Behind Closed Doors

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘No, not ideal,’ I breathed, horrified. ‘And we’re not in fucking North Africa now, Dad.’

  ‘No need to swear,’ he said mildly, another expression I was to hear a lot, as my language got increasingly colourful. In direct correlation, in fact, to the increasingly apparent state of affairs.

  At that moment the door directly opposite us, with ‘Dr Gupta’ engraved on a plate, opened. A young woman stuck her head round. ‘Mr Hartley?’

  ‘The nurse thought I should see a doctor,’ he muttered to me. ‘And Mike Bond’s away.’

  ‘Yes, of course! Can I come in too?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Dr Gupta. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

  Try stopping me. I’d sprinted past my father, who, for once, was outnumbered, and sat down firmly by her desk. Dad shuffled in and sat beside me.

  ‘I’ve written you a prescription for antibiotics for your ulcers and we’d like you to see the nurse again in three days’ time. The penicillin should start to kick in soon and you’ll be in less pain. Which must have been excruciating.’ She eyed him carefully. ‘Please don’t drink on the antibiotics, and please come and have your dressings changed regularly. I see from your notes you haven’t been for two weeks. I also see that you missed the carpal tunnel operation Dr Bond arranged. Was there any particular reason?’ she asked gently.

  ‘I was busy,’ Dad said petulantly. He hid his gloved hands.

  ‘Right, well, I’ve booked another one at the same hospital for three weeks on Thursday. I see, too, that Mrs Hartley missed her cataract operation. Any idea why that was?’ She looked at me.

  I opened my mouth, astonished. Cataracts? Carpal tunnel? I closed my mouth. ‘No. But rest assured I’ll get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘Are you the carer?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said firmly as my father simultaneously roared ‘No!’

  ‘I mean, I’m their daughter. But I certainly will be—’ Dad glared at me but I held my nerve, ‘caring for them.’ He went a bit purple.

  ‘Right,’ said the frightfully efficient Dr Gupta who was fast becoming my new best friend. ‘Well, we have a cataract cancellation on Wednesday next week, at the same hospital. Shall I book your mother in for that?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  After we’d collected his medication at the dispensary, my father and I walked to the car in stony silence.

  ‘Interfering busybody,’ he said as we got in.

  ‘Actually, Dad, she’s just trying to keep you independent for as long as possible. Entirely up to you.’

  ‘She wanted to stick her finger up my arse last time I saw her.’

  ‘That’ll be your prostate. Did you let her?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ This was to be another mantra to add to my list, but I let this one go, thinking that, actually, his prostate was the least of my worries. Or at any rate one to be tackled another day.

  I went back into town to shop after I’d dropped Dad at home. Then I returned to fill the fridge and the larder, which were horribly bare. Particularly when I’d thrown out everything beyond its sell by date.

  ‘Nothing wrong with that!’ they kept shrieking, hovering behind me as I filled a black sack.

  ‘Cream from last month,’ I told them, chucking in a blue-rimmed pot. ‘Eggs from March.’

  ‘Eggs keep forever,’ my mother insisted.

  ‘Sardines from 2001.’ I was in the larder now.

  ‘Ah, now they really will be fine,’ said my father, lunging for them. ‘Tinned stuff lasts years.’ I wrestled them back, glaring at him. He looked taken aback. ‘We’ve managed perfectly well on our own, you know. And a little bit of mould never hurt anyone.’

  ‘Does one the world of good, actually,’ agreed my mother. ‘It’s full of penicillin.’ It occurred to me that apart from last night’s little hiccup over the cottage, they’d definitely closed ranks and were presenting a united front. There’d been very little sniping, which was a good thing. Even if their barbs were aimed at me now.

  My mother sulked for a bit in the scullery as I cleaned the fridge completely, but then she couldn’t help creeping back as I refilled it.

  ‘Ooh, what’s that?’ she said, fingering some greenery.

  ‘Kale.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Flaxseeds. You sprinkle them on muesli.’

  ‘Oh, we don’t do muesli.’

  ‘Mum, there’s absolutely no nutrition in those stale Frosties I threw away. Just give it a go, eh? Or an egg? A fresh one, preferably.’

  ‘And we like white bread,’ she complained, as I filled the bread bin.

