The Queen's Margarine

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Peggy, but I wondered if you’d seen Morris?’

  ‘No, but I’ve only just got in. Why? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing – don’t worry.’ Hastily she backed away; hated the neighbours’ pity. Dementia was shaming, especially in a man of only sixty-five. The fourteen-year age-gap between them had never mattered before. Up till just nine months ago, Morris had been his usual self: lively, energetic, keen on new experiences, young in heart and spirit.

  Embarrassed by her predicament, she tried the other houses in the street, only to draw a blank each time. Rain and wind notwithstanding, she would have to go out and search for him; scour the shops, the church, the library and the park – all the places she took him in the course of a normal week. And this must be a warning to her. Never again could she leave him alone. When she next arranged to meet Rory, she must book a sitter, or at least ask one of her daughters to come over. But how could she lie to her daughters? If she fabricated some excuse, she was bound to blush or stammer or tie herself in knots, and they would never, ever forgive her if they discovered her infidelity. They were avowed ‘Daddy’s girls’, all four.

  However, there wasn’t time to speculate, now that Morris had gone missing. For all she knew, he might have wandered off without his coat – or even shoes. It was her own stupid fault for not having locked the doors, but she couldn’t bear the thought of treating the man she’d married like a prisoner in detention. Well, this was her due punishment for having risked her husband’s life and health in order to shag a virtual stranger.

  ‘Stop here, Tom! I think I saw someone sheltering under those bushes.’

  As her son-in-law pulled up the car with a jerk, Delia scrambled out, feeling close to panic. If she herself was hungry, wet and tired, then Morris, who’d been lost for hours, would be exhausted, famished and soaked to the skin. And maybe dangerously disoriented, on top of everything else. And suppose they didn’t find him? He could have died of exposure; been hit by a car as he blundered across the road.

  ‘Wait, Mum!’ her daughter shouted. ‘You’ll trip and fall if you don’t watch out.’ Nicolette caught up with her as she ran towards the bushes, stumbling in the dark. ‘Slow down, for goodness’ sake!’

  Delia took no notice; went racing on towards the shadowy figure now looming into focus. ‘Morris, it is you! Thank Christ! Are you all right?’

  He didn’t answer, just stared at her in confusion, as if he no longer recognized his wife of thirty years. And, yes, he was coat-less, hatless; his best shoes caked in mud; his hair plastered to his head in dripping strands.

  ‘Morris, speak to me. Tell me you’re OK.’

  ‘Don’t press him, Mum. He’s in a state of shock.’

  Delia took off her coat and draped it round his shoulders, then she and Nicolette led him to the car – a slow and halting process.

  ‘Why on earth did you go all this way?’ she asked, once she was sitting in the back with him, his cold hand clasped in hers.

  ‘Mum, he doesn’t want to talk, Just leave him be until he’s got his bearings.’

  Did her daughter have to interfere? She needed to know what had happened; otherwise her own life would be thrown into chaos, just as much as his. Never before had he strayed so far from home; never acted unpredictably, or been completely lost for words like this. True he’d suffered memory problems, a loss of interest in the outside world, and some measure of confusion, but nothing on this scale. He seemed to have aged a decade since this morning, and to be deteriorating before her very eyes.

  They drove back through torrential rain; the headlamps lighting up great swathes of water on either side of the road. Tom said very little, maybe secretly resentful at having been dragged out on a rescue mission when he’d planned on playing squash. Nicolette, however, kept plaguing her with questions.

  ‘So where were you, Mum, all afternoon?’

  ‘Just … shopping.’

  ‘But couldn’t you have taken Dad with you?’

  ‘It, er, wasn’t convenient.’

  Silence. The word ‘convenient’ hung in the air, sounding callous, even cruel.

  ‘I mean, the whole point of giving up your job was so you actually be there.’

  ‘I am there, mostly, Nicolette, but just occasionally I need a break.’ She had no desire to discuss Morris with her daughter, as if he were a mental case, and with no idea of what was going on in his mind.

