by Claire Allan
I laughed. “I’m afraid not. You’d have to take a Sorcha clone as well and she’s not as even-tempered or as handy in the kitchen. But, if you are stuck, I can get Eve to bring you down some dinner later?”
“It’s okay,” Sinéad said. “I have the dinner in the oven here already. The benefits of meal-planning.”
Meal-planning. Another reason Sinéad was a proper grown-up and I was still scrambling around – getting my children to take care of me.
“I must try it sometime,” I said, signing off and pulling on my distinctly unpink and unlacy underwear and some fresh pyjamas before following the enchanting smells downstairs to where my dinner was waiting for me.
When Matthew first left, he called me or called in or texted every day. At the time, of course, I thought this added further fuel to my belief that he was simply having a male moment and would be back shortly, having missed us all terribly. I plastered a smile on my face – even on the days when I found it hard to breathe let alone look presentable. I welcomed him into our home and invited him for dinner (cooked by Eve, of course). When he texted me I would spend too much time on composing witty responses – ones which would show him what he was missing. But I never put an “x” on the end. I didn’t want him to think I was crowding him. I wanted him to think I was still the carefree person he had fallen in love with all those years ago – when we had nothing to worry about except Double Maths and whether or not our pocket money would get docked if we didn’t clean our rooms well enough.
Of course, as the weeks passed, contact become more infrequent. Visits were almost unheard-of, speaking to each other on the phone was saved for very serious situations only and texts became our primary – and occasional – form of communication. Until the pink-bra revelation I had still been trying to convince myself that this was part of the process – that perhaps it was too painful for him to talk to me knowing that he would then be going home, alone, to his flat to eat tinned soup or a microwaved meal for one rather than sitting at his own dinner table in our lovely home eating some freshly prepared feast.
It was only after the aforementioned pink-bra revelation that I realised that probably wasn’t the case. He was probably skipping home and eating his dinner off some nubile young thing and his lack of texts were further evidence he was removing himself from his life. In a fit of pique I had scanned through my phone and noted that I had instigated fourteen out of the last fifteen text chats – which were no longer witty exchanges and instead revolved around bills, childcare arrangements and letting him know if he had any important-looking post.
So I was surprised as I sat on the sofa watching some godawful documentary about the benefits culture when my phone pinged to life with a message from Matthew – which was unrelated to practical matters.
“Well, how was your hot date with Mr Big Shot Hegarty?”
Was he jealous? Was he being sarcastic? Was he mocking me? I used the time I would have spent trying to be flirty and witty to compose a message telling him I wasn’t at all sure what he meant. I had been at work. Of course, I did know what he meant – and he knew that I knew what he meant. But still … I emitted a long, loud sigh which prompted Sorcha to lift her head from her tablet and look in my direction.
“What?” she barked. It was as large an attempt at being a caring teen as I was likely to get.
“Nothing, pet,” I answered – not wanting to fall into the trap of giving out about her darling daddy and she grunted a response while I sat back, staring at my phone, wondering just what kind of game Matthew was playing.
He didn’t respond, of course. Leaving me angry and confused – which, on top of my fear about what the morning might hold – did not bode well for a good night’s sleep.
“It will be okay,” I told myself as I lay in bed that night. “I’m healthy and have a roof over my head. The girls are healthy and happy. Or at least not totally miserable. Eve’s lasagne was the best yet. I have Sinéad to laugh with. And I didn’t tuck my knickers into my skirt at all today. Not even once.”
I plumped the pillows, tried to get comfortable and promised myself that I would keep my cool if Matthew texted me again and that I would keep my cool when Cecilia and I had our meeting in the morning.
“It will be okay,” I whispered at about three thirty in the morning, shortly before I finally fell asleep.
Chapter 4
The first thing I noticed when I walked into Cecilia Brightly’s office the following morning was that she had done her hair in a particularly bouffant-y style. She was also wearing make-up and, instead of her usual work uniform, she wore a black skirt-suit with a crisp white blouse which was, to my mind, not buttoned up far enough to be decent. Her office was heavily scented with a musky perfume as well and she seemed particularly on edge.
“You wanted to see me?” I said. “Look, I know yesterday was a disaster but none of us were expecting Mrs Quigley – Áine – to be so confused. It caught me off guard.”
Cecilia was one of those women who could wriggle out of every awkward situation and didn’t have a moral objection to selling anyone down the river if it saved her own skin. I was expecting that, despite my voicing my concerns to her, she would already have prepared a speech about how I had made a huge error with an important client. The best I could expect, I reckoned, was an official warning. The worst? Well, I was under no illusions that my job wasn’t at risk – especially if Jonathan Hegarty remained as angry as he had been the day before.
But, if I wasn’t mistaken, Cecilia had a smile on her face and had taken on an almost girlish glow. She didn’t look ready to launch into one of her trademark dressing-downs.
Just as she opened her mouth to reply, her phone rang, and raising one finger she gestured to me to wait.
“Yes,” I heard her say. “Could you bring Mr Hegarty through to my office?”
She hung up and asked me to take one of the two seats in front of her desk. “Georgina, don’t worry. I’ll sort this out. I’m used to sweet-talking high-maintenance clients.”
