Behind Closed Doors

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘What sort of things do you write?’ asked Trisha, which was always the first question. I could see Josh looking at me with interest, perhaps wondering how I’d describe it.

  ‘Oh, just silly detective stories,’ I said quickly. ‘Very much beach reads.’

  ‘That’s amazing,’ said Trisha, nonetheless impressed, and followed up with the question that was always next, where I got my ideas. That one I always fudged. Michael. Always Michael, and his cruelty, which gave me, not my ideas, but the imaginary world he propelled me into. With a gutsy heroine so different to yours truly; indeed, the woman I wished I was. My fingers would fly over the keys as she got to the bottom of every unsolved police investigation, every injustice, reopening inquiry after inquiry – cold cases being her forte – perhaps on the tearful insistence of some poor family whose child had gone missing years ago; some gap year student who’d never been found. And eventually, of course, Susie does find her, alive and well, and married, incidentally, in Papua New Guinea. Happy, too. Because, it transpires, she’d been desperate to escape the clutches of her controlling mother. The one who’d asked Susie to find her. No, Michael never appeared in my books – or read them, thank the Lord, having given up after erroneously failing to recognize anything of our life together. But the influence was there.

  I smiled. ‘Honestly, I have no idea. I think it’s just a process of osmosis, everyday things I pick up subliminally and use in my stories. Things I’m told, maybe – who knows?’ I spread my hands expansively. ‘I expect people ask the same thing about your garden designs, don’t they?’

  ‘Well, it’s not quite in the same ballpark as yours, creatively, but you’re right, it does all spring from the imagination,’ she admitted with surprise, liking the seriousness with which I’d treated her subject. And I knew I was safe. I’d neatly turned the tables, as I always did, so that whoever had asked the question had forgotten what they’d asked, and taken the baton. But as we drifted into the house, and Trisha explained about one garden she’d done recently for a nightmare client, who basically wanted a mini Highgrove, a series of little rooms, I could feel Josh’s gaze still on me, not so easily diverted.

  If it was strange to be sitting at my own kitchen table, albeit with a different cloth on it, and being served food from my own oven I hadn’t cooked myself, that feeling passed quite quickly. Plus, the food and wine helped enormously. Tilly’s Thai green curry was a triumph – and the roulade she’d made to follow, which Josh had just about remembered to defrost, was delicious too. And Francis and Trisha were a delight. They clearly knew Josh extremely well – after all, he’d lived with them when he first came over – but they went back much further than that: Francis and Josh to Cambridge days, which intrigued me, because Francis looked a lot older. They mentioned crowding into a union bar to watch Nelson Mandela being released and I remembered doing exactly the same in my student days, as did Trisha.

  ‘So we’re all the same vintage,’ she observed, glancing around. Her amused eyes rested on her husband.

  ‘Yes, all right!’ Francis spluttered, his mouth full of roulade. ‘Ask Josh what he puts in his cornflakes – it’s not my fault the man dyes his hair!’

  ‘What rubbish!’ Josh roared, eyes popping, face flushed. I was enjoying seeing him like this. We were near the end of the meal and he was a bit pissed, and flustered from doing the cooking. He was also often the butt of his friends’ jokes, and a bit exposed, particularly when Trisha insisted on recalling how she’d first met him. It was bad enough, she told me, leaning across the table, going out with someone from the university when she was only at the secretarial college down the road, but meeting Francis’s friends, especially Josh, had been terrifying. Particularly when he’d asked her whether she thought existential literature was de trop.

  ‘I didn’t even know what de trop meant, let alone existentialism!’ she shrieked. ‘Was still devouring Jilly Cooper!’

  ‘Ooh, I didn’t,’ groaned Josh, putting his head in his hands. ‘What an out and out twat. I was probably trying to impress you. Probably jealous of Francis.’

  ‘What rot, you were escorting that Priscilla number at the time! With the waist-length hair and legs up to the penthouse.’

  I reached for my drink. Ah, interesting. He might be my age, but I was seriously punching. Trisha might just as well be describing a supermodel.

