by Maeve Haran
‘Yes?’
‘She likes it very much at your house and has resisted all our offers of alternative accommodation.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Even Claridge’s. Despite the fact that it is the Queen’s favourite hotel.’
Poor Mr A looked devastated.
‘Probably a good thing,’ Laura reassured. ‘A week in Claridge’s would cost a bomb. Besides, she seems to be getting on very well with my son. But the thing is, I’m selling my house and the new owners want to move in in a few weeks so I’m moving out of London for a while. To stay with a friend in Surrey.’
‘Ah,’ nodded Mr A sagely. ‘I have heard Surrey is a very beautiful county. Much like Simla in India.’
‘I expect, knowing the Brits, Simla was made to remind them of Surrey.’
The implication of Laura’s words suddenly hit him. ‘Then you are leaving us here at LateExpress?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘And will you be living permanently in Surrey?’
‘I’m not sure. My friend is trying to start an unconventional retirement community there, but I don’t think I will join.’
‘Unconventional? With hippies and dropouts and loud music?’
Laura giggled. ‘More gin and tonic and Pilates.’
‘We had plenty of hippies in Uttar Pradesh. My father told me about them begging from the locals.’
‘How shameful.’ Laura had never been hippily-inclined herself, but all the same, could it really be fifty years ago since the Summer of Love? What had happened to life? Where did it go?
Laura pulled herself together. She was in danger of turning into a Joni Mitchell song. ‘So you see, you will have to find somewhere for your mother-in-law to move to soon,’ she announced gently.
Mr A was looking pensive. ‘How many ladies in this retirement community will there be?’
Laura shrugged. ‘I don’t know. My friend wants young people too, though whether young people will want to live with a bunch of old ladies, I don’t know.’
‘It will be like Indian village. You need old, young, goats, sheep, cats, dogs, as well as the grannies.’
‘I’ll tell my friend about the goats and sheep. I don’t think she’s thought of those.’ But as she said it Laura couldn’t help thinking how lovely it would be to live with her grandson Noah instead of only catching the odd glimpse of him. Maybe Indian villages had it about right.
Ella headed into town, leaving her car behind in case she had any more strange turns, and treated herself to an individual quiche (Lorraine was still the best, in her view, despite veggy competition) and bought some batteries for the smoke alarm which made her feel marginally more in control.
Hunger suddenly came over her and she sat on the wall with her feet dangling above the river and ate her quiche, throwing the crumbs to the ducks then headed slowly home, noticing that she still had that odd pain in her lower abdomen. Maybe she really ought to go and have that looked at.
A car, which she instantly recognized as belonging to her daughter Julia, was parked carelessly across the front of her driveway, as if to block her own in. Yet it seemed to be empty. Then she noticed that Julia was busy deadheading her late-flowering irises, the irises Ella deliberately left so they could store energy for next year’s flowering.
Julia looked up, her pretty face flushed with excitement as though she had been waiting a long time, and had something important to impart.
‘Mum!’ she greeted Ella. ‘I’m so glad you’re back. I’ve got some terrific news. I’ve been talking it over with Neil and we’ve come up with a really good scheme. We’ll convert our garage into a granny flat and you can come and live with us, see more of Mark and Harry. You’d be completely independent, but still near when you need it!’
Ella’s heart sank. Of course it was kind, but it was in Julia’s nature to continually interfere and they would fall out in five minutes. If it had been her other daughter, who was almost too sweet and dreamy for her own good, the plan might have worked, though even then she doubted it.
‘That’s so sweet of you,’ Ella replied carefully. ‘But I could never put you to all that expense.’ She knew money was tight in their household.
‘That wouldn’t be a problem,’ Julia replied gaily. ‘You could pay for it, couldn’t you? Out of the money you’d get for this place.’
Once Julia had gone Ella sat down, trying to contain her irritation. Why was it that when you hit sixty people thought you couldn’t make your own bloody decisions just because you’d been a bit stupid about forgetting things?