At that moment her door opened and Jonathan was shown in. I stood, nervously, before Cecilia directed me to sit down again and bustled out from behind her desk, her smile dazzlingly bright, as she launched a full-on charm offensive.
“Ah, Jonathan, lovely to see you! Please, take a seat and I’m sure we can sort all this out. As I said to you yesterday, we fully admit we didn’t get the first visit with your aunt just right. We were unprepared – but you know that things were a little different to what Georgina here expected.”
“I would have thought you would have assigned someone with more experience of dementia care,” Jonathan began without so much as glancing in my direction. “And that is something for which the responsibility rests entirely here with you, Cecilia.”
Cecilia’s flirtatious blush very quickly drained from her face.
“But I’m not here to go over old ground,” he went on. “This is very much about fixing things. If it were solely down to me I would have no hesitation in cancelling our contract with no notice and making it my mission to tell as many people as possible about this disaster. To send someone in with minimal, if any, experience with working with dementia patients? To send an incomplete file? It’s simply unacceptable. However, it just so happens that my aunt is quite taken with Georgina.”
He looked at me then, for the first time since entering the room. There was a vague look of something which differed from disgust on his face that made me feel a little strange. I nodded – a quick gesture of acknowledgement of his aunt’s good taste – and looked back to Cecilia who seemed to be struggling to regain her composure after hearing just how close she had come to having her professional reputation trashed by one of the most influential businessmen in town.
“I’m also willing to accept,” he said, “that things yesterday didn’t go as I thought they would.” He coughed and took a deep breath before continuing. “Áine has never been so confused before. It was a shock to me, and if I had known she
would be in such a state then I might have approached things differently. I’ve since discovered she had missed a day or two’s medication. I found her tablets in the bathroom cabinet upstairs, sitting in a row. It’s a part of her condition.” All traces of any earlier bravado and bolshiness were gone.
I actually found myself feeling a little sorry for him – even if he was an insufferable arse the day before.
“Yesterday brought things into a sharper focus for me,” he continued. “And I spoke with my sister last night – we’ve agreed that we need more care for her. I can’t be there myself – and I can’t trust her with just anyone. We thought a home help – someone to make sure her personal-care needs were met once a day would be enough – but it isn’t, obviously.”
“I understand,” I said. “I would feel the same if it were my aunt. You have to do what is right for her.”
“Well, I’m glad we’re in agreement here, Georgina. Because what I think is right is that you come on board for more than the agreed ninety minutes a day.”
I glanced at Cecilia who looked like a woman just saved from the gallows and I looked at Jonathan Hegarty who seemed back to his assured self. Clearly he was used to getting what he wanted – and there was no way Cecilia was going to disagree.
“It’s going to be a bit fluid for a while. I’m going to spend more time myself with Áine at the weekends – I will take care of her needs then, but during the week I need to work. Our cleaner, Maria, will continue to take care of her each morning and make her breakfast but we need someone – you, Georgina – each day from one to six who will make lunch, care for her, make dinner, make sure her clothes are left out for the following day, and try and help her cope with the changes in her life. I will visit each evening. It might not be enough, but we’ll try it and see how we get along.”
I had to speak up, because, as much as I felt sorry for Áine and her predicament, I had felt so deeply uncomfortable the day before, not knowing what to expect or how she might react. It was scary – and I was scared.
“As much as I would love to,” I began, ignoring the death stares from Cecilia, “I have a number of other clients here who really do rely on me. And, as you have said yourself, I’ve no experience of dementia care. I’m sure there would be someone much more suitable.”
I dropped my gaze to the floor as quickly as I could.
“Well, we clearly have a problem then,” Jonathan said. “Because my aunt is taken with you. You remind her of her sister, Charlotte. She made me promise that I would bring you back and my aunt has never asked much of me.”
Internally I was screaming that I was not someone who could be bought – a commodity who could be ordered wherever Jonathan Hegarty wanted me to go but I knew, just knew, I was fighting a losing battle.
“We can reassign your clients, Georgina,” Cecilia said, confidently. “If Mr Hegarty here wants you to work for him for longer hours we can arrange that, without any fuss. We always put our clients first.”
Yes, I thought, we do. Especially if they have a lot of money.
“I’m sure you could learn more about dementia – you’re a smart girl, Georgina,” Cecilia said and I couldn’t help but feel her words were loaded.
Yes, I was a smart girl who would stop putting up barriers to more private money coming into the coffers of Brightly Care Ltd.
“It would mean a lot to me,” Jonathan said. “My aunt is a very special woman. Having more company, having someone to look after her would make a huge difference to our family. Unfortunately she never had children of her own – my sister and I have been taking care of her – but my sister lives in England with her family and I’m quite busy, as you can imagine.”
“There’s no question here, is there?” Cecilia asked me. “You’ll do it, Georgina.”
It was a statement, not a question. And yes, even though I had very, very deep misgivings, I would do it. I didn’t have a choice.