  ‘Priscilla Rivers was a travesty, as well you know,’ Josh retorted. ‘Sorry, Lucy, this is incredibly boring for you. What Trisha is trying to do here is lampoon me with my terrible track record with the female sex. Rather inappropriately, I might add,’ he wagged a jovial finger at her as he raised his glass to his lips.

  ‘Point taken,’ she demurred, with a grin. ‘Quite fun, though, and somewhat irresistible.’

  ‘Lucy, you’ll have to excuse us.’ Francis put a hand on my arm. ‘We seize any opportunity to discredit our oldest friend, I’m afraid. We’re very badly behaved.’

  I smiled, loving this sort of banter, and knowing that the opposite was true: that by showing him more than capable of taking any joke that was poked at him, they were revealing him not as the serious-minded academic, but someone who was full of fun and didn’t take himself too seriously. I wondered if Trisha in particular was doing it more deliberately than her husband, showing me his lighter side? If so, I was flattered.

  Later, as they were preparing to leave, and I decided I would too – it would surely be odd to linger – Trisha and I found ourselves alone in the kitchen, putting on our jackets. Josh had taken Francis into the sitting room, suddenly remembering a publication by a fellow professor which he’d brought and wanted to show him.

  ‘It’s been lovely meeting you,’ she told me with real warmth, her eyes sparkling as she retrieved her suede bag from the island.

  ‘And you too,’ I told her, really meaning it. Trisha was a honey. She lowered her voice.

  ‘And I can’t tell you what a relief after Agathe.’

  ‘Oh – no. We’re not – you know …’ I flushed.

  ‘Oh no, I know.’ She put a hand on my arm. ‘I know you’re not. It’s just, it’s such a blessed relief to meet someone like you, even as – you know—’ She blushed too. ‘A friend.’

  I couldn’t help myself. I also lowered my tone. ‘But I mean, surely she can’t have been that bad? They were married for years …’

  ‘Fourteen. He got married much later than us, and she’s beautiful. But chilly. And he’s not, he’s warm. Trouble is, he’s so easy-going – when you get past his reserve – he gets sidetracked by beautiful women who snare him. He doesn’t see it coming. And of course, they were all no doubt lovely to begin with, everyone is. When they’re trying. Who was it said – “What one loves about love, is the time before they find out what one is like …” Or something like that.’

  ‘Cedric,’ I told her, rather pleased with myself. ‘In Love in a Cold Climate. My favourite book.’

  ‘That’s it! I love it too. Well, by the time Josh found out what Agathe was like, it was too late. Mimi, his eldest, was on the way.’

  I was loving this. Absolutely gripped. I glanced at the door but we could still hear them chatting. ‘And they’re totally over?’ I whispered, knowing I could: knowing she was absolutely straight, and not the type to say later, with a twinkle: ‘Your new friend was asking all about your marriage …’

  ‘Yes, for good. He finished it, eventually. Even though she started it, leaving him for his best friend. She decided she wanted him back – quite recently when he went back to see his kids – but he said no. There was no love there. No warmth. And to be fair, I don’t think she was capable of loving him any more than she did. That’s just the way she was, and he realized it. He also realized it wasn’t enough. Not for the rest of his life.’

  ‘Right. Is she devastated?’

  ‘Not at all. She’s not like that. She gave a Gallic shrug, apparently, as Josh nonetheless wept, and went off to the market on the Left Bank, which she always does on a
Saturday.’

  ‘And his girls?’

  ‘Well, obviously, that kills him. But Agathe’s not a bitch. She said he can have them as much as he likes, which is why they then went skiing. It will probably suit her, actually, this arrangement, in a way. She’s quite selfish. I can easily imagine her saying – oh, have them for six weeks over the summer.’ We heard footsteps. Trisha straightened up. ‘So if your parents do decide to take the plunge and want some help with their new garden, I’d be more than happy to take a look.’

  ‘I think they might,’ I agreed, snapping to. ‘They’ve done all they can inside, it’s only a matter of time before they’re planning the outside.’

  ‘Touting for business again?’ Francis mock-staggered into the room. He put an arm around his wife’s shoulders and squeezed her tight.

  ‘Shameless,’ muttered Josh, shaking his head.

  ‘Absolutely not!’ Trisha said indignantly. ‘I was merely telling Lucy that if she sent me a photo of her parents’ patch—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, we believe you.’