Ella looked round at her new surroundings, the brightly painted walls and colourful cushions that dotted her sofa, and felt suddenly as if she had no idea where she was. The feeling was so overwhelming that she began to panic and could feel her heart racing.
She closed her eyes and waited for the feeling to pass. Instead it intensified so that she looked down at her hands and couldn’t tell if they belonged to her or not or even where she was.
Something was definitely happening to her. Was it a stroke?
The terror of being left dependent, something that had always been a deep horror of hers, began to engulf her.
She got up and stumbled to the phone. It took her a moment to remember that for the emergency services you had to dial 999.
Thirteen
Sal wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t had the letter right here in front of her. In view of her exceptionally long-term status as a tenant, the owners of her building stated, they were prepared to offer what struck Sal as an enormous sum ‘to surrender the tenancy’.
‘Surrendering the tenancy’ was of course legalese for moving out. The letter was also marked ‘Without Prejudice’, which Lou said meant they could withdraw it at any time.
‘You should grab it while you can,’ was Lou’s advice. ‘Landlords are businessmen. They might change their minds.’
But Sal wasn’t ready to take quite such a step yet. She’d think about it.
Lou put his arms round her. ‘Well, don’t think about it too long.’
They locked up her flat and departed in Lou’s hired Jeep to go and pick up Rose from hospital and drop her at the convalescent home. Rose, thank God, seemed more like her usual witty and acerbic self.
So much so that Lou had the inspired idea of stopping off at Igden Manor for lunch en route.
God was clearly on their side. The sun shone, the birds sang, the summer flowers around the paths that wound between the main building and all the cottage suites bloomed. The whole place looked chocolate-box perfect. ‘Of course,’ Rose confided over a very dry sherry, ‘I’ve always loathed the country. Never seen the point of it. I’ve had my eye on a nice block of flats with a lift near Sloane Square for years.’ Sal and Lou exchanged an anxious look. ‘But it’s been bought by the Russians, like the rest of London. Russians, Chinese, investors from Singapore who want a safe haven for their dirty money and never intend to even set foot here. Do you know, some of the new flats they’re building don’t even have kitchens?’ Rose sipped her fino sherry with the satisfaction of letting rip her prejudices. ‘Makes perfect sense. What’s the point of blowing twenty grand on a state-of-the-art kitchen when a microwave’s all you need?’
She looked round at the colourful oriental poppies, the blue agapanthus nestling among the Rambling Rector roses. ‘So I’m quite coming round to the idea of leaving.’ She smiled at them both mischievously. ‘Now tell me, exactly what did Murdo Binns say about me having to live here?’
They looked at her, stunned, as her steak arrived. ‘This meat is overcooked,’ she informed the unfortunate waiter.
‘But madame, look, it is hardly cooked at all!’
‘I requested it to be still mooing,’ Rose replied as the man removed it. ‘As a matter of fact, Murdo mentioned it himself. He came to visit me in hospital. Didn’t I tell you?’
‘No, Rose, you didn’t,’ Lou replied, realizing she was enjoying herself hugely.
‘He brought a bunch of
red roses. No idea you weren’t allowed flowers in some hospitals any more. Had to give them to the prettiest nurse he could find. Male as a matter of fact. You know Murdo, he likes to keep people guessing.’
The steak reappeared in a pool of blood. This time it was brought by the chef himself. ‘Is this saignant enough for madame?’
‘It’ll do,’ she replied haughtily and proceeded to demolish it in record time. ‘I’ve been eating nothing but hospital pap for days,’ she explained, looking round the restaurant. ‘Young man,’ she summoned the waiter again. He arrived looking distinctly nervous.
‘Yes, madame?’
‘Tell the chef the steak was delicious.’
‘Murdo isn’t the only person who likes to keep people guessing,’ Lou murmured to Sal.
After they’d completed their meal with crème brûlée and evilly strong coffee, Rose began to get up. ‘So,’ she announced in her most regal manner, ‘you’d better show me round and persuade me why I should want to come and live here.’
