthew’s bride; then the stoical young widow they didn’t know how to treat; and finally, over recent years, the rather daunting career-girl who mixed (especially now) with the kind of people they could scarcely imagine, and whom they regarded with the gravest suspicion.

  As I drew closer to my destination I hoped and prayed that I was right, and my mother’s illness wasn’t serious. ‘Burning up’ was how my father had put it – burning up and ‘making no sense’. The doctor had seen her and prescribed aspirins, fluids and bedrest but she was no better, Dad said. Perhaps the fever would have broken and she would have turned the corner by the time I got there . . . I knew my prayers for Mum’s welfare were essentially selfish because I couldn’t bear the prospect of disruption to my new life. That was where all my energy and interest lay; I didn’t have time for a domestic crisis.

  I rebuked myself for my callousness as I walked up the road. This was a Friday evening; there were no other calls on my time between now and Monday morning – more than two clear days. I must – I must – devote myself to whatever needed doing here, and with luck it would all be over and dealt with by then.

  The door opened as I approached, and there was my father. He looked ten years older than when I’d last seen him – smaller, stooped, disarrayed and altogether less sure of himself: a man whose certainties had been swept away. His cheekbones were flushed with spots of pink, like clown’s make-up on his haggard face.

  ‘Hello, Dad.’ I kissed him, but he was too distracted to respond. By the time I stepped back he had already closed the door.

  ‘She’s upstairs,’ he said.

  I put my little case down in the hall, a hostage to fortune, and climbed the narrow stairs like an aristo ascending to the guillotine. My father followed, but not closely. Everything in his manner said that as of this moment he had handed over to me.

  On the landing another realisation hit me. I had not been inside my parents’ bedroom since I was a child. I raised my hand to tap on the door, but my father said: ‘Go on in, she won’t know the difference.’

  The first thing I noticed was the unaired, slightly sour smell of sickness. On this fine evening the window was tight shut. A fine haze of dust lay on everything, not more than two days’ worth, so little as to be negligible in most places but like an awful warning in this usually spotless house. Everything else was the same – the Scottish landscapes hanging from the picture rail against the trellis-patterned wallpaper; the glass-topped dressing table with its oval mirror; the fancy empty scent bottle which was only for show, and the ivory-backed hairbrush which had belonged to my maternal grandmother, and with which I’d occasionally been threatened (but never struck) as a child. There was the heavy dark wardrobe, too big for the room, and the square rug in a shade of speckled pink that matched that of the shiny eiderdowns. Between the beds was a cheap cupboard like a hospital locker, scarcely more than a plywood box, on which stood a brass lamp with a pink pleated shade, my mother’s spectacles, and a glass of orange squash. There seemed to be dust floating on the orange squash as well.

  My mother’s bed was nearest the door. She lay on her back, with her head to one side, her hands on the eiderdown curled into loose fists. Her face bore a sheen of sweat. Beneath her open mouth the pillow was slightly damp. I could hear the ragged whisper of her breathing. She wore a sprigged cotton nightdress; her hair was in its thick, loose night-time plait. Normally rather a formidable woman, at this moment she looked like an odd, elderly child.

  ‘You see?’ said my father from the doorway.

  ‘At least she’s sleeping peacefully.’

  He wagged an impatient finger towards my mother. ‘You feel her.’

  His restless, slightly accusing presence was getting on my nerves. ‘Look, Dad,’ I said, ‘why don’t you make us both a cup of tea—’

  ‘She won’t touch it.’

  ‘I meant for you and me.’

  ‘If you like.’ He was still looking past me, his eyes fixed anxiously on his wife’s face.
r />   ‘I do. I’m gasping, Dad.’

  ‘All right, all right, I’m going . . .’ He trudged off down the stairs.

  I went to the window and opened it a few inches at the top. This part of south London was flat, and I fought down a real sense of claustrophobia at the unending vista of roofs. My mother made a little sound, opening and closing her mouth as if tasting something. I jumped, and then sat down on the edge of the bed and took her hand, another thing I hadn’t done since I was little. In spite of all the housework, she took a pride in her hands and the skin felt smooth, but it was hot, and the palm was sweaty. Her wedding ring had become rather tight and didn’t look as if it would come off. Thinking it might be uncomfortable, I tried to loosen it, twisting it gently back and forth.