  And thus, in a convivial fashion, we all made our way down the hall, to the front door. We said the most cheery of farewells, all telling our host we’d had the best time – oh, and to be sure to tell Tilly the food had been delicious. His eyes lingered enquiringly on mine as we kissed goodbye, though, and I saw Trisha look away quickly with a smile. She hurried down the steps, taking her husband’s arm to propel him with her.

  ‘It was lovely to see you,’ he told me softly.

  ‘And you too,’ I agreed quietly. Our eyes met for a moment longer, and then I followed the aptly named Goodfellows down the steps to the street. We set off in opposite directions. I didn’t look back, but I was sure Josh waited until I was around the corner before he shut the door. In fact, I know he did, because once again, I heard that familiar loud click as it shut.

  27

  I drove home with a broad smile on my face, obviously. How could I not? And yes, music blaring too, of the soppy uplifting variety. I needed to preserve these moods whenever possible, knowing at the back of my mind they would be rare. And transient. But today had been good. When I got home and pulled into our drive an hour or so later, the fine rain which had been threatening was falling steadily. In the lamp-lit, warm sitting room, my father was watching the rugby in his favourite armchair, a fire burning in the grate. When I’d first arrived, the fire had only been lit in the evenings, on the dot of five to six, in time for the news. The house had been permanently cold during the day, as Dad maintained it was too expensive to heat the whole place, but now that logging was under control and I’d had the chimney swept – I’d been sternly told by the sweep it was a chimney fire waiting to happen – the fire was lit at midday when necessary. It was chilly today. Dad hailed me cheerily as I came in.

  ‘Hello, love!’

  ‘Hi, Dad.’ I glanced around. ‘Where’s Mum?’

  ‘Hm?’ He glanced away from the rugby. ‘Oh, her cold was a bit worse, so she took to her bed.’

  ‘Oh, right. Is she OK?’ But I’d already dumped my handbag on a chair and was on my way to her.

  ‘Perfectly!’ he called after me. ‘Heavens, how my daughters fuss.’

  And he didn’t. Never had. And neither did Mum. They could be at death’s door and still claim they were perfectly all right. Just as our children complained of being sent to school with a stinking cold, so Helena and I could claim the same. The apple doesn’t fall far. I softly pushed open the bedroom door, which was ajar. The room was dark and chilly. The heating hadn’t come on yet and the curtains were open. Darkness filled the latticed window.

  ‘Mum?’ I whispered, approaching the bed. ‘Are you asleep?’

  ‘Oh, hello, darling,’ she said groggily. ‘No, not really. Just dozing.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ I perched on the side. ‘How d’you feel?’ I peered. She looked pale in the half-light.

  ‘Absolutely fine. Tip-top. It’s just a rotten cold.’

  ‘Have you taken anything? Nurofen? Paracetamol?’

  ‘No, darling, I told you. It’s just a cold.’

  ‘OK, hang on.’

  I nipped downstairs to make her a Lemsip, and found some Nurofen. I took them up.

  ‘Can you sip this? It’s not too hot.’

  She didn’t move, so I gently raised her back up with my hand and propped her up on the pillows. She drank some of it, sipping slowly, but then shook her head.

  ‘OK.’ I lowered her back down. ‘In a mo, d’you think you can drink the rest?’

  ‘Yes, darling.’ Sleepily.

  ‘And could you swallow the ibuprofen?’

  ‘Oh no, I don’t think so. I’ll try the drink, though.’

  ‘OK. Let’s have another go.’

  I raised her up and she almost managed the rest of it, then seemed about to gag so I lowered her back down. She shut her eyes. I felt her hand on the covers. It was cold. I tucked her in properly. Then I shut the curtains and felt the radiator beneath them. It was coming on, good. For the moment, though, I found an old storage heater in the spare room. She seemed to have fallen asleep again, and knowing that was the best thing, I crept out and left her. I was a bit cross with Dad, though, toasty warm in front of the fire when I came down.

  ‘Could you not have given her some Nurofen, Dad? And the room was freezing.’

  ‘Hm?’ He just about looked up from a missed try. ‘Hopeless pass from that wretched number eight, he should be shot for that.’

