by Elaine Chong
I put on my nicest smile. “Hi there. I’m hoping you can help me. I’m looking for someone…” but the girl is already closing the door.
She says, “Sorry, but we’ve only just moved in,” and she grabs the child by the arm and pulls him after her. Before I have a chance to say any more, the door has been closed in my face.
Well, that was just rude, I think to myself.
From the corner of my eye, I notice a movement in the garden next door, so I quickly walk back to the road. The neighbour is an elderly woman around the same age as my mother judging by the colour and cut of her hair. I hesitate to use the word ‘style’ to describe it because it’s the same androgynous shape that so many women of her generation choose to adopt when the menopause has faded to a distant memory and femininity seems to be a choice rather than a biological imperative – not a trend that I intend to follow.
I slip into position my brightest ‘May I be of assistance to you?’ smile – even though I’m the one who requires the assistance on this occasion – and walk confidently up the garden path. “Hallo there!” I call out to her. When she returns my smile, I approach with my hand already extended. It’s a tactic I’ve perfected. It’s now impossible for her to not take my hand without appearing appallingly rude, and most people in my experience hate to appear rude regardless of how they actually feel about a situation – especially the British, who still believe (erroneously as it happens) that they’re famed for their good manners.
“Can I help you?” she asks and gives my hand a friendly shake.
“I hope so,” I say.
I was going to spin her a line about working as an investigator for Silver, Reid and Bateman Solicitors, but I stop myself just in time. This woman probably knew my father quite well, though possibly not well enough to know that he had another family – at least not until it was mentioned in the newspaper after his death. If she’d had a fondness for him, his lovely companion and their darling daughter Miriam, then she probably didn’t feel quite the same way when she found out that he was effectively a bigamist, so a straightforward introduction suddenly seems a better bet.
“My name’s Julia Crane and my father was George Oakley.”
Her face immediately lights up with interest. “Come in,” she says. She gives me a long look. “You don’t look very much like him, you know. Miriam’s the spitting image of him. No doubt about who her father is.”
I can’t decide if there’s some sort of innuendo hidden in this observation, but I just keep smiling and when she turns and walks into the house, I follow her.
She leads me into a sitting room at the back of the house. It’s crammed with dark, replica period furniture, whose outsize proportions would be better suited to a country hotel rather than a modern bungalow, and there’s lots and lots of chintz. It’s everywhere – the curtains, the upholstery, even the feature wall behind the fireplace is covered with exotic flowers. The effect is overpowering, and I can actually feel my chest tighten and my lungs contract so when she offers to make a cup of tea, I accompany her into the kitchen.
“Go and make yourself comfortable on the sofa, dear,” she says.
I ignore her. The kitchen is light and uncluttered and a much more welcoming space, so I pull out a chair at the dining table. “I’ll sit here,” I say and then I distract her by admiring the garden and asking her how long she’s lived here and if she knew my father well.
“Oh, we moved here when Reggie – that’s my husband – when Reggie retired. That’s nearly twenty years ago.” She smiles. “I’m Shirley, by the way. Shirley Pym.”
“It’s really kind of you to invite me in, Shirley,” I say. “I hope you don’t mind me ... don’t mind me asking you a few questions about my father when he was living here with ... with...” I hover awkwardly over the unfinished sentence because the words are like bile in my mouth.
Shirley misinterprets and oozes sympathy, but she doesn’t hesitate to supply the missing information. “It’s Lena. Lena Bartok. I think she said the name was Hungarian, but I know she was born in Holland.”
“In a place called Urk,” I volunteer. “At least that’s where her parents were living when Daddy had his accident.” I tell her this as though I know the family.
Shirley nods. “That’s right. That’s where she was when your dad was knocked down.” Her cheery expression visibly saddens. “Such a nice man. And he was a wonderful father to Miriam.” She must have noticed my smile falter because she quickly adds, “Of course, we had no idea he was still living together with your mum when he wasn’t here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we all thought they were separated. You know, legally separated. He told everyone at the club that she was a churchgoer and she wouldn’t agree to a divorce. Was she Roman Catholic? I know they don’t hold with divorce.” She places a cup of tea in front of me and puts her hand on my shoulder. “It must have been horrible for you all when he died. Such a shock.” I feel her hesitate, feel her hand tremble. “He made some mistakes, I realise that, but he was a lovely man, Julia, a real charmer. He didn’t deserve what happened to him and it breaks my heart when I think that the person who did this terrible thing is still out there. It’s a travesty, it really is.”
A travesty of justice, she means, and two weeks ago I would have immediately agreed with her, but now I wonder... What other secrets was he hiding? What other lies did he tell?
“You said he told everyone at the club? Do you mean the country club where he used to play golf?”
“That’s right, dear. Reggie’s still a member. Goes off most mornings – he’s a bit of a fair-weather golfer these days mind you, but he likes the company.”
“So that’s how you knew my father? Through the golf club?”