  ‘Hello, Pam.’

  She was looking at me. With her eyes open, the childishness was banished, and it was a relief to feel the familiar, penetrating stare. I at once released her hand.

  ‘Mum – how are you feeling?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to see you.’

  ‘Did your father ask you to?’

  ‘No,’ I lied. ‘He mentioned you were poorly and I wanted to come.’

  She tried unsuccessfully to raise her head and look out of the door. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Making me a cup of tea. Would you like one?’

  She shook her head, eyes closed and lips pursed at the very thought. ‘No thanks. I can’t take anything at the moment.’

  ‘Do you feel sick?’

  ‘Not sick, but not keen, if you know what I mean. Not at all keen.’

  ‘You should drink, though,’ I said. ‘Shall I get you some fresh squash?’

  ‘Water’ll do. I’ll try that.’

  I heard my father’s footsteps on the stairs as I took her glass to the bathroom. When I returned he’d put the familiar lacquered tea tray, with its picture of the King and Queen, on the dressing table. He had moved the padded stool to one side and was sitting on it at a safe distance from my mother; he looked as uncomfortable as a circus elephant perched on an upturned bucket. He waved a hand at the tray.

  ‘You be mother for now.’

  I put the glass of water on the bedside table. When I’d poured us both a cup, I took mine and went to sit on my father’s bed.

  ‘Would you like some help with that?’ I asked her.

  ‘No, no, I’ll get round to it . . .’ Her tone was snappish, but her eyes closed once more as she spoke. I was beginning to understand my father’s consternation: there was something fundamentally wrong in her debility. This was not how his wife, my mother, was supposed to be. It was as if we’d fallen victim to some cruel trick.

  Her lips parted and I could hear that whispering breath again. I tried to keep my voice light. ‘Did the doctor say he was going to drop by again?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Unless—’ He stopped, twitching his shoulders as if shaking off the unwelcome thought. ‘Unless we need him before that.’

  ‘What did he think the matter was?’

  ‘He couldn’t say. Some infection. Thought it might be to do with her waterworks, but she hasn’t gone in ages.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s it . . .’ I recollected something about kidneys getting silted up, which had always sounded horrible. ‘I think we ought to see to it that she drinks plenty of water.’

  He shrugged helplessly. ‘You try then.’

  ‘Next time she wakes up.’

  The evening seemed interminable. My mother dozed, my father fretted. Because I was anxious now myself, I found his agitation even more irritating. I made us corned beef, potatoes and carrots but we neither of us did much justice to it. When we’d washed up the supper things I went back upstairs, suggesting that he sit down and read the paper, at least try to relax. He put up a show of reluctance, but did as he was told.

  My mother’s eyes were open when I went in, trained on the door for my arrival.

  ‘What’ve you two been up to?’

  ‘I made us some supper. Not up to your standards, I’m afraid. Dad did eat some,’ I added, before she could ask. She stared at me. I couldn’t make out whether the stare was one of disbelief, or because she hadn’t been listening and was planning her next sally. Either way I wanted her to stop, so I asked:

  ‘Would you like something now, Mum? I could make you a little sandwich with the crusts off—’

  ‘I will do, I will do,’ she said, but her tone said not to bother her with it.

  I glanced at her glass of water. ‘You ought to drink. Do you need some help to sit up? I could—’

  ‘Pam.’

  Her voice wasn’t loud, but she had summoned all her authority to stop me in my tracks.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Dad?’ I was so relieved I almost laughed. ‘He’s fine, Mum. Really. But he’s worried, and he’s lost without you. He’ll be back to his old self once you’re feeling better. So we must look after you and—’

  ‘I need to go.’

  ‘Now?’ I asked stupidly.

  ‘Give me a hand. Quick. I need to go.’

  With a tremendous effort she got her head and shoulders off the pillow, propped herself on her elbow and tried feebly to kick the bedclothes back. Belatedly galvanised into action I helped her, removing the bedclothes and pulling down the skirt of her nightdress, more for my benefit than hers because I didn’t want to see anything I shouldn’t. Her legs were smooth and white but very thin, with no shape at all – two straight sticks, and her feet (of which, like her hands, she had always been proud) were small and narrow.