  ‘Which is why I’ve bought both, and put a few loaves in the freezer so you can toast it. And I’ve got the jams you like, too.’

  ‘You threw ours away.’

  ‘They were thick with mould. And trust me, if Helena was here, it’d be quinoa, apple cider vinegar and Himalayan pink sea salt crystals all the way, so count yourself lucky. Now. Lunch.’

  ‘A burger,’ said my father stubbornly, going to the freezer. ‘That’s what I always have, unless you’ve thrown those away too. You get ten for a pound in the village shop. Ah, there they are, and your mother likes a chocolate cupcake with marmalade on top.’

  ‘Did you get some?’ she asked suspiciously, peering in my bag.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘But we don’t eat yet,’ Dad said, shocked, as I put some veg on the chopping board.

  ‘No, I was just getting it ready. What time do you eat?’

  ‘Ooh, about two?’ he said, passing Mum a drink clinking with ice and lemon.

  I glanced at the clock. ‘So … that’s a two-hour cocktail hour.’

  ‘Got to have a little fun,’ said my mother petulantly and I saw Dad’s eyes gleam dangerously as he poured himself a particularly large vodka and tonic.

  ‘I get that,’ I said evenly, trying not to think of Dr Gupta, ‘but maybe we’ll eat at one thirty, otherwise I’ll be starving. Anyway, I thought you said the De Courcys were coming? You surely weren’t giving them marmalade cupcakes, were you?’

  ‘No, no, they like the frozen burgers. But Nancy rang to say Archie’s had an unfortunate fall. After lunch in St James’s he went off to buy himself a hat in Lock’s. Missed his footing on the way out. Just needed a couple of stitches.’

  ‘Right,’ I said faintly. ‘And the Pattersons?’

  ‘Reggie’s brother-in-law died last night. He couldn’t bear him. In fact, he advised him to fuck off over the parsnips last Easter, but he feels he should go and see Kitty, his sister. The one who farts as she walks, you remember. Outside church.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And then we have a little zizz,’ said my mother firmly.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘After lunch. We like a little zizz.’

  ‘But we don’t like to sleep past five o’clock. We set our alarms.’

  I nodded. No indeed. Because precisely one hour after that it would be cocktail hour again, and one wouldn’t want to miss a minute.

  After we’d all had home-made burgers and salad, which they pretended not to enjoy but I could tell they did, and whilst they were napping, I set about making a chicken pie for supper. Mum was worryingly thin: in fact I’d been shocked to see her arms when she’d taken her cardigan off, but if she subsisted on a diet of chocolate cake and gin, it wasn’t hard to see why. I made three pies, small ones, and froze two, along with the burgers, all individually wrapped. When I’d finished, feeling soothed – cooking does that for me – I had a good look round the house.

  Irene, I knew, still came once a week, but Irene, or Mrs Tully, as I still called her, had been coming since Helena and I were children, and was only marginally younger than my parents. Mum had tried to retire her once, but her eyes had filled up and so had Mum’s, and so still she came. She hoovered a bit in the middle of the rooms, washed the kitchen floor, again, in the middle, flicked a duster around, but mostly she and Mum sat at the k
itchen table and gossiped. Mum loved to hear about what was going on in the village and Irene didn’t hold back. Dad, meanwhile, had a very comfortable morning reading all the newspapers in the study where Irene was never allowed on account of her moving things around – about twenty years ago, when she could. It was win-win all round, except, of course, the house was filthy.

  As I poked around now, flinching at yet another dead mouse and trail of droppings behind a sofa, so rank even Hector wasn’t interested, I realized that a mammoth task lay ahead of me. And this was merely what was visible. What lurked beneath was unimaginable. For now, however, I confined myself to the kitchen, which had almost made me gag as I’d cooked in it earlier, opening drawers stiff with grease, having to wash every utensil before I used it. I had to deal with that right now if I was even going to make another cup of tea in there. I found an apron in a drawer, and a duster, which I tied over my hair, knowing from last night that I might not wash my hair until I’d thoroughly cleaned the bathroom, and set to work. I was up a step ladder, deep in a revolting corner of the ceiling, flicking spiders and cobwebs down, when there was a rap on the back door.

