Tread Softly

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Shall I draw your curtains? The sun’s quite bright today.’

  ‘No, I like to see it. And the garden’s very pretty.’

  ‘When you’re strong enough I’ll wheel you out there for a nice breath of spring.’

  ‘We’ll see. Now, before I forget, there’s something I want to give you, Lorna.’

  ‘Give me?’

  ‘Yes. Your mother’s wedding-ring. It was returned to me by the … the … Oh dear. I can’t think of the word.’

  ‘Coroner?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mortuary?’

  ‘No.’ Agnes tutted in frustration. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway. They gave me all her jewellery in a small brown-paper packet. I’m afraid I had to sell the necklace and the … the … what d’you call it. But the ring I kept for you. I intended to give it to you on your wedding-day, but I thought Ralph might …’ Her voice tailed off.

  ‘Be hurt?’

  ‘Yes. He bought you such a lovely ring.’

  ‘Mm.’ Lorna glanced at it. ‘Victorian.’ Ralph had chosen it for the inscription: ‘For ever’. How sad that his romantic soft centre got submerged so often beneath a prickly carapace.

  ‘Now, if you open my top dressing-table drawer …’

  Lorna frowned. ‘You mean at home?’

  ‘Yes. Over there.’ Agnes was pointing in the direction of the television. ‘Be careful. It tends to stick.’

  ‘Aunt, dear, we … we’re not in the cottage.’

  ‘Where are we then? I get muddled.’

  ‘We’re in the hospice. Together. You and me. We’re doing well. We’re fine. I’ll get the ring later and bring it in to show you. All right?’

  Agnes nodded.

  ‘Now you settle down to sleep.’

  As Agnes obediently closed her eyes, Lorna recalled the few occasions when she had seen her ill in bed – invariably chafing at the enforced inaction which she deplored as sinful sloth. Yet she now happily accepted that even the simplest procedures such as being fed or washed required a recovery period afterwards.

  ‘You won’t go away?’ she murmured, groping for Lorna’s hand.

  ‘Of course not.’ Lorna clasped the arthritic fingers. ‘You don’t get rid of me that easily. I’d better warn you, Aunt, you’ll soon be sick of the sight of me!’

  ‘Come in,’ Lorna called.

  Agnes was still dozing, but she opened her eyes as a short, black-suited man in a dog-collar entered the room. ‘Good morning, Agnes. I’m Simon Taylor, the vicar of St John’s.’ He included Lorna in his friendly smile of greeting.

  ‘Do sit down.’ She indicated the second chair.

  ‘No, thank you. I won’t stay. I just came to ask if you’d like to take Communion, Agnes?’

  ‘I’m not a Christian, Mr Taylor.’

  Lorna wondered if she’d heard right. What about the God of her childhood – Agnes’s vengeful, all-seeing God? Every Sunday, she and her aunt went dutifully to church, to confess their sins and sing His praises – the very model of good Christians. Had Agnes only been pretending to believe, to give an orphaned child something to cling to? It had proved effective, certainly: she had found comfort in the thought of her parents strolling hand in hand in heaven, among gambolling bunnies and flowers that never faded.

  ‘Well, if you’d like me to pop in at any time I’d be happy to oblige. It doesn’t matter if you’re not a formal believer. We welcome all religions and none.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m beyond help, Mr Taylor. The doctors say there’s nothing more they can do for me.’

  ‘No one’s beyond help, Agnes.’

  ‘I doubt that, Mr Taylor.’

  Lorna looked at her anxiously. Had the euphoria passed, or was she simply resigned to the prospect of death?

  ‘What’s the date?’ she asked suddenly.

  Lorna tried to remember. Time was so hazy she couldn’t even think how long she had been here.

  ‘It’s March the twenty-first,’ the vicar put in. ‘The first day of spring! And if you’ll forgive me, dear ladies, I’d better be on my way.’

  ‘He reminds me of your father,’ Agnes remarked when the door had closed behind him.

  The drunkard and the gambler? Surely not.

  ‘Too charming by half,’ Agnes continued, with a touch of her old acerbity. ‘Dear ladies, indeed!’ She counted on her fingers. ‘Now let me see – Margaret died on the twenty-fifth of March. Wouldn’t it be strange if I went on that day too?’