  ‘Ask me. I’ll come and help.’

  ‘You can’t, with a full-time job.’

  ‘Look, my boss is pretty decent. And he knows the situation. In fact, if you’d like me and Tom to stay over tonight—’

  ‘No,’ she said, too quickly. ‘We’re fine now, aren’t we, Morris?’ She squeezed his hand, but felt no answering pressure from the stiff and chilly fingers. It was as if part of him had died. ‘How about a nice warm bath as soon as we get in?’

  He didn’t appear to have heard; was clearly inhabiting some nightmare world, closed to other people. She continued talking to him, however, if only to stop her daughter butting in. ‘I’ll make you a hot drink, and how about some scrambled eggs, or a cheese and mushroom omelette? Then we’ll have an early night and—’

  Hardly early. It was already after nine. She had searched alone, on foot, at first, and only in increasing desperation had she phoned all four of her daughters, in case by any chance they’d heard from him or seen him. Which meant they were bound to keep checking on him in future; pestering her with phone-calls to find out how he was. Of course, she shouldn’t be ungrateful – she was extremely lucky to have their help at all – but none of them could understand how hard it was to be a full-time carer. They still had their precious independence, and jobs with intelligent colleagues, that included meaningful discussions of art or sport or politics. They could even go on holiday – see the world, spread their wings. Her own life, in contrast, had shrunk, and her main tasks at present were taking Morris to appointments with the psychologist or geriatrician, and keeping him ‘mentally stimulated’ (as the doctors recommended) with simple little word-games and childish puzzles and quizzes. Was it any wonder that she had responded to Rory’s overtures; jumped at the chance of reinstating some small part of a satisfying adult life?

  Yet, looking at her shivering wreck of a husband, with his vacant stare, his expression of bewilderment, she felt the deepest pity, overlaid with fierce remorse. There was nothing for it – Rory would have to go. Immediately. With no reprieve.

  ‘Delia, it’s Rory. Can you talk?’

  ‘Er, sort of.’ Guiltily she glanced around, but Morris was upstairs, asleep. For some unfathomable reason, he’d begun dozing all day and lying awake all night – expecting her to engage in conversation throughout the wee small hours.

  ‘Know what day it is the Thursday after next?’

  Yes, she thought, Tom’s birthday. She had already bought him a sweater and a box of champagne truffles.

  ‘St Valentine’s! Which means we have to meet.’

  ‘But it’s only a week since the last time.’

  ‘I know, but this is special. Surely you can get away?’

  ‘There’s no “surely” about it, Rory.’

  ‘Won’t your daughters help?’

  ‘Jodie can’t – she’s ill. And Nicolette’s away. And Nell has both her children down with measles. In fact, she’s going spare as it is, because her ogre of a boss has no sympathy at all for working mothers.’

  ‘Well, what about Amanda?’

  ‘I don’t like to ask her again so soon. She’ll think it weird that I have to keep going out. And, anyway, she’d need to take time off work. If only you could make an evening, it wouldn’t be so difficult.’

  ‘Darling, evenings are impossible. You know that.’

  Yes, she did know, but he had never told her why, in fact. Was his own wife ill, or scared of being burgled if he left her alone in the house at night? Or did he have some sort of evening job, or charity commitment? His life
was a closed book. That was one of the rules, but it was beginning to annoy her. It seemed unnatural, if not insulting, that he should shut her out so completely from all aspects of his existence beyond the lecherous.

  ‘Look, we could make it just a quickie on the Thursday.’

  Forty miles return, on a slow and bumpy bus, for the sake of ‘just a quickie’?

  ‘And I could come and pick you up, if that would help.’

  ‘No! Leave it with me, OK? I’ll sort something out and ring you back tomorrow.’