  ‘Come in!’ I yelled, above Hector barking, knowing Danny was due to collect a final cheque for the time he’d spent stewing tea and beans in the cottage. It was sitting on the side. Nothing happened, so I yelled ‘Come in’ again, irritated. With a sigh I started to dismount my ladder, shouting for Hector to shut up, when the back door opened.

  A tall, slim man, with blondish greying hair, an outdoors complexion and pale blue eyes appeared in the doorway. I stopped, mid-descent.

  ‘Oh. Sorry to yell. I thought you were Danny.’

  ‘Dan.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’m Dan De Courcy.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ A bell rang somewhere: something to do with Helena.

  ‘Don’t tell me they’ve finally replaced Irene?’

  ‘What? Oh – no.’ I whipped the yellow duster from my head and glanced down at my pinny. ‘No, I’m Lucy. Their daughter.’

  ‘Oh yes. Of course.’ He blinked. ‘Gosh, I didn’t rec ognize you. But it’s probably been about a hundred years since I last saw you.’

  ‘Dan! How splendid!’ A voice boomed from behind me. My father appeared in the kitchen, refreshed from his sleep, looking ruddy-faced and bright-eyed. He was beaming delightedly as he rubbed his hands together. ‘To what do we owe this pleasure?’

  Dan looked rather abashed. ‘I’m afraid it’s not a pleasure, Henry. Mum asked me to come round. I’m afraid the hospital rang. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Archie died this morning.’

  12

  ‘Oh Lord. I am sorry.’ My father’s hand went to his brow. ‘Lord. That fall …?’

  ‘Proved to be fatal.’

  ‘Archie?’ I asked tentatively. So many names.

  ‘Nancy’s husband. And Dan, here’s, step, step-father?’

  ‘One more step, actually. Mum’s fourth husband.’

  ‘Ah.’ Yes, I remembered now. Mum’s best friend, Nance, had always been a bit of a goer. A serial husband bagger. But it explained the slightly awkward, but less than grief-stricken face of the man before me. I surreptitiously took my pinny off.

  ‘God, I’m sorry,’ said Dad.

  ‘Well …’ admitted Dan, uncomfortably. He stopped.

  ‘Never liked the fellow?’ offered Dad, helpfully.

  ‘Oh, heavens no, I wouldn’t say that. Just that, well, they only married last year, so …’

  ‘Quite. Couldn’t stick him myself. But luckily he didn’t play bridge, so we didn’t see much of him. Nance usually came on her tod. Ah, darling, Dan’s here.’ My mother materialized in a fresh floral dress; she always changed for the evening, but she’d forgotten to do some buttons up. I darted across to help her. ‘Got some rather bad news. Archie’s little fall knocked him out for good, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh, poor Nance. How is she?’

  ‘Well, she’s not great, obviously,’ Dan said soberly. ‘And I wondered …’

  ‘Oh! Oh yes, of course. I’ll come. Wait a tick, I’ll get my bag. Just pop up and do my hair. Wait there, Dan.’

  ‘Drink, dear boy?’ asked my father, as we went through to the sitting room and I surreptitiously ruffled my flat hair.

  ‘It’s a bit early actually, Henry, and I’ve got to drive back.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. Don’t mind if I do? It’s the shock, you know.’ He made for the whisky decanter on the sideboard.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Luce?’

  ‘Not yet, Dad. Um, Dad, d’you think Mum will be all right? Won’t she be very upset? Should I go with her?’

  He looked surprised. ‘Heavens, no, your mother thrives on drama, wouldn’t miss it for the world. And Nancy,’ he glanced at Dan, ‘won’t be exactly … devastated …?’ he ventured cautiously.

  ‘Indeed not,’ agreed Dan. ‘I was stretching the truth when I said she wasn’t great, she’s just a bit shaken. But even she’d come to realize he was getting through her savings at an alarming rate. But hey, what can you do? It’s her money, and I think they had a few laughs.’

  I looked at him, liking him for that. In my opinion, it was entirely up to elderly people what they did with their money and I could sometimes get cross with Helena when she wanted to talk to Mum and Dad about power of attorney and what they should do with their savings. It only made Dad tight-lipped and Mum anxious, and I knew she sort of meant ‘so there’s more when you go’, and I knew Dad sort of knew too. So this was refreshing.