  Lorna outstared the callous sun. Not strange. Horrific. Spring or no, it would become the darkest day of the year, blighted by three deaths. It had been bad enough in childhood, especially if Easter was late and she was still cooped up at boarding-school. The other girls didn’t understand why, on that black-edged day, she couldn’t eat or concentrate and often hid in the grounds and howled her eyes out. ‘You’re getting better, Aunt,’ she insisted, to convince herself as much as Agnes.

  But Agnes didn’t seem to have heard. ‘You’re not to worry about my funeral, Lorna. It’s all been taken care of. I’ve been paying for it in instalments, so you wouldn’t have the expense.’

  ‘Oh, Aunt …’

  ‘I don’t want anything fancy, mind. I’ve left strict instructions. I’m not wasting money on coffins that only get burnt. But there’s one thing you could do, when you find the time – take my ashes and scatter them near Margaret’s grave. I miss her.’

  Lorna frowned against the glare of the sun. The two sisters had been apart for thirty-five years. A lifetime of missing.

  ‘And if it’s no trouble, dear, I would like a little funeral tea, for the people in the village. They’ve all been exceptionally kind. You can have it in the cottage, to save expense.’

  ‘Yes, of … course.’

  ‘As you know, I’m very partial to ham sandwiches. Would it be a bother to arrange it?’

  Lorna got up and put her arm round Agnes’s shoulder. ‘You shall have a ton of ham sandwiches. And egg, cheese, tongue, chicken – every sandwich under the sun.’

  ‘Extravagance! The food’s paid for, anyway. It’s included in the funeral plan.’

  ‘Look, if I can’t afford a few …’

  ‘It’s not a question of affording – it’s a question of what’s right. I’ve always paid my way, and I don’t intend things to be different just because I’m dead.’

  Lorna smiled, despite herself.

  ‘And you won’t forget to thank people for coming.’

  ‘No, Aunt, I won’t forget.’ How could she, when Agnes was the one who’d taught her the common courtesies? ‘Oh, look,’ she said, ‘here’s Carole, come to do your manicure.’

  It was perhaps the greatest miracle of all that plain, no-nonsense Agnes, who all her life had trimmed her nails with a pair of clippers and considered nail varnish a frippery beneath contempt, had agreed to submit herself to Carole’s ministrations.

  Lorna watched with bemused pleasure as her aunt lay back against the pillows and allowed Carole to apply cuticle-remover while instructing her on the latest fashion colours: Sizzling Scarlet, Think Pink, Strawberry Crush. If things went on like this, she would no longer recognize her. There were other volunteers who visited the hospice: hairdressers, beauticians. She tried to picture Agnes with Barbara Cartland eyelashes and a shimmering blue rinse, but her imagination failed to make the leap. ‘Agnes, I’m going to phone Ralph. I’ll leave you in Carole’s capable hands.’

  ‘Yes, you get some rest, child. I’m perfectly all right. I don’t need looking after.’

  On her way to the phone, at least half a dozen people stopped her to chat. The hospice had become her substitute family as well as Agnes’s. And she too felt a certain euphoria (even without the benefit of morphine) such was the sense of community here, embracing not just each patient but all their relatives. She hadn’t experienced a single stirring of panic or heard a squeak from the Monster. Ms Unflappable she couldn’t be when Agnes was facing death, but Ms Courageous, yes. Courage came
more easily in this supportive atmosphere, where she’d already received a wealth of tiny kindnesses. Jane, the housekeeper, had supplied a pile of blankets for the night and managed to wangle her a lavender pillow; Emma, one of the volunteers, had brought her in a home-made chicken pie; Sue, the physiotherapist, had given her a shoulder massage; and Angela, the cleaner, always made sure she had plenty of change for the phone. (‘You mustn’t neglect your hubby, dear.’)

  She slotted two of Angela’s coins into the slot. ‘Ralph, it’s me. Do you feel neglected?’

  ‘No, but I miss you. How’s Agnes?’

  ‘So cheerful you wouldn’t know her.’

  ‘Cheerful, on her deathbed?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a bit spooky, actually. This is the first time I’ve ever seen her so upbeat, and I’m not sure if it’s … real.’