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘What, darling?’

  ‘Mum, upstairs. Too cold.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense, Luce, she gets colds all year round, she’ll be fine. We both do, despite the so-called flu jab. If the back row were stronger they’d get it to the forwards quicker, that’s the problem.’

  Later on, I got us some supper, which we ate on trays in front of an old Inspector Poirot movie which he loved. And I have to say, when I checked on Mum later, she seemed better: warmer, certainly. I turned the storage heater off. And she was sleeping soundly, her breathing soft and regular.

  The following morning, however, it was a different story. When I went in quite early, she was still asleep, but her breathing was shallow and rapid. When I felt her forehead it was hot. Damp, too.

  ‘Mum? Mum!’ Alarmed, I shook her awake.

  She stared at me with blank, confused eyes. ‘Hels?’

  ‘No, it’s Luce. How d’you feel?’

  ‘De Courcys will be here soon, must cook—’ She tried to get out of bed but she was shaking and feeble.

  ‘No, no, Mum, the De Courcys aren’t coming. You don’t have to cook.’

  ‘Bloody dog – eaten all the bird food again! Look!’ She pointed to the corner of the room.

  ‘No, Mum, Hector’s downstairs.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ My father had appeared from his dressing room. He was in the doorway in his pyjamas and dressing gown, tying the cord.

  ‘It’s Mum. She’s got a fever. Ring Dr Bond, would you, Dad? Ask him to pop round.’

  ‘Oh no, he doesn’t do home visits any more. That went out with the ark. And he’s probably still away, anyway. She’ll be all right, love. I’ll make her a cuppa.’

  ‘Pass me the phone.’

  Dr Bond was a friend and had been their doctor for years. Helena had pasted his mobile number to their bedroom phone a couple of years ago, when he’d said they could always call him. Of course, they’d never done so. Not even when Dad’s ulcers had leaked all over the bed. Wouldn’t want to be any trouble. My father hobbled in with a sigh and passed me the old-fashioned receiver. Mike Bond answered almost immediately. He listened, and said he’d be over in half an hour. Amazing. You wouldn’t get that in London. But then I wasn’t on first-name terms with my doctor in London. I tried to make Mum drink something but she wouldn’t, kept muttering about having to feed the birds, and how the squirrels took all their seed unless she put it in a special place.

  Mike Bond arrived sooner than he’d s
aid. He took one look, felt her pulse, didn’t even bother taking her temperature, and told me to call an ambulance. He quietly told me that the delirium was possibly due to a urinary tract infection, in which case she would likely need a drip. But he also wanted to rule out pneumonia. Actually, no, hang on, he’d do it. It would be quicker. He pulled out his mobile.

  ‘Pneumonia? No, surely not,’ my father was bleating feebly. ‘Surely just a dose of flu?’

  My mother was coughing uncontrollably now, sitting up in bed supported by Mike and me. As she retched, her thin, frail body racked and heaved with the effort. Green spittle was trickling down her chin and nightie.

  ‘That’s it, Cecily, now breathe. Breathe gently now. In … out … in … out – excellent. OK, well done.’ He laid her back down again as the coughing fit subsided, then quickly asked me for warm clothes. I flew to the wardrobe and found a coat. We gently sat her up again and eased her out of bed; together we wrapped her in her dressing gown, then her coat, and found her slip pers. I popped some socks on first. My father, all the while, was looking on helplessly. Alarm was in his eyes now and he made way for us, as Mike and I shuffled her past. She wasn’t really walking; she was being half carried. I’d wondered about waiting for the paramedics and the stretcher, but Mike told me when elderly patients were delirious like this, it was a struggle to keep them on it: they often scrambled off and were deceptively strong. The stairs would be a hazard.

  ‘Will she be all right?’ I whispered in the hall, out of earshot of my father. I couldn’t help it, I was scared.

  ‘If we’ve caught it, there’s no reason why she shouldn’t be,’ was all he said, and I was so glad Helena had had the foresight to tape his number to the receiver. He was young – well, my age – the son of some friends, and completely brilliant.

  Helena. Should I ring her? No, not yet. She’d only flown down a few days ago. I’d leave it until … well. I’d leave it for a bit.