  ‘He was wearing a sombrero when they found him,’ Dan told us.

  ‘Good God. Why?’

  ‘That’s what he’d bought from Lock’s.’

  ‘Christ. Bit odd. Not quite like other budgerigars, was he?’

  ‘Not entirely. He thought he and Mum were going to Mexico for Christmas, and let’s face it, Archie could barely get to Waitrose. Ah. Cecily.’ He smiled kindly as my mother appeared with a great deal of make-up on, clutching her handbag and looking rather over-excited. ‘You look splendid.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ I asked her, as we walked them to the door.

  ‘Not a bit of it. Nance will want to tell all, which she can’t do with you there. And, of course, she really can tell all, now that … well. Also, we’ll need to plan the funeral.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Dan rolled his eyes. ‘She’s already chosen the hymns.’

  ‘And flowers, of course.’ My mother was bustling outside excitedly now. ‘Quite large displays, I should think, in that church. It’s so dreary.’

  ‘Easy, Mum. He’s barely cold.’ Although I couldn’t help feeling a frisson of guilt as I reprimanded her, for obvious, personal reasons.

  ‘I hear you lost your own husband. I’m sorry,’ Dan spookily echoed my thoughts, albeit along different lines, and I went bright red and couldn’t look at anyone. But then neither could my parents, and since Mum told Nance everything, Dan no doubt knew the subtext, but because we were English, the motions still had to be gone through.

  ‘Thank you,’ I muttered in response. ‘I’ll come and get her,’ I told him firmly, as my mother hurried around to the passenger side of his car.

  He turned. ‘Oh, there’s no need—’

  ‘No, I’d like to. In about an hour, so she doesn’t get too tired, and comes back to eat,’ I said quietly, out of Mum’s earshot. My father was opening the door and helping her in.

  ‘Actually, yes, good plan,’ he said, equally sotto voce, his face clearing. Nance drank more than Mum, if it was possible. We met each other’s eyes and communed silently, both knowing exactly what we were talking about.

  As Dad and I went back inside and shut the front door, it reminded me of shuttling young children backwards and forwards: not wanting them back too late, too over-tired, too teary. It also occurred to me, as I went thoughtfully back to the sitting room with my father, that annoyingly, for once, Helena
had not been wrong. Dan was rather attractive.

  When I went to collect my mother later, mysteriously I’d deemed it appropriate to switch my attentions to the bathroom rather than the kitchen. I’d scrubbed it to within an inch of its life, then myself. I’d also put on a clean pair of jeans, a rather attractive smocked top I’d bought in the Whistles sale, and washed my hair. Their house was only ten minutes away and I remembered the way from years ago: down this windy lane, then that one … right at the next, across the junction, and then right at the next sharp bend.

  As I crunched up the manicured gravel drive so unlike our own, to the imposing Georgian façade, I wondered why Dan and I hadn’t overlapped much during our childhoods. Probably because he’d been away at school when I was little and was the eldest of three brothers, the youngest of whom was my age. Also, Helena and I tended to only deign to show up with friends of our parents when there were girls of our age present, like the Dugdales or the Frobishers, and by the time we all realized how short-sighted this was, we were away at university. But I did vaguely remember his youngest brother, Milo, who liked to play French skipping with me. We used to fix the elastic round a tree at one end, then round one of our legs, as the other hopped about. I reckoned Dan would be about four years older than me. I tried to remember what Helena had said about him. Single, I knew, but why? Widowed? Divorced? And did he live here on his own? Commute to London? Was he reattached? So many questions.

  It was Nancy who came to the door, looking rather pale, but bright-eyed. I gave her a hug and murmured my sympathies. She smelled amazing, as I recalled she always did. Mum and Nance had modelled together, back in the days when they twirled elegantly in-house for couturiers, rather than stalking down some foreign catwalk – she was a voluble, excitable woman who Dad said was both verbally and emotionally incontinent, which made her a natural ally of my mother’s. Still tall and statuesque, always exotically dressed and with a penchant for silk turbans – peacock blue today – she was a very handsome woman. I followed her embroidered kaftan as she hurried through the hall with slightly too much alacrity, but then, as if remembering, her gait slowed and she bowed her head tragically. I suppressed a smile as I followed her in.