  Supporting her with one arm, I reached with the other hand under the bed for her slippers. As I did so I caught sight of a chamber pot, decorated with bluebirds – a welcome sight, since there was no upstairs lavatory.

  ‘Mum, the po’s here.’

  ‘I want to go down.’

  ‘But it’s right here, and if you’re—’

  ‘Stop all that and give me a hand.’

  She was tall, the same height as me even when she was barefoot and I was in shoes with a small heel. Though she kept her head up she leaned heavily on me; the end of her long plait tickled my arm, and her skin was hot to the touch. Her breathing rustled stertorously and the small puffs of air coming from her mouth smelt sour. As we hobbled to the top of the stairs my father appeared at the bottom. His hair was on end and one side of his face was red. He’d been asleep.

  ‘What’s going on? What’s she doing out of bed?’

  ‘We’re going to the lav,’ I said.

  ‘There’s a thingummy under the bed.’

  ‘I know that!’ I said, at the same time as my mother snapped:

  ‘I’m coming down, thank you!’

  ‘All right, all right . . .’ He waved his hands, thoroughly moithered.

  ‘Do you need help?’

  ‘No thanks, Dad – well, you could go and make sure the doors are open.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  He disappeared and we descended the stairs, very slowly, my mother getting both feet on to a step before attempting the next one. She was a fit, upright, vigorous woman as a rule and it was dreadful to see her so weak. She also seemed to be in pain, giving the occasional little grunt. I wished I’d been more insistent on staying upstairs – I’d been an obedient rather than a responsible daughter – but now that we were committed to this via dolorosa I determined at the very least to call the doctor when she was back in bed.

  When we finally reached the bottom she was gasping for breath. My father was hovering nervously by the door of the front room. He took a hesitant step towards us, but my mother, determined to keep him at arm’s length, flapped a hand and actually managed to say, quite forcefully:

  ‘No, Gerald . . . No!’

  His devastation at this rejection would have been comic if it hadn’t been so maddeningly pathetic. They were a pair, I thought, both helpless and equally difficult to help. And here I was, stuck in the middle .
. .

  The privy was in a lean-to by the back door, absolutely freezing in winter, but thank heavens it was a fine warm evening. My father had thrown every door wide, and taken the precaution of propping the privy door open with a brick. I was quite certain that no matter what her condition my mother would want the door closed, preferably with me on the far side of it.

  However, I was spared that decision because when we were halfway across the kitchen she doubled over with a high-pitched howl of extreme pain, followed by a spattering sound as her bladder voided itself on the tiles. I heard my father wailing, ‘Oh God, what now? God in heaven, what’s going on, what’s she doing?’ I ignored him till I’d lowered my mother, still moaning, on to a chair, where she folded over like a rag doll; then I spoke loudly and fiercely.

  ‘Dad, listen!’ He blinked. His eyes, taking in the large, sour-smelling puddle on the floor, were ‘O’s of horror.

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go and call the doctor. Now.’

  ‘But what’s happening, what shall I say?’

  ‘You can see what’s happening! Mum’s had an accident. But she’s got a pain at the same time, and he needs to look at her.’

  ‘What if he can’t come?’

  ‘He’ll come as soon as he can. Dad – go. Please!’

  At last, he went.

  ‘Don’t forget money!’ I called after him. He didn’t reply, but patted his jacket pockets absent-mindedly. His legs were wobbly as a drunk’s as he headed for the front door.

  When the door had closed behind him, I pulled another chair alongside Mother’s and sat down with my arm across her shoulders. She was shuddering slightly, which I took to be either pain, or fever, but when she lifted her head I saw that she’d been crying. Was there to be no end to the shocks?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry, Pam, look at this mess, it’s disgusting . . .’ She shook her head and covered her face with her hands. Where her nightie was wet it was also stained with blood. And flecks of blood, microscopic clots, floated in the urine on the floor. My head swam. No matter how much it bothered her, the mess could wait. My first responsibility was to look after my mother.