My new duties would start the following day. Today I just had to call in on Áine in the late afternoon. Cecilia at least gave me time to visit my existing clients and explain to them what was happening and that they would have a lovely new care assistant with them from the following day. It was not a fun day. And when I say “not fun”, I mean that I left almost every house fighting back tears and feeling as if I had been torn away from a family who had come to know and trust me. Such trust was not to be underestimated when you had a sick or infirm relative – the people I visited felt vulnerable. Change was not good and I felt awful as I said my goodbyes although I was sure they would be cared for really well by my colleagues.
By the time it came to late afternoon, and I was due to visit Áine again, I felt so emotionally wrung out that I wanted to curl up into a tiny ball in the backseat of my car and mainline chocolate until it all felt a little better.
But, as was my duty, I put my best smile on my face – planned to stop at the shop on the way home to buy one of those really big Dairy Milks – and headed to Temple Muse to once again spend some time with Áine.
I opened the imposing front door with the key Jonathan had given me and, in stark contrast to the silence the day before, I was greeted by the sound of a too-loud TV playing what sounded very like Deal or No Deal.
I called out for Áine and heard no reply – but then again there was a chance no one living or dead would have been able to hear a thing over the sound of that television and Noel Edmunds’ dulcet tones.
“Áine!” I called again, making my way down the hall where some of the dark mahogany doors which had been closed yesterday were now open. Following the sound of the TV, I turned into a room on the right and found Áine sitting on a Parker Knoll armchair, glued to the television with her hands over her eyes.
“I can’t bear to watch,” Áine said. “She should have taken the offer from the banker, but now … I know that box has nothing in it and she’s going to go home with nothing. It’s such a shame.”
I watched as Áine dropped her hands slowly, and Noel Edmunds intoned that this could be very bad news indeed.
“Hi, Áine,” I said.
“Shhh,” she replied. “We can talk after this.”
I was fairly sure Áine hadn’t even registered who was there – and she clearly didn’t much care at that moment. I wondered did Jonathan know just how his aunt could welcome anyone into her home. Surely he had to be concerned someone could take advantage of her – I decided I would have to mention it to him. But then again, perhaps I should wait a little while. Even a few days. Let a little water run under the bridge. Or I’d end up living in this big house in Temple Muse 24/7 keeping an eye on Áine and watching Deal or No Deal.
“I told you!”
I watched as she sprang to her feet in as sprightly a fashion as a woman half her age. “You should have listened to me,” she scolded the TV. “You’d have gone home with some money in your pocket!” She walked across the room, switched the TV off and turned to look at me – where I was still standing in the doorway afraid to speak until spoken to.
“Right, well, I would say that it’s time for tea then?” Áine said.
There was no twisting of her hands, no look of uncertainty. No obvious confusion. Perhaps this would be a good day?
I nodded. “That would be lovely, and then you can tell me how you’ve been today?”
“Ach, sure I have no stories to tell. I’ve not even been outside the door. But if it keeps my nephew happy I will sit and chat with you for the time you are here.”
There was no doubt Áine was like a different woman from the person I had left the day before. She seemed confident, sure of herself.
“I can tell you all about Deal or No Deal or Homes Under the Hammer – I’m an expert at daytime TV,” she said as I followed her through to the kitchen. “Jonathan even had a TV installed for me in the kitchen so I can watch the cookery programmes.”
As on the day before, a plate of cellophane-wrapped sandwiches sat on the table along with the teapot, sugar bowl, milk j
ug, cups, saucers and cutlery. I took it as some sort of gesture of conciliation from Jonathan. Sandwiches again. Save me making anything for tea. Give me time to get to know Áine properly again.
“Do you want me to put the kettle on?” I asked.
“I’m actually quite capable of making tea,” Áine said defensively. “I’m even capable of cooking. I used to love to cook. I’ve been cooking hot dinners since long before you were born. Probably before your mother was born – and yet,” she glanced at the table, “it makes Jonathan feel better to send me a nursemaid. And to have sandwiches made for me. I am sick of the sight of sandwiches. He’s been having Maria make them for me for a week now. For the love of God, who could eat sandwiches every day without losing their mind?” She laughed at this. Not a bitter laugh – it was almost girlish and it faded off as she became aware of what she was saying.
I watched her – watched her expression falter and change – and wondered what it must be like knowing that your mind was slipping away. I watched as she lifted the kettle, filled it and put it on the range as she had the day before – an automatic process. And I watched as she stopped in her tracks in front of the range as if trying to catch up with her own thought processes, turned to look at the sandwiches and then looked back at the kettle.
“Tea,” she said and went to get the teapot.
“We can cook something more substantial if you like?” I offered. “See you through till morning properly? Some potatoes, or pasta – what would you like?”
Áine was warming the china teapot. “Sometimes,” she said softly, “I don’t remember what I like any more. Isn’t that silly? You must think me silly. Imagine not remembering what you like any more?”
“Can I let you in on a secret, Áine?” I asked, unwrapping the sandwiches. “Sometimes I’m not quite sure what I like any more either. So we’ll make a deal – we’ll have these blasted sandwiches tonight and then maybe we’ll have a look through a couple of those cookery books I see over there and, if anything takes your fancy, we can make some of that tomorrow? Does that sound okay?”