‘Just lie back, love, we’ll look after you now,’ the gruff voice informed her. Ella looked up into the reassuring face of a burly paramedic. Thank God she’d had the wit to leave the front door open before the ambulance arrived.
She felt herself being lifted and half carried through her sitting room. His female colleague was wearing a green jumpsuit which randomly reminded Ella of one she’d worn herself in the sixties. There! She could still remember stuff, no matter how trivial.
All the neighbours were outside. An ambulance arriving was a major drama.
‘Is there anyone we should call?’ asked the young woman, once they had laid Ella down inside.
Ella felt panic rising. She couldn’t bear the idea of Julia arriving and taking over.
‘My daughter, Cory Thompson.’ Ella realized she was clutching her mobile as if it were her only lifeline. ‘Her number’s in my phone.’
‘That’s fine.’ The man took over again. ‘June here will call her. Now, Mrs Thompson. Can you smile for me?’
‘It’s not funny,’ Ella mumbled.
The man ignored her. ‘Raise both your arms, please.’ Ella did so.
‘What day of the week is it?’
‘Friday,’ Ella replied irritably.
‘Okay.’ This clearly wasn’t the right answer but anyone could get that wrong, especially when they’d stopped working. ‘Now, tell me your symptoms.’
‘Memory loss. Sometimes forgetting quite important things I normally wouldn’t.’
‘Okay.’ The paramedics exchanged glances. ‘Anything else?’
‘Total confusion. I suddenly didn’t know where I was or what my hands were for. That’s why I called you.’
‘Hello, is that Cory Thompson?’ the female paramedic enquired calmly. ‘Your mother has had an episode and is on her way to Hammersmith Hospital.’
Ella could hear the panic in Cory’s voice as she demanded more details and Ella felt suddenly guilty. Cory had had no inkling of Ella’s situation. The paramedic said it would be better if she came to the hospital as they needed to run some tests.
‘Any other symptoms?’ the man was asking Ella. ‘Headaches for instance?’
‘Yes. I have been having the odd headache.’
‘On a scale of one to ten, how bad?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, I don’t know. Five?’
‘Anything else. Frequency for instance?’
‘What the hell is frequency?’
‘Needing to pee a lot. Has your urine smelled different?’
Ella thought of asparagus pee and smiled. The man was watching her strangely, she decided.
‘Now that you mention it, my pee does smell rather awful.’
‘Cloudy or bloody? Do you have a burning sensation?’
Actually, Ella had had all these and dismissed them. ‘Yes,’ she said doubtfully, ‘all of those.’
They had reached the hospital.
‘All right, Mrs Thompson, we’re there. Just lie back. You’ll be fine.’
Ella closed her eyes.
‘I’m pretty sure what the problem is,’ murmured the male paramedic to his younger colleague. Ella realized she wasn’t supposed to hear. ‘A UTI. I had one last year and thought I’d gone barking mad. Didn’t even know who the Prime Minister was.’
‘Just as well with this shower in office,’ remarked the young woman.
Ella lay back and closed her eyes again. She knew that a TIA was a transient ischaemic attack but had never heard of a UTI.
The hospital seemed to be full of drunks and people screaming at the staff in a hundred different languages like something out of the Tower of Babel.
‘Right,’ asked the triage nurse, ‘how old are you, Mrs Thompson?’
‘Sixty-four.’
‘Good. What year is it?’
Ella suddenly panicked. ‘I should know this,’ she replied, looking embarrassed.
‘Can you add four and four?’
Panic engulfed Ella again as she couldn’t think of the answer.
‘Fine. We’ll do a CT scan, plus urine and bloods.’
Oh God, this was serious. They must think she’d had a stroke. She tried to fight off the fear of something so horrible.
‘Won’t take long, then we’ll do an ECG.’
Ella wondered if Cory was rushing to the hospital and whether she would have instantly rung Julia, who would be livid that Cory knew first. She wasn’t going to think about that now. She tried to do mindfulness exercises to distract from her panic.