  Once she’d put the phone down, she paced up and down the sitting-room, staring out at the spindly, naked trees, and wondering what to do. The last two meetings with Rory had lacked their usual magic. She couldn’t quite explain it. He was still ardent and adoring; still a generous, imaginative lover. And it wasn’t simply guilt. True she’d defaulted on her promise not to see him any more, but she’d managed to persuade herself that this breach of faith was justified. In the four-and-a-half months since Morris had gone missing, her life at home had deteriorated so much, she felt she was entitled to a monthly ‘reward’, in return for giving up her sleep – and sometimes, it seemed, her sanity. On top of losing her job, she had lost her entire social life. Most people kept away now, unable to cope with Morris’s aggression. Once the gentlest of men, he’d actually physically attacked two of her close friends, then on Christmas Day, of all days, he’d overturned the tea-table in a fit of silent rage, breaking her precious china in the process.

  She didn’t blame him, in fact. Changes in personality were simply part of his condition, and the doctor had explained that some patients’ violent outbursts were due to their frustration at not having any words to express deep-seated feelings. However, it didn’t make life easy, especially as his conversation was either maddeningly repetitive or frighteningly irrelevant. He even forgot her name on some occasions, and neglected to wash himself or dress himself, or even reach the toilet in time, without her constant supervision.

  Which surely meant she needed Rory as antidote and compensation. Yet she was increasingly distressed by the fact that, despite their sexual bond, they were so far apart emotionally and mentally. She couldn’t live her life in such separate compartments, closing the door on Morris once she opened the door of the charity shop, yet Rory seemed oblivious of the stress and strain it caused. Just because it suited him to keep his domestic situation a matter of strict secrecy, it didn’t mean she felt the same. It would actually help enormously if he let her talk things over before they got down to the sex, then she would gradually relax and be able to respond. Instead, she was expected to switch instantly from exhausted carer to avid, red-hot lover, without any chance to unwind or get things off her chest.

  Perhaps exhaustion was the key, though, and she was simply overtired and judging everything in light of that fatigue. It would be crazy to give him up – a man fifteen years younger than Morris, who worshipped her body, made her feel desirable. And even more ridiculous to spend Valentine’s Day coaxing her husband to finish up his broccoli, or explaining for the umpteenth time that the right shoe went on his right foot rather than the left, when she could be being pleasured by her lover.

  Sidling into Gloria’s Gifts, she gave a quick glance behind her, feeling her usual guilt at being here in Berkshire again, especially when was meant to be in Winchester, visiting an imaginary friend with cancer. Still, it was extremely unlikely that anyone would see her and, anyway, she had time to kill. Her bus had got in early, whereas Rory was caught in traffic and had rung her on the mobile just ten minutes ago. Besides, she hadn’t had a chance so far to buy him anything, and he was bound to bring her flowers, or chocolates – maybe even both.

  She began searching through the Valentine cards, trying to find a suitable one. All the words seemed wrong: ‘Valentine, you’re truly mine’. Hardly, when he was married to someone else and their meetings were so restricted in terms of time and place. ‘You’re everything I dreamed of, the answer to my prayer.’ Again, a little far-fetched. ‘My heart belongs to you for ever.’ She was, in fact, Morris’s for ever, so perhaps she should be buying him a Valentine. Yet it had been difficult enough this year for him to grasp the concept of Christmas. Valentine’s Day would be totally beyond him.

  She found herself distracted by the Valentines for pets. Perhaps easier to choose one for a beloved cat or dog than for a husband with dementia, or a lover whose sole concern was focused on her genitals. ‘I love you more than words can say.’ No – avowals of love were somehow inappropriate. Rory had never said he loved her, and the word seemed almost a mockery when he refused to take the slightest interest in her private life or circumstances. How could he love a woman he didn’t even know?