  ‘Well, she wouldn’t be pretending, would she?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m beginning to wonder if I know her. Anyway, how are you?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Not drinking?’

  ‘No. Though it’s a hell of a strain. I feel restless and sort of jumpy. And as for sleeping, forget it!’

  ‘Give it time. You’ll soon be over the worst. And, Ralph, I want you to know I really do admire you – having the guts to stick at it. To be honest, I never thought you would.’

  The usual embarrassed silence.

  ‘In fact it helps me cope with what I’m doing here. If I get tired sitting on a chair all night, I think of you awake as well and it stops me feeling sorry for myself.’

  He laughed morosely. ‘Well, I have to say I’m feeling sorry for myself just now. I’ve got several different people coming to view the house this afternoon, and a whole lot more tomorrow. Then the dentist at six – I’ve lost a filling and it’s giving me gyp. And what’s left of my birthday I’ll probably spend doing the VAT return.’

  ‘Oh, Ralph, your birthday! I’d completely forgotten!’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. You know my opinion of birthdays.’

  ‘It does matter. What would you like? I can buy you something at the hospice shop, if you don’t mind Yardley’s lavender water or home-knitted bedsocks.’

  ‘There’s only one thing I want.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You,’ he said sheepishly. ‘All night.’

  All night hadn’t happened for years. This really was a new model Ralph.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m only joking. Being off the booze makes me – well, amorous. And the nights seem … lonely without you.’

  ‘Oh, Ralph …’

  ‘I’ll survive. By the way, are you OK for clothes and stuff? I could drive up first thing tomorrow if there’s anything you need.’

  ‘With all those people coming to see the house?’

  ‘I’ll put them off.’

  ‘No, Ralph, we’ve got to sell. Time is of the essence, otherwise think of the interest on the bank loan.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Look, I’ll phone again this evening and say happy birthday properly.’

  ‘Forget the present, though. Bedsocks aren’t quite my thing. I’ll have what I asked for – on credit.’

  She laughed. ‘All right, I promise! Love you, darling. Bye.’

  As she rang off, Megan, the day sister, happened to be coming round the corner. ‘Ah, Lorna, could I have a word with you?’

  Lorna felt a twinge of fear. Surely Agnes couldn’t have suffered a decline in the few minutes she’d been gone.

  Megan ushered her into the office. ‘Do sit down. Take that comfy chair. All I want to say is that we’re a bit worried about you, Lorna.’

  ‘Worried? About me?’

  ‘Yes. You’re doing too much. You haven’t had a breath of fresh air or a wink of sleep since you arrived. You really need a good night’s rest. We do have a couple of put-you-ups for relatives, but they’re not particularly comfortable and I’m afraid you wouldn’t get much peace. Agnes is in no immediate danger at the moment. She appears to have plateaued out, which means there probably won’t be any change for the next few days. So I suggest you take the chance to catch up on your sleep. I presume you could stay in her house.’

  No, she thought, aware of Ms Courageous shrivelling to a husk. However well she was coping in the hospice, alone in Agnes’s damp, dark cottage she would be beset by instant panic.

  ‘Or there’s a guest-house up the road. It’s very reasonable, and of course we’d phone you immediately should the need arise.’

  She smoothed her crumpled skirt. The Monster might be silent now, but he’d be back at the first opportunity. And what better place for an ambush than an anonymous guest-house?

  ‘Perhaps you feel you shouldn’t leave Agnes, even for a moment. It’s a natural reaction. But you have to think of yourself too, you know. You’ll be more help to your aunt if you recharge your batteries.’

  ‘Well, would it be OK if I went home? Just for tonight, I mean.’

  ‘Mm, that’s a long drive when you’re already tired. Are you sure you’re up to it?’

  Her foot most certainly wasn’t – on the journey here it had hurt badly – but pain was always preferable to panic. ‘Oh yes,’ she assured Megan. ‘And I know my husband would be pleased. It’s his birthday today, you see.’

  ‘Well, in that case it seems a good idea. I’ll get the doctor to take another look at Agnes, and if he feels she’s still reasonably stable you could get off straight away.’