She nods emphatically. “It was my Reggie, who told him about the house next door. They had a lovely little flat over one of the shops in Shenfield high street but then when Lena found out she was in the family way, he wanted to find a place for them all to live. Somewhere quiet with a nice garden, he told Reggie.”
“They had a flat in Shenfield high street,” I repeat after her. She nods again and I realise that, somehow in the course of our conversation, she’s forgotten who she’s speaking to. I could remind her. I could tell her that my mother was neither a Roman Catholic nor a wife from whom her husband had legally separated. I could tell her that the lovely flat he shared with his mistress – because that’s what Lena Bartok really was – the flat in the high street was just a stone’s throw from our family home and my mother must have walked past it every time she went shopping and she never knew. He knew though. He knew and he clearly didn’t care. Perhaps Richard was right about him after all, I think to myself.
Shirley likes to talk. I think she’s lonely. She tells me that Lena Bartok came back for the funeral without the child, and that she couldn’t afford to stay in the house next door, so she sold off most of the furniture on eBay and took what was left with her when she moved out.
“She still lives around here?” I ask, hoping against hope that Shirley Pym has a forwarding address.
“I’ve no idea,” she says. “But she kept on working at the club for a while. Reggie said they all missed her when she left. She was a good worker, always cheerful and conscientious.” A sad, wistful note creeps into her voice. “I miss her too.”
She walks me to the door and tells me, “Your father was a good man, Julia. He had his faults, no doubt about that, but him and Lena were a lovely couple.”
I’ve successfully managed to keep my anger tightly zipped up till this point but a picture of my mother frail and helpless in her hospital bed pops into my head and it acts as the catalyst for an outpouring of furious indignation.
When I finally leave, I tell her, “Lena Bartok wasn’t a lovely person and, as it turns out, neither was my father. She was just another money-grubbing opportunist and he was a liar and a cheat. We’ve lost everything because of that woman.”
Shirley Pym
stands on the doorstep speechless and red-faced. It wasn’t kind a thing to do – reveal to her how my father left virtually everything he owned to little Miriam, the bastard child of his mistress, and nothing to his real family – but it was the ugly truth.
I’m not sure I’ve learned anything new about him, but I have discovered where he probably met Lena Bartok. If she continued to work at the club after she moved away from here, then I should be able to find out where she went when she left. There’s even a small chance that someone there still keeps in contact with her. That could be just the little bit of luck I need.
Richard
Silvio woke me with a kiss this morning then climbed into bed. He wrapped himself around me, yawned extravagantly and murmured, “Buongiorno mi amore.” Within seconds he was fast asleep.
Yesterday evening, the party at Bocca Felice went on into the night. He phoned me at around midnight to tell me that no one had left yet, people were still eating, and the wine was still flowing. I told him to stay at the flat, and he agreed it was the best thing to do because he didn’t think he’d get to bed much before three. I’m not sure Mamma Mazzi would have approved, but fortunately she’s still staying with her sister in Varenna and what she doesn’t know she can’t oppose.
When I was certain that I wouldn’t wake him, I disentangled myself from his arms and crept into the kitchen. A cup of espresso from Silvio’s very expensive coffee maker soon had the desired effect and I’ve been able to quickly settle down at my desk to work.
The hotel project, which has plagued my waking hours for the last few months, has suddenly gathered momentum. I think the client has herself grown tired of it all and now wants it finished, but probably not quite as much as I do. I make a string of phone calls to suppliers and contractors, impressing on everyone the need for speed and efficiency now that final decisions have been made and we have a non-negotiable deadline to complete the work.
At around eleven o’clock, Silvio stumbles out of bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and demanding coffee. I remember that I haven’t eaten since the previous evening, so I hurry away to our favourite delicatessen to buy a selection of sweet pastries for him and a more substantial breakfast for me – a baguette filled with ham and cheese.
When I return to the flat, Silvio is lying on the sofa. There are purple rings under his eyes and his honey-coloured skin has lost some of its healthy glow. Once again, he demands coffee.
“It’s a good thing your mother can’t see you like this,” I tell him. “If she knew that you’d kept the restaurant open late just for that guy, she’d be mad as hell. I know you value his custom, but really…”
“It was a private party,” he says and shrugs. “It’s okay. It’s just one night.”
“I know. But now you’ve set a precedent,” I argue back at him. “What are you going to say when he wants to do it again?”
He forces a smile. “We worry about that when it happens. Caffè Latte. Presto per favore.”
With the coffee and pastries consumed from a prone position on the sofa, Silvio ambles away to have a leisurely shower. When he returns, he looks refreshed but there’s still an underlying air of fatigue in his handsome face. He drops back onto the sofa and motions to me to join him. He knows I worry about him when the work in the restaurant is grinding him down, but I understand it isn’t easy to turn away customers when the business is all about service and goodwill.
I close the file I’ve been leafing through and sit down next him, put my arm around his shoulder and find the smooth skin at the back of his neck with my lips. He drops his head onto my shoulder and sighs.
“We both need a holiday,” I tell him. “All these problems with my mother and Julia. As soon as everything’s sorted, we’re going away, Silvio. Just the two of us.”