  Abandoning the cards, she wandered round the rest of the shop, beginning soon to overdose on hearts: heart-shaped candles, cushions, sunglasses and soaps; heart-shaped tins of sweets and biscuits; heart-shaped lockets, pendants, key-rings, even a heart-shaped coin-holder. Actually, it was pretty futile to buy a gift at all, since Rory wouldn’t be able to take it home. And if he had spent a fortune on some elaborate bouquet or sexy piece of lingerie, that, too, would have to be ditched. It would look extremely suspicious if she arrived home from a cancer ward with a dozen red roses or a tarty scarlet thong. She just hoped he’d opted for chocolates, although even those posed problems. They could hardly pig a whole lavish box in less than a couple of hours, especially when he’d want to commandeer her mouth for more important things.

  She checked her watch. He had explained he wouldn’t ring again, but just see her in the flat at 2.15. It was now five past, so she returned to the cards and chose a large, expensive one that said ‘You light my fire’. That had been true – save for the last two disappointing occasions – and, with any luck, the spark would reignite this afternoon.

  As she approached the charity shop, she was concerned – indeed alarmed – to see a group of people crowding round the entrance. Her first thought was for Rory. Had something happened to him: a heart attack or stroke, as he climbed the narrow stairs? Only as she edged a little closer did she realize what was going on. The front window of the shop had been shattered by a brick or stone; the glass dangerously splintered, and surrounding a large hole. One policeman stood examining the damage, while another two were remonstrating with a gang of teenage boys, while the elderly ladies who ran the shop huddled in the doorway, looking shocked and tearful.

  Hastily she backed away, her natural instinct to avoid the law, as if she herself were guilty of some crime. Ducking down a side-street, she tried to work out what to do. If Rory was already upstairs in the flat, he might not dare to phone her, for fear of being overheard. Annoyingly, he had never got to grips with texting and, despite the fact she’d pointed out that it was hardly rocket science and that kids of six could text, he still insisted there wasn’t any need. Well, now there was a need: to convey information silently, when police investigations were in progress. He would certainly want to avoid the spotlight, just as much as she did. Yet how could they communicate, meet up?

  ‘Calm down!’ she told herself. The whole thing would be over if she waited a short while. The crowd would disperse, the police would march the boys away or let them off with a caution, and the street would return to its normal quiet placidity. All she had to do was make herself scarce for ten minutes or so, then creep back surreptitiously. At least the weather was good – a perfect day, in fact, with skies the colour of a duck-egg.

  Venturing round the corner, she walked down another narrow lane and suddenly came out by the canal. Despite her several visits here, she had never so much as glimpsed it before, having always gone directly home, in order not to be seen. Yet the stretch of tranquil water looked idyllic: overhung by willows, with even a few daffodils in bloom along the bank. Almost without thinking, she began to pick her way along the muddy towpath, grateful for the silence and the peace. It was so long since she’d been out on her own; away from problems and dilemmas; away from a husband wh
o clung to her like a confused and frightened child. A pair of coots were building their nest; the male bird bringing twigs in its beak, which the female inspected carefully, even rejecting a few as duds. She laughed at the bird’s sheer bossiness and fussiness; the sound surprising her. Laughter was a luxury these days.

  Elated, she walked on, noticing the yellow glaze on the willows, and the green thrust of nettles sprouting in the hedge. Even one brave butterfly had dared to emerge and was trying out its wings. Recently, she’d become blind and deaf to the seasons (except as they affected Morris), but here spring seemed almost tangible. She could smell it, taste it, touch it, feel it warm and refreshing on her face. And her ears, long attuned to Morris’s cries of distress, now registered the birds, chirruping and twittering around her. She could make out a blackbird’s song, and the beep-beep-beep of a great tit, followed by the sharp squawking of a moorhen, then the blackbird started up again, with its melodious refrain. All at once, she, too, began to sing. Why not, when there was nobody to hear? She ran through her small repertoire of love songs, noting how much anguish they contained: lovers racked by jealousy or loss; maddened by rejection, nursing broken hearts. Safer to be a daffodil, visited by the occasional bee, than a human being entangled in some difficult relationship.