  ‘Fine. And I’ve got a mobile, so if anything should … happen, phone me, please, and I’ll turn straight back.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Lorna got up, then half sat down again. ‘Megan, there’s something else. My aunt seems so different – much more positive and sweet-tempered than normal. I’m sorry, that must sound awful. I’m not meaning to be critical, but I can’t work out if it’s really her or if it’s just due to the drugs. Can morphine change your personality?’

  Megan smiled. ‘No, but what it can do is take away fear. There are certain sorts of people who are unable to be themselves because they’re paralysed by worry, or plagued with irrational fears – fears that last a lifetime in some cases. And if those fears are suddenly removed the person may blossom in an unexpected way. Often they find they can say things they were too inhibited to say before. And you could argue that the new person is more real than the old one. I suppose another way of putting it is that morphine occasionally frees people to be their true self.’

  Lorna stared at her in surprise. Could Agnes, her intrepid, indomitable aunt, have been a prey to irrational fears or tormented by a Monster as gleefully spiteful as her own? No, impossible.

  Or was it? When Margaret died, Agnes’s world had crashed around her ears – the shock of losing her only sibling followed by the second shock of having an orphan child dumped on her. Who would not be terrified at having to cope alone? Agnes’s parents were already dead and Margaret had meant so much to her: not just a beloved sister but her closest friend and confidante.

  ‘You look a bit concerned, Lorna. I hope I haven’t upset you?’

  ‘No. Far from it. I’m just thinking about what you said.’ And remembering Agnes’s remark when they were talking in the cottage: ‘One of us had to be strong.’ Had Agnes merely fabricated that strength, laid it on top of the fears, as she used to place rugs over worn patches in the carpet? The worn patches were still there, of course, and so might her fears have been – till now.

  Megan glanced at her watch. ‘Well, I’d better get back to the ward. The doctor won’t be long. I’ll let you know what he says, and all being well you should be on your way within the hour.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Megan.’ Lorna spoke mechanically, her mind still fixed on Agnes. What she had said to Ralph was true: she had never really known her aunt, only the brave façade.

  ‘See you soon, then.’

  ‘Right.’ Lorna wandered along to the kitchenette and made herself a cup of coffee, to give Carole time to finish.

&
nbsp; ‘Just look at me!’ Agnes spread her hands on the coverlet, nails uppermost.

  ‘Fantastic!’ Lorna sat on the bed and gently stroked each strawberry-red nail. ‘And you ‘re fantastic, too, Aunt, for being so … so brave.’

  ‘Brave? There’s nothing to be brave about. These wonderful people have taken away the pain.’

  Lorna said no more. If Agnes had gone to so much trouble putting rugs over the worn patches, she wouldn’t want anyone, perhaps least of all her niece, lifting them up and peering underneath.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  ‘Delicious Norfolk turkeys – plump, tender and ready to carve.’

  ‘Delicious Norfolk turkeys – plump, tender and …’

  ‘Fuck turkeys!’ Lorna muttered, sick of sitting stationary for a couple of hours behind that stupid slogan. And the picture above it was even more absurd: a cartoon red-wattled bird with a knife and fork tucked under its wing and a jaunty grin on its face. The lorry towered claustrophobically over her small car, blocking her view of the road ahead.

  Her successive attempts to tune the radio had produced nothing but blasts of static. The fates were clearly against her – the one time she needed the travel news the radio refused to work. Not that she particularly wanted to hear the gory details of whatever accident was responsible for the hold-up. An hour ago she had watched the sun set over the distant trees: a blaze of gold and scarlet, providing a temporary distraction from being stuck in a horrendous jam, nose to tail and three abreast. Now it was dark – and cold.

  She switched the engine on again, with an anxious glance at the shopping on the passenger seat. Ralph’s birthday strawberries were wilting and the non-alcoholic bubbly would be tepid by the time she served it – if she ever did. The irony was that if she hadn’t stopped in Lincoln to buy the ingredients for dinner and a few bits and pieces for Ralph she might be home by now.

  She was tempted to ring him, just to hear a voice, except it would spoil the surprise. Yet, as time dragged by, the whole idea of turning up unannounced to give him the present he’d so bashfully requested seemed more and more nonsensical. She had forgotten quite how far it was to drive home and what a toll it took on her foot, and the thought of having to make the same journey tomorrow (especially on this hated stretch of motorway) filled her with dread.