“Julia must sort her own problems,” he says.
“And my mother?”
“It’s not a problem, Ricardo.”
“But what about this MMSE? What if it shows she’s got dementia? She can’t live on her own if she’s got dementia.”
“You are … how you say? Putting the cart in front of the horse. You don’t know!”
“But if she does?” I persist, and I hear the fear in my voice.
He lifts his head and with the tips of his fingers turns my face to meet his, presses his lips to mine and kisses me with such warmth and tenderness that tears spring to my eyes. He whispers, “We worry about that when it happens.”
He spends the rest of the morning lying on the sofa listening to music through headphones, while I get back to work. When his brother calls from the restaurant about an urgent problem with the plumbing in the flat upstairs – apparently there’s water dripping through the ceiling – he quickly gets dressed and leaves, telling me once again not to worry. This is like asking a cat not to purr. When there’s a problem, which needs to be solved, I worry. It’s my default setting in all uncertain situations. And now that the subject of my mother has been raised once again, I find I can no longer concentrate so I decide to drive to the hospital and find out what’s happening.
As soon as I reach the reception desk on the ward, a nurse I’ve never met before springs to her feet and asks me if I’m Mrs Oakley’s son. When I confirm that I am, she takes me into the room where I shared the multi-coloured birthday cake with Nurse Kelly. This looks like the bad news I’ve been anticipating.
“What’s going on? Is there a problem with my mother?” I ask her straight away.
“No, not a problem really, just a few concerns,” she says. She’s younger than Nurse Kelly, probably not much more than a teenager, and I can see from the nervous hand-wringing that she’s been given the task of telling me something I may not want to hear. “The consultant had a chat with Mrs Oakley this morning...” she begins.
“You mean this MMSE – Mini Mental State Examination,” I say.
She swallows hard. “No, he just had a little chat with her about going home.”
“So, she hasn’t had this test?”
“No.” She consults the notes on the clipboard under her arm. I open my mouth to protest but she’s obviously been prepped for this confrontation and continues quickly on. “Because Mrs Oakley was admitted to the ward as a surgical patient,” – and she emphasizes the word for my benefit – “the orthogeriatric consultant makes the final decision that she’s well enough to be discharged, together with other members of staff involved in her care. Nurse Kelly did mention to him that you were a bit worried about your mother. He doesn’t have any concerns and, like I said, he spoke to her this morning, but he can make a referral to the memory clinic.”
“Where she’ll have the test?” I attempt to confirm.
“She’ll be seen by the geriatric consultant – a specialist in dementia.”
“But meanwhile she has to go home?”
She nods.
The constricted muscles in my chest begin to relax. It isn’t precisely what I wanted to hear, but at least she’s going to have the benefit of a professional opinion, I think to myself. It then occurs to me that I’ve been brought into this room for a reason. They still have concerns.
“Mrs Oakley is probably going to be discharged before the weekend.”
“Okay…”
“We’ve spoken to her about this, but she says she isn’t ready to go home.”
“Okay…” I say again.
The nurse looks up at me and I recognise the expression in her eyes – it’s one of anxious hopefulness. It says, please help me out here because I can’t do this without you. “We have to discharge her, Mr Oakley. We understand that your sister…” she glances at her notes. “Your sister Mrs Julia Crane, is going to be staying with her?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
She offers me a small, grateful smile. “As far as we can tell she’s making a good recovery. The physiotherapist has confirmed that she’s now progressed to using elbow crutches, and the plan for tomorrow is to teach her how manage the stairs then discharge he
r on Friday.”
“What exactly are the concerns that you have?” I ask her.
“Well, from a medical perspective, she is ready to go home, but if she refuses…” She leaves the sentence hanging in the air.
“I see,” I say. “You want me to speak her?”
“If you could, please. We’ve tried talking to her, but it’s difficult because she refuses to say specifically what’s worrying her. I don’t know if you can think of anything?”
Can I think of anything? Well, maybe the prospect of being forced to leave the home you’ve lived in for the last fifty years. Yes, I think that might just do it.
“I’ll speak to her right now,” I say.
She’s sitting in the chair next to the bed and greets me with a surprised but very happy smile. “Richard, how lovely to see you. You’re not working this afternoon?”
“I decided to take the afternoon off.” I fetch another chair and place it so that we’re facing one another. “You look well.” And she does look well. The colour has returned to her cheeks and her eyes are bright with curious interest. Before she has a chance to deny the obvious improvement in her health, I tell her, “They’re planning to discharge you on Friday. That’s good news, isn’t it?”
Her expression immediately sours: the upturned corners of her mouth change direction and the curious interest is replaced by … I think it’s anger. “Is that what they’ve told you?” she says. “Well, then I suppose it must true. I’ve told them I’m not ready to go home – I haven’t even done the stairs yet but they’re dead set on getting rid of me.”
“They’re not ‘getting rid of you’. They’re discharging you into the care of your own doctor because you don’t need to be in hospital. I thought you’d be glad to get home. Why do you want to stay here?”