Then it was over and she had an ECG and also a chest X-ray for some reason. She supposed she was lucky to be an emergency and not have to sit for hours and hours in A&E.
Finally the senior registrar, a harassed young woman who looked no older than Cory, arrived at the end of her bed.
‘Good news, Mrs, er . . . Thompson. You haven’t had a stroke and there’s no sign of brain damage. We think you have a UTI, a urinary tract infection.’
Ella remembered the mumbled reference from the paramedic. ‘But how can a urinary infection make you forget things and not know what your hands are for?’ Ella demanded.
‘Infections can be very serious,’ replied the young woman, obviously eager to get off to someone who was more seriously ill than Ella. ‘We’ve had perfectly sane people talking gibberish and unable to answer simple questions. You’re suffering from a serious bladder infection which can cause extreme confusion and is often mistaken for early dementia in older patients.’
‘So what’s the treatment?’
‘We’ll put you on antibiotics and with luck you should be back to normal in a matter of days.’
Even before the antibiotics were administered Ella felt like jumping up and singing. She hadn’t had a stroke and she hadn’t got dementia! If she could have, she would have ordered champagne for the whole ward.
But the experience had taught her one thing. From now on she wanted to be among friends.
She had decided to stun Claudia by telling her that if their crazy scheme went ahead, she would sign up for it too.
Laura looked round the house that had been her home for more than twenty years. There was so much accumulated stuff. She knew she was guilty of collecting most of it herself, as well as not throwing things away. The trouble was, in her view, as soon as you threw something out you suddenly wanted it. Well, now was certainly the moment. She’d hoped Bella could help her sort her belongings out but baby Noah had come down with the sniffles and Bella had to cancel. Sam had offered but a job interview had materialized which obviously took priority.
‘Maybe I could provide some assistance,’ Mrs Lal had suggested. Before Laura could politely refuse her guest had fetched her iPhone and Sam’s speaker and the room was suddenly full of Bhangra music. Laura had to admit, it was quite cheering.
‘Now, you are in charge,’ Mrs Lal informed her generously. ‘I will find bags and boxes and we will label them for storage with your friend or give them to the shops for the poor and i
ndigent. Though I have to say, since I have moved here I have found some of your charity shops quite enticing, especially for bold costume jewellery.’
Laura couldn’t help smiling at the thought of Mrs Lal’s Catherine Walker creations adorned with necklaces from Oxfam.
‘Thank you,’ Laura replied faintly, realizing the time had come to Keep or Chuck the evidence of so many years of marriage.
The knick-knacks and photographs, which she’d thought would be so hard to sort through, were easier than she’d expected. Anything with Simon in, including her wedding photographs, went into Chuck. Anything with her children went into Keep.
Laura moved swiftly on to pictures. How strange that Simon had not come back for any of the artworks he’d claimed to love so much. She wondered for a moment what had meant something to Simon about their life together.
What would he want to keep? The photos of him and the children? She remembered that the only photos Simon had ever put up himself were in the downstairs loo. A framed photograph of Simon as captain of rugger, of cricket, of fives.
Yes, he’d miss those.
She lifted them all off the wall and carried them back into the sitting room where she placed them carefully in the box marked Chuck.
Next the kitchen. How much cooking would she be doing in her new life? Would it be a case of ready meals for one from COOK, where she’d seen so many grey-haired customers fill their baskets with two-for-one offers?
She lifted the row of cookbooks down from the shelf: Nigella, Jamie Oliver, Nigel Slater and Delia Smith.
It was the Delia that caught her eye – dear old Delia who had been her kitchen companion right from the early days of her marriage when Laura couldn’t even boil an egg. It was the original edition, the one with Delia in a red Eighties jacket with shoulder pads and bright red lipstick.
The book fell open at a gravy-spattered page. Carbonnade de boeuf. It had been her mainstay for large family gatherings all her married life. Sam had loved the cheese-covered slices of French bread on the top.
A piece of paper slipped out with timings on it. When to put in the casserole. What time to add the pudding. What would it have been? Apple crumble or her speciality pear tart?